Kilometer 99 (11 page)

We paddled out and traded waves. The water felt cleaner this far from any port or city. Out in the lineup, I turned back several times to look at the landscape. This was during the rainy season; all the surrounding hills were lush and green. From the water, it was hard to make out any signs of civilization. Unless a car drove by, I couldn't even see the road. Back then, I had no idea that Don Miguel and his neighbors were up there on the hillside. From the water, the view was too foreshortened even to see their cornfields.

Once the wind picked up, we paddled back to shore. Ben went to find the bag he'd hidden under the stones. I gathered my leash and wrapped it around my fins.

“Ah!” Ben screamed.

I turned and watched as he brushed one hand with the other.

“Fire ants!” He held one of the plastic
refresco
bags by the corner, swatting at it with his free hand. Ants bit his toes; he lifted his foot and brushed at them.

I collapsed to the sand, laughing.

For several more seconds, he did an aggravated dance of arm wagging and body slapping. Finally, he ran down to the ocean with a
refresco
bag in each fist and dunked them into the salt water. My eyes were teary with laughter.

After a minute of rinsing in the surf, he joined me on the sand.

“I'm sorry,” I said, still chuckling. “But that was hilarious.”

“Here.” He smiled and handed me one of the bright-colored bags. “I hope you like
refresco.
”

We bit off the plastic corners and sucked at the sugary liquid now spiked with seawater. Ben rolled a cigarette and we passed it back and forth.

“Do me a favor,” Ben said. “Don't tell anyone about this spot.”

“No problem,” I said. “Is it a secret?”

He shrugged. “This whole coast will change eventually. The waves are too good. I'd rather not be the one who speeds it up. Does that make sense?”

“Yes,” I said. “I know exactly what you mean.” I turned and looked back down into the secluded cove. “We should camp here sometime. We've got all the gear. There's nobody around.”

Ben shook his head. “You don't want to be near this spot at night. This is where they bring in the cocaine that gets made into rocks back in town.”

My jaw dropped. I turned back to the ocean. “They bring it in by boat?”

Ben nodded. “That's the rumor at least. All the old-timers say never to come around here after dark. You don't want to see something that you shouldn't.”

“Good enough for me,” I said.

We walked up to the road and hitched a ride back to La Libertad.

 

13

Again the next morning, we wake early and walk to the steps. Something's changed. Though the surf isn't good, it's not entirely flat, either. An abnormal wind pattern whips the sea toward the land, raising small waves that look almost rideable.

“A little bump.” Ben stares at the point.

“Hope this isn't the swell that Pelochucho flew in for,” I say.

A black beetle—big and round as a Ping-Pong ball—buzzes past us and bounces off one of the columns alongside the steps. It hovers like a radio-controlled toy, one whose pilot needs more flying lessons.

“Watch.” Ben stands. “A guy in my village taught me this one.”

With one hand, he snatches the insect in midair. The buzzing stops short. Ben's back is to me, but it looks as if he's about to eat the bug. I stand up to see.

Ben turns around and puts his face in front of mine, cheeks puffed out. We stare each other in the eye for a second. Then he opens his mouth and the beetle flies out.

I can't stop myself from grinning. “Good one,” I admit.

“Thanks.” Ben spits on the ground.

*   *   *

Back at La Posada, Pelochucho crosses the courtyard with an armload of his own luggage.

“What are you doing?” I wonder if he isn't moving out—heading home or off to camp on his newly purchased land.

“Just changing rooms.” He dumps the load inside the bedroom next to ours.

“You're moving into the cheap wing?” Perhaps his stack of bills isn't as bottomless as he's made it out to be.

He emerges from the new room, sunglasses down over bloodshot eyes. “I'm a little over budget,” he says. “No big deal.”

I almost ask if we should expect our hundred bucks today.

“There's some kind of a wind swell out there,” Ben says. “Not big, but maybe worth paddling out. I'm thinking it might break a little cleaner down at Sunzal.”

“Yeah?” Pelo looks surprised. “Sounds like a plan. Give me a second to finish up here.”

Ben helps him roll the surfboard coffin across the courtyard. I wait by the dining room.

Crackito, youngest of the local addicts, shuffles past La Posada's gate. Thirteen or fourteen, he's barely bigger than Nora. He holds his hand out toward me and mutters, “A coin?”

Kristy stands at the stove and scowls, ready to stop him if he tries to enter.

“Wait.” I take a piece of sweet bread from the glass case on the counter, signal Kristy to put it on my tab, and walk over to Crackito.

“Eat it,” I say. “Now.” If he carries it off, there's a chance he'll sell it for a few cents or trade it for a hit off another kid's pipe.

He rolls his eyes, then devours the sugary breakfast in four bites. As I walk back toward the Jeep, I can feel Kristy's gaze hardening unhappily into my back.

*   *   *

On the drive, Pelochucho and Ben pass a thick joint back and forth. I lie prone across the plywood shelf, crowded in with our three surfboards, trying to find a little fresh air amid the pot smoke. Pelo brought along a flawless brand-name board. It looks as though it's never been surfed.

Ben parks at a friendly restaurant-hotel and asks the owner to watch the car for us. Straight away, we see that Sunzal was the right decision.

The beach is a long expanse of black sand at the base of a cliff. In addition to the consistent waves, it's one of the more beautiful spots in this part of the country. A panoramic shot of it opens the classic John Milius surf feature
Big Wednesday.
At one end stands a rock formation known as “the pig”—though I've never been able to find a porcine shape in it, from any angle. Sunzal had a heyday in the seventies as a kind of hippie camp, covered in tents full of gringo surfers and expats. All that ended with the war.

We walk from our parking spot out toward the break. The tide has dropped in the hour since our surf check. The waves still aren't huge, but they're standing up nicely here, definitely workable. And nobody else is out. With the black sand and the solitude, this spot could pass for Hawai‘i—a country beach perhaps, on one of the neighbor islands.

“Looks fun,” Ben says.

“Yeah.”

The three of us enter. Pelochucho lags behind.

Ben and I trade waves on the outside. They aren't anything to write home about—a solid drop, one punchy section, then a soft shoulder—but we enjoy it. So often when surfing in El Salvador, the waves justify the means. But at this spot, simply being in the water is a privilege. Morning sun shines over our shoulders as we look out to the horizon. Flocks of pelicans skim the ocean surface.

A bigger set rolls in and we scramble for the outside. Out of position for either of the first two waves, Ben dashes for the third. I watch as he drops in, does his bottom turn, and finds the trim. He pumps up a bit of speed and cuts back to the curl once the wave fattens.

Of the two of us, most people likely consider me the better surfer. Ben started in his high school years and could practice only during a short and fickle North Carolina swell season. I switched to surfing from boogie boarding when I was eleven or twelve, and lived within walking distance of Oahu's south shore—which has waves almost year-round. Certainly, I'm lighter on my feet than Ben, able to put a bit more spring into my turns.

But I like the way Ben surfs. His style is unadorned and functional. Even though his ass sometimes sticks out, he always keeps his center of gravity low, his turns close to the pocket. Perhaps it's the result of learning in those East Coast beach breaks, where he had to snatch rides from the closed-out waves before they collapsed.

I watch his backlit figure rise above the crest as he makes one last turn. He kicks out, then paddles toward me.

Where would you go right now if you could travel anywhere? What would you do with all the money in the world? I often wonder what Alex or Courtney—or any of those other volunteers, really—might say if asked that question. They'd laugh, mutter something about a vacation. They might speak of expensive foods or sex fantasies, a party they could imagine throwing.

But if you ask those same questions of a surfer—especially a surfer who's traveled even a little—you'll get specifics: beaches, breaks, countries, proper nouns. You might hear some half-baked idea like Pelo's, about a hotel or other business, but what they're truly talking about is waves, a commodity that is both priceless and free, that can only be bartered for days and years of your life.

If you knew you'd die tomorrow, how would you spend today? Ben and I could've answered that question with one verb. Could you? Could Alex? Could my father? It sometimes feels like a horrible burden to me: living each hour with the knowledge of what you'd rather be doing, the wave you might be riding.

“Good set,” Ben says once he's within earshot.

“It's beautiful out here.” Sitting up on my board, I hold my arms out to either side.

“Right?” As if reading my thoughts, he says, “Think about how many spots like this we'll see. I mean, this country is tiny and crowded, and still there're new waves around every corner. Imagine Chile, or Peru. They've got point breaks down there that have never been surfed before.”

I smile at the very idea. I spent most of my life on a small island, where every beach is known and named, has some cabal of locals claiming ownership. The thought of so much uncluttered coast is beyond my imagination. Add to that the inland places we'll go—Machu Picchu, the Amazon, Patagonia. It's more of the world than I ever expected to see.

I turn toward land to check on Pelochucho, and finally catch a glimpse of him between crests. He's far away from us, close to shore. I still have no memory of ever having met him before this week. For a moment, I wonder if he can even surf.

The next set is the biggest yet. I take the first wave and manage to string together several sections, riding it all the way to the inside and landing a little floater on the final bit. I surface with a giddy smile, hoping Pelochucho might have seen the maneuver.

I look around but can't find him anywhere.

At last, I turn to the beach. There on the sand, Pelo stands beside his board. He puts his hands up over his forehead and then out in front of his face. His feet stumble in a clumsy circle. Something is wrong. I ride whitewater on my belly, then paddle hard for the shore. Once on my feet, I get a good look at him and nearly faint.

Blood gushes everywhere. It's all over Pelo and his new surfboard and the sand. He holds his hands up in the air and looks around, trying to see out of one blood-covered eye.

“Here I am, Pelochucho,” I say.

He turns toward my voice. A flap of his eyebrow and forehead hang down over his face. The socket is a swollen, bloody mess. I'm not sure if the eyeball is still in there. I look around for it on the sand, lift his board and check underneath. Nothing.

“I don't feel so good,” he says. “I want to get in the shade.”

I leave the boards on the black sand and lead him by the arm. Two teenage boys point and wince as they pass us. How did this happen in such small waves? With two fingers in my mouth, I whistle hard for Ben, who's still out in the lineup. Soon enough, he sees us and paddles in. Pelo and I continue toward the car.

“What happened?” I finally think to ask Pelo.

“I rode the shore break in too far, caught the nose of my own board.”

“Okay. Ben will be here soon. Promise me one thing. Promise me you won't look at yourself in the mirror.” I'm convinced he'll pass out if he does.

“I promise.”

As we reach the Jeep, Ben catches up and winces at the sight of Pelo's eye. “You look like shit,” he says. “Let's get you to a doctor.”

He takes a towel from the car and makes Pelochucho press it against his head.

“I feel sick,” Pelo says.

“Ben, what about our boards?” I point up the beach, where Pelo and I left them.

Ben does an awkward dance of indecision on the driver's side of the Jeep. Finally, he asks the restaurant owner if she can send a child to retrieve our boards, and if she'll look after them, maybe until tomorrow. She nods. I climb onto the plywood shelf. Ben shuts the back gate at my feet.

On the drive, Pelochucho sits in the passenger seat and pukes out the window. All along the roadside sit camps of families recently rendered homeless by the earthquake, living under tents and shelters of black plastic. I lie flat upon the rack, feeling the moisture from my swimsuit soak into the plywood, trying to stay still enough to avoid splinters. Traces of Pelo's vomit rush back in through the window and splatter me. Bile stings my eyes. Ben drives fast.

*   *   *

In San Salvador, we see a sign that says
TWENTY-FOUR HOUR EMERGENCY CARE.
The three of us walk inside and find a receptionist seated at a desk. She fills in blanks on a document and doesn't look up. Ben and I each take one of Pelo's armpits.

“Excuse me!” Ben says at last. “There's an emergency here.”

“Have a seat.” She gestures toward some chairs along the far wall of the office.

“I'm not having a seat. This guy needs medical attention.” Ben's Spanish is extra fluent.

“All right.” She sighs. “Go down this street until you get to a woman selling fried chicken. Then take a left and go two more blocks, until you see a fireworks stand. Right after that, there's a clinic where they take emergencies like yours.”