By Morgan Sliff
The crash of big plane wheels hitting the tarmac made reality finally hit the group of tired surfers — the blonde bombshell Taylor Stone, her boyfriend, South Bay longboarder Kris Hall, Taylor’s mom and photographer Pegi Stone, and me. We were here.
After a 1 a.m. red-eye, three hour layover in Houston, and a few more hours in the air the group and I wearily made it through baggage claim (thankful to have our precious longboards in one piece) and walked outside to feel the 90 degree hot El Salvadorian air and laid eyes on our friend Jose Barahona’s smiling face.
With Barahona’s pickup piled high with boards, bodies, and bags, we bolted west, not quite jet lagged enough to miss out on the tropical surroundings and brightly colored adobe and aluminum shacks and shops scattered on the road.
After some fuel of paella, coconut margaritas and coffee to halfway sober up, we were in the salty hot tub of Sunzal by 3 p.m. The paddle out was egregious; a quarter mile to the furthest point, passing some tempting inside sections that held up if you took off at the perfect spot. I paddled next to Jose, my El Salvadorian dad, and the super far break and unfamiliar waters were intimidating, to say the least. Feeling safe next to Barahona, I posted up next to him on the far side of the break, and hesitated on a few waves that looked like they might eat me alive. Then it came. I proceeded to catch my first wall in El Salvador, and the explosion of whitewater, making my body alive with fireworks of the sea, conceived one of the bigger nervous smiles I’ve had.
After that first wave, a quarter of a mile cruise all the way to the beach, the longest wave I’ve ever had in my life, it was on. Kris, Taylor and I switched off on perfect rights, and barely seeing each other. Occasionally I would paddle back out and catch a glimpse of kris with all 10 toes hanging off the nose, or his iconic switch foot turn back into the shoulder of the wave. Jose’s first wave proved to be a little more menacing, snapping his leash and ripping the entire bottom off his FireWire rental, an unfound sheet of surfboard floating somewhere in the lineup.
Tired and jet lagged, we would all get out after an hour, sit on the beach for 5 thinking we were done, and promptly jump back in, call of the sea more powerful than the drowsiness and aches. The break put life back into our bodies, and when the sun was nearly set, we marched back up to the Roca Sunzal.
That night Kris ate an entire large pizza to himself, I enjoyed many more coconut margaritas, and one by one we eventually sank into our beds, sleep taking over as soon as our tired heads hit their respective pillows.
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