The Rogue Wave of Puerto Escondido

Puerto Escondido was supposed to be just a stopover, a little coast city a couple of hours up the shore road through the jungle from Zipolite, to put me in range of the bigger drive the next day.  But having checked into the hostel early, found a cheap lunch on the city streets far inland, and whiled away some hours, I figured I’d walk down to the beach in the evening light.  It was a long walk, and I’d certainly had my surfeit of beach evenings in Zipolite, but Puerto Escondido’s was supposed to be a favorite spot for surfers, and I’d yet to bag any surfing photos. 

In fact, this was a beach of a different order.  Here’s a shot to set the scene:

The Playa Zicatela runs the entire arc out to the far headland, a distance of a little under two miles, all in a smooth toe-tactile slope of golden sand.  As with all beaches it was fronted by various little restaurants on the dry sand at the back with tables set out under umbrellas, and in the other direction were, sure enough, a few dots of surfers bobbing far out at sea.  And the waves coming in under them were simply monstrous. 

The sheer walls of water arising to loft their expectant bodies high into the sky above the beach were on a vertical scale that water shouldn’t be able to assume.  And indeed in that moment the water looked unnatural, a stretched iridescent emerald painted with tan veins of spouted-up sand like the opening neck of an enormous angry cobra, on whose hood expectant fleas were proposing to ride.  Of course the fleas had to be in the correct position, which they mostly weren’t, but it was mesmerizing enough just to watch such cobras strike, still far out from the beach, in hissing, cutting, straight or side-biting stoops to transform wholly into explosions of foam, criss-crossing each other and tossing festive spouts of spray as they tangled in a deep soapy surge up the long slope against the undermining suction of their predecessors.

 I didn’t evny the surfers just setting out, who had to fight through them.

In the end some of the patient fleas teasing the erratic wrath of the ocean were in the correct place, and at long last I got me some surfer shots, albeit at the furthest murky range of my zoom lens.  And yes, I’m posting two version of the same shot below—surfing happens fast and I only snapped a few.

As I’ve hinted, my delightful hours at Playa Zicatela were spent with one eye glued to my viewfinder.  And therein lay my doom.

I was, of course, stationed far back from the water, up on the dry sand at the back of the beach; nevertheless there were times when the foamy smother of monstrous snakes at the water’s edge resolved too easily and a remnant wave would dart deeper inland, as if making one last push with a flick of its tongue.  Twice I had to suddenly snatch up my sneakers, resting at my feet, and backpedal hastily out of the way. 

I was positioned, then, just about as far back as the restaurant tables when the rogue wave hit.  I had just enough notice to snatch my sneakers and see in a split second of regret that I was going to get my ankles and pant legs wet, when the water struck.  And it did so with no intention of stopping at my ankles; suddenly I was belt-deep in delicious warm water, and the unstopppable push was such that it knocked me down.

I was up again in an instant, soaked from my T-shirt neck down, with time to brace myself and feel the backwash dig ankle-deep hollows around my bare feet underwater, seeing the wave swirl even around the legs of the tables, dragging the hanging tablecloths, starting female diners up from their plates with their long dresses soaked dark.  In the next instant it was gone, skittering strangely back over the sand in a thin percolating mud like a million brown insects running toward the sea.

For a brief giggly moment I took stock of my clothes, as drenched as if I’d been pushed into a swimming pool, and my precious sneakers, still in my hand, now heavy with salt water and sand.  Then it occurred to me to check my camera.

Dead.

And then it occurred to me to check my cellphone, in the back pocket of my pants.

Dead.

And so concludes the cautionary tale of the rogue wave of Puerto Escondido.  Beware, O man of electronics, when trying to waylay monsters made of salt water!  I took a taxi back to my hostel (it was too far to walk in squishy shoes) and on the advice of some folks there put my camera and phone in bags of rice overnight.  Alas, to no avail. 

The next day, in Acapulco, I bought a new cellphone (the second new cellphone of this trip).  But as for my precious Canon T6i DSLR, well, I will try to find a camera repair store on my way through Mexico City,  but this post may well contain the last photos it ever took.  I can’t remember whether I bought the warranty, but if I did the stores that would honor it are in the USA and the paperwork is in Seattle.

At least it died in the line of duty.  It got me some surfer photos.