Latte, mocha, Americano, Colombian, Swedish, Argentinean—the stretch of sand directly in front of our bungalows resembles a Starbucks taste testing. Exquisite female forms in every skin tone from around the globe, perfectly spaced in small packs for a half-mile. Dunphy does a slow, travel-induced 360 in the sand, surveying our property for the next week. “Dude, dude…” He finishes the final 10 degrees of the rotation. “Dude.” Matt shuffles down the path moments later. “Brah… What? You weren’t kidding.” We haven’t seen a surfable wave yet, but I’m throwing mental fist pumps knowing at least half of my hype is coming true.
I’m 30 years old, out of shape, balding—the list goes on. And I now tend to live vicariously through the lives of pro surfers, from their surfing ability to their fiery escapades with the opposite sex. Their stories help take me back to my so-called glory years, and as much as I want to be cabana boy for a day and see how many square inches of peach-fuzzed, tan skin I can save from the searing equatorial sun—I have to put the SPF away. I’m here to make a surf movie, so let’s get some clips in the bag and then we can play later. The boys are onboard and, surprisingly, in bed.
Early mornings, barrels, sunscreen, lunch, ramps, dinner, rum, watch footage, sleep, repeat. For four days, the routine continues. The waves here are so damn fun all day, every day, we (somehow) manage to completely forget about our bikini-clad coffee shop in the sand. Well, not completely. On the fifth day of the trip, we decide to walk back down for some lunch, a refreshment, and a little eye candy.
“You see the look that girl is giving you?” Meola asks Dillon.
“Psshhh, I wouldn’t even know what to say. Plus I haven’t shaved in like four days.”
I point out a six-pack to Dunphy. “When you stomped that rotator this morning, that whole group yelled ‘mi amor’ at you.”
“Yeah right,” he responds, as though he doesn’t stand a chance, and walks away.