Surf trips abroad may be the reason any of us picked up a board in the first place. Forget the cold, sharky, foggy waters of San Francisco, and reach for your fav go-to shortboard and the elusive warm water wax. Not to mention the multi-colored Zinka, or as I call it, surf make-up. Now we are talkin, THIS is surfin, brah.



The dream is chalk full of hot surfer men, 6 a.m. mimosas, and wide open empty barrels that don’t incite your trademarked move, the tuna roll. You know the vision… palm trees, slight offshore breeze, the sun gleaming off of your oiled and bronzed skin.

Then the dream quickly turns into reality when you paddle your pasty white ass and “one-too-many microbrew” beer belly into a sea of 100 other dudes and dudettes who have the same.exact.dream. Okay, maybe wide open barrels and empty peaks are off the menu, but hot surfer dudes? Unavoidable, right? Well, maybe if you’re Carissa Moore or Bianca Valenti and trading set waves with the boys. As for me, I quickly get exiled to the “off-peak” with the geriatric club. Great. My best hope now is that the 70 and over crew goes to bed before the sun sets and I can catch a few before it’s dark.



And then once upon a time a year or so ago, my luck suddenly changed. You could call it a stroke of good luck. Or maybe little baby jesus had my back. Or maybe the universe was testing my dedication, because in a very short period of time, the peaks cleared and the waves picked up. And before you know it, there were just the two of us. My hunky surfer boyfriend and little ol’ me, on my favorite of all favorite peaks in a faraway land. I am going to omit the name of the break in hopes of being allowed back someday.

It was just like the dream on the plane. Small, Lindsey-friendly barrels. Trading waves as if there are millions that will just never end. This was gearing up to be the best day of my life.

But remember, in this dream and this reality, this story takes place in a faraway place. You know, the ones with the exotic food and… oh god. The exotic food. Perhaps I should have laid off of the street meat on my taxi to the hotel, because now, something is knockin’ on my back door and it ain’t my landlady. For the first time ever, I REALLY wish it was my landlady.

“Stay cool, Linds. Sweat it out. Tighten those cheeks. This is the best day of your life. You’ll never catch this break empty again.” But my exotic street meat was not listening to my motivational words. If you’re capable of sweating in cool 70 degree water, shit’s bad. Seriously bad. And, since it’s not my first case of the street-meat sweats, my boyfriend soon picked up on my precarious situation.

“Well you can’t leave now Linds. When are you going to have this peak empty again?” But what was the alternative? I couldn’t climb the rock-wall, and the beach was perched directly in front of a extremely nice resort/hotel. Well, he demonstrated the alternative, and all I can say is desperate times call for desperate measures.



I was going to describe the ins and outs of pooping over the side of your surfboard here, but I think I’m going to let you figure that one out on your own. All I can say is it’s a serious “dump and paddle and pray” situation. Followed by an hour of terror in which you think every leaf, stick, or fish is a turd coming back to haunt you.

But the flip side is, it’s WAY better than pooping on land. Like, way better. It’s like a gentle, mystical mermaid guides your excrement experience through a sea (literally a sea) of magic holy water. Relaxing, satisfying, liberating (followed by the aforementioned terror, of course). But, now I understand why babies poop in utero. I’d get one in while I had the chance too, before it’s not socially acceptable anymore. Good on you, baby. Overall, highly recommended. Just don’t do it while I’m in the water, or I’ll punch you in the jugular.