ROLLING TIDES: WHAT’S NORMAL, ANYWAY?

Words and Photos by Rylie and Tristan, @rollingtides.rt

This is the eighth post documenting the surfpacking / bikepacking / backpacking adventure of Rylie and Tristan starting in different parts of the world, rejoining in the US, and ending together until the end of the road in South America. Read about their ambitious journey in Part 1 HERE, Part 2 HERE, Part 3 HERE, Part 4 HERE, Part 5 HERE, Part 6 HERE, and Part 7 HERE. Tune in each month to see how it's going.

“I think that’s them!”

We were sweaty and droopy-eyed, hunching over the laptop at a table in the outdoor kitchen, when they arrived. Five or so days earlier, our tent was tucked into the last available nook on a hilltop camping area in Mazunte. The owner would pay us 50 pesos an hour to do odd jobs renovating the place, and we would spend the afternoons recovering from a stomach bug and waiting for our friends to arrive. 

We both turned our bodies to face the steep dirt driveway that led up to the campground. Two rumbling motors jerked their way up the last pitch of the road, and familiar faces peered at us from too-tight helmets and clear goggles. We were elated, and let out big belly laughs. 

Having just crawled out of their own 38-day adventure setting routes and filming a project in the mountains of Argentina, the decision to come join us was half-planned, half spur-of-the-moment. We were feeling proud of our friends for their recent experience and ready to share a small slice of ours. The stories of adventure and misadventure would surely pour out in time, but it was the unspoken, understanding company that we seemed to be in need of most. 

Ethan had a surfboard rack welded onto the side of his red motorcycle. His surfboard was bright green, had previously been snapped in half, and was impressively reconstructed. Though its shape would be closely compared to an ironing board, the board looked fun, fast, and we all gawked over his new surfpacking rig. 

Taylor had been on a roll of working on not only filmmaking but self-driven exploratory climbing projects. He had put hard-earned money into upgrading his camera gear — buying a new rig that would make anyone holding it feel a tingle of documentary-producing big-timer whimsy.

It was an odd sight to see our old friends on their shiny new (second-hand) motorbikes. They sparked an exciting hope that supplies, searching for camp spots, and general everyday logistics would be wildly easier with motorcycles. All of a sudden, we seemed to have a support crew. What an odd sensation it is to be on a human-powered journey, yet not be in the backcountry. To instead be surrounded by humans living their daily lives, and friends coming to say hi and offer emotional support. It's an experience that might just make us head for the hills even quicker. I miss the tranquility of forests, mountains, and uncrowded places. Where you can truly be alone, save for scavenging squirrels and the whispers of the wind.

When we pedaled out of Mazunte, the stars were still hanging brightly overhead. Straining our eyes into the thin light of our headlamps, we tried to avoid launching ourselves over unexpected bumps (the Mexican equivalent of speed bumps, which are everywhere). The sun hadn't even kissed the horizon yet, and we could feel the air heating up. By early afternoon, our Nalgene bottles would hold water hot enough to steep tea. The hot water tastes viscous and makes trying to stay hydrated more of a battle than it should be. That afternoon, we ranted over the fact that the water inside of us – that which makes up most of our body – feels like it’s boiling too. No wonder we feel like sloppy pots of overcooked soup. 

We rolled into a quiet surf town, surprisingly, before our friends with motors, who were delayed by a visit to the mechanic. We stayed at this particular spot for nearly a week, and the swell was just right for getting back in the water. Small waves broke off a grey rocky point, and, closer to shore, the wave peeled again, creating multiple takeoff points. Pelicans shot down like missiles, peppering the water with splashes. They made a show of gulping down their prized fishies, making sure everyone in the lineup knew they were eating that gourmet ceviche. 

Sitting in the water and gazing back at the shoreline, we were grateful for this wave's protected state. The beach swung around the landscape like a crescent moon, and a lagoon separated the main sand spit from the road. Mangroves, as well as thick vegetation, sprang to life at every corner of the lagoon, and tall pale green mountains behind the winding dirt road backdropped the whole heavenly scene. 

In continuing our pursuit of tucked-away nooks and uncrowded surf, we made the jump to our next possible wave just as a large swell was building. We weaved around hills and ducked into bus stops for the occasional shady break. Suspicious when Ethan and Taylor hadn't caught up to us yet, we soon learned that the two motorbikes were having groans and aches of their own. The surfboard rack on Ethan's bike had broken clean off, and his exhaust was spewing smoke. He left the ironing board behind and would have to trek to the next largest city, 60 kilometers south, to take it to the mechanic. 

Suddenly feeling optimistic about the ease of our human-powered machines, we started cruising down the 20-kilometer dirt road, the final stretch to a new wave. We had strapped a pineapple into the surf trailer and were giddily playing with filming different angles of the bikes bumping and rolling down the gravel. We were happy to finally be putting the project in motion, and grateful to have friends offer to help with the filming – that is, if their motorbikes stopped breaking down. 

The reality of bike touring with surfboards is not always glorious. Usually, we have plenty of time to contemplate our questionable decisions while lugging around the dead weight of the trailer under the relentless sun. As days blend into weeks and weeks turn to months, the radical uniqueness of our endeavor sometimes slips into normalcy. However, it never feels normal for too long, as we become the center of attention in each passing town. Honks and waves and the classic questions get thrown at us from all directions. What a silly sight we must be, ungracefully chugging along. 

Sometimes, though, the bike/surf combo just magically aligns. These glimpses of glory are only made possible by the efforts of yesterday and the day before. All the time and dedication, every small decision and pedal stroke bringing us exactly where we dreamed–an uncrowded wave at the end of the dirt road. The reward, we know, is only as great as the effort it took to get here. We vibrate with excitement, hands shaking as we swap our padded bike shorts for boardshorts. The exhaustion of the day forgotten as the salt water washes the crusted sweat from our bodies. Rest assured, though, the exhaustion does catch up with us. Despite our best efforts at rest, we have both been sick, off and on, for the past month. 

We didn’t plan on being in Mexico for so long, yet after 5 months, we were still here. Entranced by the laid-back culture of the coast, it seems. Although we didn’t travel far from the Pacific, traveling slowly allowed us to experience much of the specialness of Mexican culture. We found people to be incredibly open and warmhearted. Welcoming and full of pride. Inclusive and relaxed. With what is happening across the border to the North, I think it's important to touch on just how generous and hospitable locals were with us. One rancher we chatted with expressed that he did not feel welcome in our country when he went there to work. He took extra care in showing us true Mexican hospitality, gifting us huge mangoes from his laden trees, and hoping we would spread the word. 

In our final days pedaling towards the Guatemalan border, we bid farewell to our homies on motorbikes. The aridity of the ecosystem we’d spent the past months in began to give way to lush vegetation and streams. Gradually, the hillsides grew into a vibrant green. We tried waterhopping for campsites, with mixed success. One night, we landed by a murky little pool of water. Another, by a military checkpoint, after discovering the river we planned to camp at was dried out. When we finally lucked out with a big, beautiful river, we woke up in the middle of the night to find that hundreds of ants had eaten their way into our tent. Such is life on the road. We eat, drink, and sleep, appreciate time with friends, and do our best to keep it together, knowing we haven’t a clue what the next day will bring. 

Mexico, thank you for your wildness, hospitality, and colorful culture. We have few pictures of the chaos and beauty of towns or human interactions, and we think that's just the way it's meant to be.