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The weather has been worsening steadily. Heavy rain clouds continue to march up from the south, gathering in dark clusters over the coastal village San Juan. My Lonely Planet had warned me of crazed cyclones frequenting the west coast of Mexico this time of year, however due to their rapid movements and sheer distance from the coast, their impacts more often than not, are limited to just a few scattered showers and stormy swells.
With bags and boards in tow, Hayman and I lumbered off the bus. A dismal swell lapped up the beach, weak and windswept, without a soul insight.
Instinctively and without much talk, we dumped our bags on the beach and dove in.
An ancient diligence seemed to sweep over the numerous orange hotels, standing mournfully by the water’s edge. Apart from an occasional towel hanging off one or two rain-washed balconies, you’d have thought they were all abandoned. And the longer we wallowed, the ghostlier they grew. But it was hunger and an almighty thirst that eventually drove us from the water, and down the main drag again.
The local supermarket consisted of a tiny aisle, an even tinier hombre dozing in a corner, and of course, no ATM. The shopkeeper told us we need to keep going south to get cash and that everything is “out of season”.
We made our way back to the beach to rest at one of the many rundown restaurants, an old hammock tied between two palms suddenly came into view, drooping heavily only meters from the shoreline. A single limp arm hung out, tracing fingers over the dark sand. Hayman and I slowly approached the figure slumped inside, a white man, with glazed eyes looked up at us innocently.
“Lost souls…Where you from?”
The man spoke in a thick American accent. He wore, a red and white pair of faded, Hawaiian boardshorts, a once white tank top and a torn cap that kept his grey hair out of his eyes.
“We’re from Australia” I suddenly found myself explaining.
“Austria!” The man beamed, doing his best Jim Carey impersonation.
“No Australia,” Hayman exclaimed, obviously not getting the joke. “We’re just trying to find somewhere to stay.”
“Somewhere to stay? Mmm, uh” The man sat up slightly and looked around. “Camping?”
“Well no, we don’t have a tent.”
“A what? Sorry, I’ve been on the mescal for last couple days” The man rolled his eyes and leaned back, crossing his gangly arms behind his head. He continued on for a little while about how he was a bit scattered from the cheap alcohol. He told us his name was Ronaldo, and to be honest, he definitely looked the part; half homeless, definitely alcoholic, hammock squatting in washed up San Juan. This realization suddenly began to make Hayman nervous. I could feel his eyes narrow on the old man before quickly turning to me; “Maybe we should try one of the hotels.”
“Nah, nah wha… uh, the hotels aren’t open…this time of year.” Ronaldo croaked looking down at our bags. “You’ve come at the right time to surf un-crowded waves. Except there’s no swell either ha!”
“Do you live here?” Hayman asked.
“Well yeah. I’ve been here a year now. I do a bit of grounds keeping for the hotels. They feed me and let me stay out here.” Ronaldo coughed before going on “You know, I’m sure you guys could just camp out along here somewhere tonight, how long were you planning to stay?”
“Just the night,” I nod “depends if the surf picks up.”
“Mmmmm.”
We left Ronaldo’s hammock before the makings of conversation dried up completely, deciding to make camp under a couple of stray umbrellas, fifty meters or so down the beach. The mosquitos were bad and the ground was damp and dark out of the light. We made another trip back to the supermarket to get some bread, making it back just in time for the rain to start up again; inducing drowsiness and dreamy memories. We ate and slept for a while.
“Hey-Ho, sorry to wake you.” It was Ronaldo. “Was gonna go see my friend down the road about some supper, just thought I’d come check you hadn’t drowned!”
It was completely dark now, apart from the odd glow from one of the streetlights out at sea… Wait. Where am I again? Fucking San Juan. Rubbing my eyes, I could make out a faint line of vessels floating out over the water. Their lights hanging onto the horizon, stretching far off in different directions down the coast. And suddenly it seemed as if all the tired stars had fallen out of the sky and were melting into the dark sea.
Ronaldo pulled up a chair, then took a pouch of tobacco from his pocket and slowly started to roll a cigarette. His yellow lighter shone in his dark hands as he fiddled to light a spark. “So where in the states are you from?” Hayman asked.
“I’m from Cali. L.A. originally.” Ronaldo exhaled. “Now I run this place ha!” Out of the corner of his eye, Ronaldo saw me watching him, as a wisp of smoke scurried around the side of his face.
“Are you sure it’s okay for us to stay here?” I found myself whispering.
“Oh bud, definitely. Look at me! I’ve been doing this kind of stuff for years,” he groaned. “Haven’t had a proper job since Vietnam.”
“Yeah we’re just trying to do it as cheap as possible really.” Hayman exclaimed awkwardly.
“Yeah, I know how you young guys like to travel.” Ronaldo smiled, revealing a couple of capped teeth.
“Alright. I’m off, I’ll see if I can bring something back for you, if you’re still up.”
“Oh yeah, that would be awesome!” I grinned as Ronaldo stood and strode off into the night. He never came back.
We woke early the next day to a honking car horn and an angry Mexican shouting at us from up on the street. Before we could even sit up he had jumped back in his old, green ute, and begun snorting down the dirt track toward us like a wounded bull. “Who said you could stay here?”
Hayman and I looked at each other, speechless. “Ah, Ronaldo,” I blurted, pointing over to where the hammock was emptily slung.
“Ronaldo is a piece of shit!” The Mexican was short and chubby, and had a thick black moustache that seemed to make him worthy of authority. “Don’t be here when I come back”. And as he turned to leave, he sniffed the air. As a wild boar might. He smelt success.
Totally rattled, we began to pack up and headed straight for the highway, hardly noticing along the way everyone getting dropped off at the bus stop were neither coming nor going into San Juan. Even the stray dogs congregating at the top of the road seemed to know better. Before we knew it, they, like the wild boar and Ronaldo, had disappeared altogether, into what seemed to be, one hell of an offseason.
