Surf City

This is a work in progress ~Aaron


Dante didn't need an alarm clock. The hum of the crashing surf and the thud of the slamming porch door -- the unmistakable sound of last night's dalliance leaving -- usually did the trick. If not, the rising sun was more than enough incentive for Dante to slide out of bed. The combination of the sun and surf were too great a lure to sit around and sleep, as if the sun was telling him "Get your lazy ass up, man" while the surf beckoned "Come and play, Dante."
Dante rubbed his eyes as his feet hit the floor. He shuffled into the bathroom, trying to remember her name.
"Mary?" he thought. "No, that was Monday.
"Oh, wait. Sonya. Sonya from Chicago," he remembered, smiling at the thought of the mattress gymnastics she performed last night.
Dante splashed some water on his face, took a leak and walked back toward the bed. As he passed the mussed up queen-size bed, he stuck out his foot, grabbed his shorts with his right big toe and flipped them up into his hand. He lifted his left leg and stuck his foot through the hole and repeated. Zipping up, he ambled into the kitchen. He dropped two slices of bread into the toaster, reached into the pantry for the Nutella and grabbed a knife waiting for the toast to pop.
A creature of habit, Dante's life read like the back of a bottle of conditioner: Wet, lather, rinse, repeat. Only Dante's world was rise, surf, siesta, serve, sex and repeat.
Dante was a little groggy this morning after a long night at the bar -- no, he didn't imbibe, but owned a tiny cantina that catered to the locals and tourists on the Pacific coast of Mexico -- and an equally long night with ... oh, yeah, Sonya.
He opened the screen door off his bedroom and onto the patio overlooking the beach and stared out at the surf. He laughed that he couldn't remember her name, but it didn't surprise him. Last night it was Sonya. Last week it was Celia. Next week, who knows? An American expatriate in Mexico was a safe bet, a sure thing, for the hotties, Cougars and MILFs looking for a little unencumbered vacation action south of the border. It was a given down here that he was there for her pleasure, a vacation story to tell her friends back home, and he didn't mind extracting a little pleasure out of the tryst himself.
Dante's life was exactly what he'd envisioned 10 years ago. Stuck in a go-nowhere job, swearing he wouldn't die a human gopher in a maze of gray carpeted cubicles, he vowed that the day the rugrats were gone, so was he.
"I'm going to find me a beach, a bar to run, live simply and simply live," was Dante's oft-repeated refrain; so much so that his friends always knew when it was coming and learned to serenade him on cue right as he was getting ready for the chorus.
"Surf all morning, an afternoon siesta, get people drunk all night and find a little senorita to curl up with. That's the life," Dante -- and his friends -- would repeat.
He thought about his old life from time to time, usually when the ex called to complain about something or another. There were always too many decisions; too many quandaries; too much unhappiness. Being a corporate clone usually meant someone was unhappy. Too many hours at work took away from his home life. Too much time with his boys took away from his pocketbook. Too many decisions to make took away from his peace of mind.
But that was done and gone. Today, a Thursday he thought, was much like yesterday . . . and the day before.
Nowadays, his big decisions were which honey to flirt with, how long a siesta he would take and the day's first, and always important decision -- which surfboard to use.
He looked down the sand-covered patio at the surfboards, brightly colored fiberglass models of varying sizes and purposes, lined along the patio railing, trying to decide if today was a longboard day or if the tri-fin shredder was the stick for today.
Dante plopped down on the step, his feet finding the cool morning sand and watched the waves.
"Same as yesterday," he said to himself. "Left to right break starting at the channel."
After watching the sets roll in -- 5 feet high, sets of four 25 seconds apart -- Dante decided for the shredder today. He wanted to get the ole ticker humming and hanging 10 just wouldn't do today.
Dante watched the waves for a few more minutes, taking mental notes of the conditions and an internal inventory.
As a kid, he had learned to surfed. As an adult, he'd unlearned all the things he'd enjoyed as a boy. But that happens, he often thought. "You've got to do what you've got to do," he rationalized.
And he did do what he had to as an adult. He'd raised three boys, sending them all off to college and into their own lives. He was proud of the way they'd turned out and proud of his hand in it. And, he concluded, he'd done his job.
Not that he was abandoning his fatherly duties now Nathan, the youngest, was out of the house.
He'd just returned from Nathan's Georgetown graduation. The youngest of the three, Nathan had turned into quite the man, graduating as valedictorian with a law degree. Actually, Nathan, always the cautious one, passed on a chance to strike out on the PGA Tour, opting instead for the No. 1 spot on the Hoyas' golf team. He dallied in a few mini tours, but in the end took the sure-fire way, clerking his final summer at Georgetown for Smith, Jensen and Browing, one of D.C.'s most prestigious law firms. Nathan would begin working there after his three-week trip to Patagonia and Tierra del Fuego.
Dante spent the week in Northern Virginia, hanging with Nathan and his brothers, Brandon and Tyler, along with various aunts, uncles and cousins that lived in the metro D.C. area. They took in baseball games, made their way up to New York for a day and then sat up as close as allowed as Nathan talked about the future, the past, the struggles, the opportunities and then teared up as he thanked Dante for all he'd done in turning him into the man he'd become.
Yep, he was still engaged, still up to date, still connected.
Which was more than he could say for his ex-wife, who called the morning of graduation to ask Dante to let Nathan know something had come up and she wouldn't be there. Actually, Dellane had never planned on coming and was banking on Dante covering for her. She had checked out of the family life years ago -- about the same time Dante's Mexican dream hatched -- opting instead for the Quixotic quest of finding a man to adore her.
Dante's boys knew the depths of their mother's selfishness, learning a long time ago to expect nothing and be pleasantly surprised if something was actually given.
No, Dellane was more concerned about herself and her own life. She's married Stan when the boys were in middle school, hoping to "be a family" again. Stan was a good guy, hell, even Dante liked him. But the family Dellane sought to create was a fabrication, a facade for her low self-esteem and a bridge to have someone next to her in her old age.
When Stan died, during Brandon's senior year of high school, Dellane fell apart. She was older -- if you call 50 old -- and just knew she would never find someone to love her again. So, instead of pouring herself into her boys' life, she retreated into herself.
Dante felt bad for her from time to time. But he also didn't need her bullshit. He'd had enough of that in the 10 years they were married. Dante still cared for Dellane, but that sentiment only went so far.
And so when Nathan graduated high school, Dante knew he was free. Not that he regretted being the stable parent -- quite the contrary. He loved that his boys had grown up to be fine men. He prided himself that his house was the start and end point of so many of their high school adventures. He wore their success and failures as a badge of honor.
But he also knew it was time to be free. Not free to run away and ignore his boys. But free to finally chase his whims, his dreams, his desires.
And that's what led him to Puerto Escondido. One of the untapped gems of Mexico, it boasted one of the best surf spots and a growing population of tourists looking to avoid the meat-markets like Cabo. Puerto Escondido offered a simplistic, throwback lifestyle, like Mexico used to be in the "Endless Summer" days.
But the dream didn't come easy -- or cheap. Aaron knew he'd need a nice chunk of change to buy something down south, probably more than normal, being a gringo and all.
So he worked, moonlighted, freelanced and something totally out of character, and honestly more like his dad, saved.
Half of what he made with his second, third and, sometimes, fourth jobs, went into the Elliott Ness account -- it was untouchable.
Two months after Nathan's high school graduation, Dante plopped $70,000 cash down on a cantina with an adjoining house.
Ten years after devising an escape to surf and sun, Dante was the proud owner of the Playa Cantina.
Dante picked up his board, rubbed more Sex Wax on it and tied the green leash to his right ankle. He walked across the sand and was greeted by the feel of bath-water warm ocean spreading around his feet and up to his knees.
Dante ran five or six steps away from the shore and flopped on his board as it slid across the next set of shorebreak waves.
He paddled out through the channel and took his spot in the lineup with the three other early risers, one of whom Dante knew. The other two looked like surf-trekkers, guys who roamed the globe in search of the dream wave.
Dante nodded to his company, spun his board and paddled to catch a promising swell.
Three hours and countless tube rides later, Dante was back on dry land. Sated, he sat on the beach, watched a few tourist girls frolic in the surf and made mental notes of items he needed to restock in the bar.
He would send Maria, his longest-tenured waitress and second in command, into town to replenish the the low stock while he took his siesta.