Lynn, Gonzales and I got to the weeklong competition so early that aside from the surfing competitors and those working the event, we were pretty much the only women. We were definitely the only gringas.
The tent's fabric walls weren't exactly sun resistant. We woke up with the sun, bathed in the ocean, brushed our teeth with a bottle of water on the sand, and then started drinking. Typically all before 7am.
It didn't matter that my hair turned into a rat's nest of half-developed dreadlocks, or that my bottom lip got sunburnt and looked like a hive of bees had attacked it. As the only 20-something female gringas, we were hot stuff.
The three of us frequently made the trek along the beach from our tent to the bars. There weren't public restrooms, so we'd urinate in the ocean and sneak into a bar/restaurant's bathroom for anything else. I looked in a mirror a total of three times over the course of the week. The first time I looked a bit deranged, the second, homeless, and the third time, instead of crying, I shrugged and continued drinking.
When we walked along the beach the announcers temporarily suspended their commentary of the surfers and yelled insightful things like, "Gringas!" and "Bonitas chicas!" Those were the only words I understood, at least. Lynn walked up to the reporters and had entire conversations with them. They even laughed. I can tell if someone actually understands the language by whether the person nervously laughs and shortly walks away, or stands and talks with natives, engaging in laughing on both sides. I nervously laughed and walked away. Sometimes I ran. During this time my Spanish knowledge slightly increased. Not on a daily basis, but every week I'd pick up another word or two and feel like a language superstar.
On one of these early days of the event, Lynn, Gonzales and I walked back to our tent for lunch. Along the way, a guy stood on the beach alone, holding an American flag. As proud drunken Americans, we repeatedly chanted "Team USA!" as we got closer. We took a picture with that professional surfer. No big deal.
If we remembered to eat, lunch comprised whatever we could find. That day, we had a can of tuna, cans of beans and corn, some tortillas, hot sauce, and Cheetos that appeared to be on steroids. We combined it together, tried to consume as little sand as possible, and called it a success.
As we sat in front of the tent, slightly swaying in happy drunken revelries, we noticed a kiteboarder struggling in the waves. I couldn't tell if he was drowning, but the kite was disconnected from the board. The man wrestled with the kite while the board appeared and then disappeared in the ocean. I pointed and turned around to tell the girls we should help him. Lynn had already taken off. As previously mentioned, she had massive gazongas. She ran down the beach in her bathing suit, oblivious to the stares. Nobody watched the kiteboarder, the attention was on the bouncing titties. I thought about getting up, but decided being a spectator would not only be more fun, it would be easier.
Without a word to the man, Lynn sprinted into the ocean after the board. And then she disappeared. The waves knocked her down. She reappeared in a flying leap onto the board and clutched it in her arms. The waves came, she stood up, and then fell down. All I saw were her feet in the air. She did an entire rotation in the water before emerging, dragging the board behind her. It was the first kiteboard roll I have ever had the privilege of witnessing.
Lynn talked to the guy for a few minutes and then walked back to the tent.
"That guy was kind of weird," she said. "He thanked me but didn't make eye contact."
"That's because one of your boobs has been hanging out since you got out of the water."
The tent's fabric walls weren't exactly sun resistant. We woke up with the sun, bathed in the ocean, brushed our teeth with a bottle of water on the sand, and then started drinking. Typically all before 7am.
It didn't matter that my hair turned into a rat's nest of half-developed dreadlocks, or that my bottom lip got sunburnt and looked like a hive of bees had attacked it. As the only 20-something female gringas, we were hot stuff. The three of us frequently made the trek along the beach from our tent to the bars. There weren't public restrooms, so we'd urinate in the ocean and sneak into a bar/restaurant's bathroom for anything else. I looked in a mirror a total of three times over the course of the week. The first time I looked a bit deranged, the second, homeless, and the third time, instead of crying, I shrugged and continued drinking.
When we walked along the beach the announcers temporarily suspended their commentary of the surfers and yelled insightful things like, "Gringas!" and "Bonitas chicas!" Those were the only words I understood, at least. Lynn walked up to the reporters and had entire conversations with them. They even laughed. I can tell if someone actually understands the language by whether the person nervously laughs and shortly walks away, or stands and talks with natives, engaging in laughing on both sides. I nervously laughed and walked away. Sometimes I ran. During this time my Spanish knowledge slightly increased. Not on a daily basis, but every week I'd pick up another word or two and feel like a language superstar.
On one of these early days of the event, Lynn, Gonzales and I walked back to our tent for lunch. Along the way, a guy stood on the beach alone, holding an American flag. As proud drunken Americans, we repeatedly chanted "Team USA!" as we got closer. We took a picture with that professional surfer. No big deal. 
As we sat in front of the tent, slightly swaying in happy drunken revelries, we noticed a kiteboarder struggling in the waves. I couldn't tell if he was drowning, but the kite was disconnected from the board. The man wrestled with the kite while the board appeared and then disappeared in the ocean. I pointed and turned around to tell the girls we should help him. Lynn had already taken off. As previously mentioned, she had massive gazongas. She ran down the beach in her bathing suit, oblivious to the stares. Nobody watched the kiteboarder, the attention was on the bouncing titties. I thought about getting up, but decided being a spectator would not only be more fun, it would be easier.
Without a word to the man, Lynn sprinted into the ocean after the board. And then she disappeared. The waves knocked her down. She reappeared in a flying leap onto the board and clutched it in her arms. The waves came, she stood up, and then fell down. All I saw were her feet in the air. She did an entire rotation in the water before emerging, dragging the board behind her. It was the first kiteboard roll I have ever had the privilege of witnessing.
Lynn talked to the guy for a few minutes and then walked back to the tent.
"That guy was kind of weird," she said. "He thanked me but didn't make eye contact."
"That's because one of your boobs has been hanging out since you got out of the water."
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