“Holy shit, look at that surf,” Marcia said, speeding up, grogginess magically gone as the waves beckoned. Past a row of craft vendors’ tables set up on the sidewalk at the end of the block, and the beach beyond, they could see white water everywhere, waves smaashing across the bay, a rocky point with a huge house atop it a quarter of a mile away to the southwest, and a couple of dozen surfers spread out from the crowded beach before them to the outer line-up, maybe two hundred yards off the shoreline. They hit the beach. El Costeno was on the right, its expansive palm thatch roof shading rows of mismatched grubby white wood and plastic tables and chairs sitting in the sand. Up the beach a large temporary elevated pavilion had been erected atop a scaffolding framework supported by metal poles buried in the sand, with X DAMES emblazoned in bold blue letters across the four sides of the pyramid-shaped white fabric roof. Sponsor flags flew: beer, surfboards, tequila. Parked directly behind it were several four wheel drive trucks, canopied cargo beds loaded with video gear. Clearly, a fairly major production was on tap. “I gotta get my board and ride some waves,” Marcia said. “The surf looks awesome. Where did she say the hotel was?”
“There,” Lucy said, pointing. “It’s that hulking monster.” A quarter of a mile down the beach, where the road curved seawards towards the house on the point, a five-story building rose up in front of a small hill blanketed with white, red-roofed houses buried in flowering foliage and coconut trees. The top story appeared unfinished, all raw concrete columns, empty windows, and scraggly rebar.. On the hill around it, the smaller buildings blended into the greenery.
“That’s the Villa Roma,” said Teresa. “I checked the site out on the web last night. And also several other Sayulita sites and blogs. Seems that everybody in town hates that building and its owner, your typical American asshole who thought he could bribe his way into building a high-rise condo tower in a town with a four-story height limit. But they claim to have stopped him with some sort of legal maneuver, and he’s actually taking the top floors down now. Anyways those other little buildings on the hillside are hotel rooms, and they looked really cool on the web.”
“Whatever,” said Marcia. “I’m going to get my board.” She dashed off down the beach, the eyes of several young Mexican surfdudes following her. Kept company by half a dozen panting mongrel dogs, the dudes lolled on the sand in the shade of the X Dames pavilion, watching the waves, drinking beer, and checking out the girls.
“How about you, Luce?” said Teresa. “Would you paddle out there?”
“Paddle out, yes,” Lucy said. “It’ll be great for shooting up close. My camera’s waterproof. And I can paddle pretty well from swimming and working out. But I couldn’t ride those waves. I’ve only surfed like five times and I just don’t know enough.”
“Excuse me, ladies,” a man interrupted them. They turned. He was forty or so, a handsome tall Mexican in carefully pressed khaki shorts, black leather sandals, and a loose-fitting, well-made sports shirt and sunglasses. “Are you–”
“Teresa MacDonald.” She held out a hand. “And Lucy Ripken. You must be–”
“Ruben Dario. From the show. And a local here as well. So nice to meet you. I hope you traveled well. Come join us, please.” He gestured at one of the larger tables at the front edge of El Costeno, which faced out to the surf. Three women sat there, comfortably slouched in tiny bikinis: one Asian and two Mexican. They were uniformly brown, lithe, long-haired, and beautiful in the modern way, physically confident, fierce, fearless, and yet utterly feminine. Powerbabes, soon to rule the world. As she and Terry followed Dario to the table, Lucy thought, any TV show that’s got this trio, plus Marcia, Henrietta, and Sandra, all of them out there in those waves, is going to rock!
“So where’s the lovely Henrietta?” said Moki Sue Kalahani’I, the 26-year old “surf dominatrix”, after they did the meet and greet, sat down, and ordered beers. On her left sat Martina Casals, a 20-year old Mexican girl famous for a video-taped tube ride she’d grabbed at Puerto Escondido, the renowned Mexican Pipeline, down the coast in Oaxaca. Martina had entirely disappeared inside this ten foot tube for five seconds and then come flying out still on her feet, with a huge smile on her face and the top half of her bathing suit blown off and away by the wind and spray inside the tube. Needless to say that topless tube ride lived on in the land of endless loops on the internet, and Martina had become one of the five or six most famous female surfers in the world as a result. At the end of the table lounged Erica Nunez, over 30 but four times in a row the Mexican women’s surfing champion. She had pretty much the same body as the other two, five and a half foot tall smoothly-muscled girls in impossibly great shape. Neither she nor Martina spoke English very well, so Dario, the only bilingualist among them, carried the conversation.
“I have no idea,” said Teresa. “I thought she came down with Bobby and all the TV people.”
“Yes, I saw her this morning at the house Bobby’s rented,” Dario said. “Don’t worry, Senorita Moki, she’s on it. She wants that money as much as you do.” He smiled. “And have you writer ladies concocted some interesting—narratives–for our girls to pursue?”
“We sure have,” Terry said. “We wrote the whole damn show on the plane coming down here today.”
“This is good,” he said, then turned and did some explaining in Spanish. The two Mexican girls laughed.
“What?” said Lucy, hating her own lack of Spanish. “What’s so funny?”
“Oh, I was just telling them about how much Moki Sue wants to beat Sandra’s butt and everybody else too, but especially Henrietta’s. And they think it is funny that all these gringas are so intent on beating each other that they don’t realize that the Mexican girls are the best surfers here at their home beach.”
“Hm,” said Teresa. “Sounds like a challenge—and a plotline.”
“Hey, gang,” Marcia said, breathlessly arriving at the table. “The hotel’s cool.” She wore a dinky bikini bottom and a short sleeved rash-guard top in neo-psychedelic colors, and carried under one arm a short, skinny little board, maybe six feet long. Her sickly pallor had gone away as if by magic in the Mexican sun, and she looked like a red-hot surfer girl, ready to rule some waves.
Lucy did a quick intro, then Marcia said, “So why aren’t all you big time wave-bombing surf chicks out there now? Too hairy for you? Those waves look awesome!”
“Because they were better this morning at high tide, Chiquita,” said Moki Sue. “And we’re saving it because we are competing tomorrow and we all surfed for three hours today.” She turned to Teresa. “So why is this girl in the contest? A little t & a bimbo to fill in the background? Or are you a hot surfer, too, little girl?” she sneered.
“See you in the waves, puta bitch,” Marcia said as she turned and headed towards the water.
“Ouch! Girl’s got a short temper,” Moki Sue said with a grin. “Can’t take a joke.”
“It wasn’t funny,” said Lucy. “And she’s a good surfer so don’t take her too lightly.”
Moki Sue gave Lucy an appraising look. “So what are you going to write about that? How I insulted one of my competitors and–”
“Personal vendettas and hurt feelings are fodder for the plot,” said Terry, “So keep it up.” She turned to Lucy. “Seems like we already have our villain in place.”
“Hey,” Moki Sue said. “Don’t typecast me. I’m not your Dragon Lady bad girl. I just want to win, like everybody else. The mind game’s part of the gameplan.”
“Excuse me, ladies,” said Dario. “I wanted to ask our writers here–” Lucy and Teresa gave him their attention. “I’m already organizing the next segment after the surf contest. Did Bobby mention our plans? Will you be able to travel to South America from here to work on the snowboarding competition next week? My partner Sophie has been down there scouting locations, and it looks like she has lined up a great mountain with a fully equipped lodge, reliable lifts and excellent powder, in the Chilean Andes. The feeling is if we can alternate winter and summer sports it will create a great dynamic for the series, I think to give it that global feeling.”
“Chile? Next week? Jesus, I don’t know. I’ve got a book to finish. Luce, what do you think?”
“Hey, look at that,” Lucy said, quickly whipping a small pair of high-powered binoculars out of her bag. “Is that Marcia?” She focused. “Yes. She’s caught a monster wave.” They all watched as the girl stood up on her board at the top of a huge wave, then dropped in. When she hit bottom it was evident the wave’s face was nearly three times her height, at least fifteen feet high. She hit the bottom on her little short board, carved a big, smooth turn, and climbed up the face of the wave at high speed. At the top she whipped a slashing cutback, and her board broke loose of the water, freefalling down the face. Her feet hardly touched the board until it hit water near the wave’s bottom, when she somehow landed perfectly balanced and executed another big turn, this one ending with a lunging kickout over the top as a collapsing section closed the wave out.
They were quiet for a few seconds, taking it in. Then Moki Sue said “Holy shit! That girl can surf!”
“Magnifico,” said Dario. “And what a mighty wave!”
Martina said, “Thees ees I theenk the wave of the day so far. It is like Puerto Es only not so breaking hard as there.”
“Judy told me the swell’s going to peak tomorrow,” said Teresa. “So it could be even bigger for the contest.”
“Hey, I’m from Hawaii,” said Moki Sue. “I eat waves like these for lunch.”
They all looked at her. “Chow down, baby,” said Lucy.
