It was our first day in Mexico. Hanna Scott, Nate Laverty, Marcus Paladino and I had all fallen victim to the winter blues, and pulled the trigger on a last minute strike to find solace from the dreariness that had set in at home. I had been to this infamous stretch of black sand a few times in the past, and sampled the bone-crunching tubes that it has become synonymous with, but for the rest of the gang it was their maiden voyage.

We stepped off the plane just as the final gasp of the southern hemisphere swell season was making its way up the coast, and the opening three days served as a stern initiation to our new locale. We’d wake up in the dark and sip coffee as the roosters crowed, then paddle out when the first rays of the morning sun would peak over the palm trees, glistening on the wave’s detonating lips. The chill in the air that often grips Mexican mornings was absent, and the temperature even at 7:00 AM was mild and comfortable. Hanna and I surfed from dawn until around noon, at which point the wind began tearing apart the lineup and quickly signifying the end. My body struggled to cope with the lack of rubber. Rashes formed instantly and the sun’s relentlessness proved to be more than what my winterized skin was prepared for. It felt as though the majority of the sessions were spent paddling against the vicious currents and looking at the inside of perfect cylinders without much luck of actually being inside of them.

“She asked please don’t feed the puppies in the house, because then they will keep coming back and she doesn't want them here.” Gabriela, the woman who managed the accommodations relayed to us in broken english her boss’s wishes. There had been a litter of strays found in the abandoned lot next door, and though their mother was still with them, we were told that two had already been hit by a car and the chances of survival for the couple that remained were bleak. Nate had taken to feeding and playing with them, and making sure that they did not succumb to the same fate of their siblings. “Chubbs" and “Runty”, he had aptly dubbed them.

“Maybe tomorrow” we’d reassure ourselves, grasping at any shred of hope the swell forecast offered, trying to stay positive and keep morale from entering the cellar. “Sunday looks good man, big barrels amigo!” The fella that exchanged our water jugs down the street was a surfer, and he too seemed optimistic that things would improve. He told us of his escapades in the giant summer surf, and pointed to ridiculously pinned out 9’6’’s and 10’0’’s that dotted his wall and sat in various heaps in the back yard. I got mild anxiety just thinking about carrying one of those down the beach and imagining trying to pilot it through the menacing shore break on such days. This place is humbling enough at 6 feet, let alone 12-15.

As the the trip progressed, it began to feel like groundhog day. Our days were etched with the same regime, surfing all morning until the onshore winds mounted, then lounging around by the pool in the front yard of the house, noses buried in books, peeking at Instagram feeds, or watching the clips from the morning’s take. Then after sundown, we’d head into a town about 15 minutes away from our beachfront abode, hitting the same little family run taco stand each time, and gluttonously stuffing our faces because they were so damn delicious.

“Dude, you know you're not supposed to do that. They are going to be so pissed if they see the puppies here.” I may have been a tad heartless in my scolding of Nate’s soft spot for the canines, but I wanted to respect our host’s wishes. “Just go next door with the food.” I added.

“I’m just going to keep feeding them here and then take them home with us. Problem solved.” Nate countered In a calm, matter of fact tone as if already rehearsed.

I balked, and didn’t for a second accept it with any sincerity. But, true to his word, he was immediately on the phone with friends back home who had gone through the puppy adoption process, and was getting the lowdown on the necessary documentation and vaccinations to do so.

It wasn't until the tenth morning of our mission, only two days before boarding flights back to the storms and power outages that had been plaguing Vancouver Island during our absence, that we finally got a taste of what we had truly come looking for.

The much talked about swell had filled in overnight, and at daybreak we were greeted with gorgeous yet thunderously powerful peaks. The swell angle had changed a bit too, and this had all but eliminated the crazy rips that had vexed us throughout the previous swell. The water colour flipped from is usual sand-churning brown into a beautiful and translucent emerald green, and only half a dozen other surfers floated amidst the giant playing field of endless a-frame peaks.

It was astonishing to see how dramatically different the same stretch of sand could be in such a short time. At first I was frantic, paddling around like a chicken with its head cut off, chasing after every little bump that moved and finding more frustration than elation. “You’ve just got to sit and be patient out here, eventually one will come to you.” My friend Nils Schweizer had flown down from his native Florida for the swell, and delivered this wisdom to me between getting spat out of tubes as if he were Master Yoda and I young Skywalker. I relaxed, and attempted to put his preaching into practice. Nils had spent the majority or the last decade at this beach, shacked up with a local girl and either waiting patiently for big swells or doing quick runs back home to work, and pad the wallet for his impending return.

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Nate was at the wheel, swerving frantically through the cobblestone streets of Tecoman. We were in the final hour of trying to find a veterinarian to implore the vaccines and “puppy-passports” needed for them to return home with us the following morning.

By some small miracle, we stumbled across a bright pink building with a privately owned veterinary practice and small pet shop inside. The man running the clinic didn't speak much english, but with the help of Google-Translate we were able to both convey our message and also convince him to back-date the vaccination papers a couple of weeks, which was imperative for their Canadian escape.

We were nearly late for our plane the next day. Nate’s stomach was disagreeing with his breakfast, and while Marcus and I waddled to the terminal toting board bags, camera gear, and a crate housing our new pups, Nate threw up a vile and chunky-looking pink liquid from the driver’s side door of the rental car. As I returned to help with the remaining bags and coax him into the airport before we missed our departing flights, a saleswoman came to inspect our vehicle for dents and other damages. We watched with a sly anticipation as she strode right through a puddle of Nate’s vomit, her pointed heals piercing the moat of regurgitated Pepto-bismol that surrounded the side of the vehicle. We scuttled off quickly, our tails between our legs.

Back in Vancouver, Nate gleefully depicted to the customs officials of how the two tiny dogs came into our possession. He and Marcus explained (with a few perhaps slightly embellished truths) the series of events which brought them here, and just like that, Chubbs and Runty became landed immigrants.

As we all bounded through the domestic terminal en route to our final connection home, I felt an overwhelming happiness. The waves alone on those closing days would have seen us back in high spirits, but to return with two furry friends in tow was an experience unparalleled even by the pumping surf. I scorned myself for the initial reservation towards having them at the house, but was thankful that Nate was so adamant in their adoption, even after they had pissed all over my belongings on the car ride back home.

Various images/footage from this trip were utilized for Surfing Life Magazine, Transition, Vans, and B3NTH.