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I don’t know about you, but when I’m in Mexico’s mainland I find it damn near impossible to get hungover. And, believe me, I’ve tried. I’ve done the research on this subject.

Let’s take the other day, for example.

I got up at 6:00AM and walked down the beach with my surfboard to a boat, which was stocked with some fishing poles and a certain crusty drunk who I love to hang out with. We took this boat around an hour or so due north and surfed ourselves silly. By 9:30AM we were surfed out, tired and thirsty. With nothing left to do but fish for the rest of the day, we started drinking the 12 pack of Coronas he had in the boat’s hold. As I think I’ve said before, fishing and drinking are like shitting and reading—they just sort of happen together.

So anyway, by noon we’ve polished the 12-er. Now we’re sunburned, surfed out and half drunk.

So then we have to bring in the boat. In the little village that I frequent, this is no small feat—it ain’t like there’s a marina there. You time it, wait for a lull in the surf, then the (hopefully) sober driver guns the panga for the beach, drives the sumbitch right up on the sand. At that point, every uncle, primo, burro and abuelo in town rolls out of the woodwork to haul half a ton of fiberglass the rest of the way up out of the water with us.

To celebrate, we go to the bar, which is, conveniently, right next to us on the beach.

Tequila (Cuervo Tradicional, really nice and cheap, 100% agave and not bad at all when served chilled) and more beer ensues.

So now it’s somewhere between 1:00 and hell freezing over and we stumble up to the beach, back to my friend’s (the aforementioned lovable drunk) place, which happens to also be a bar, a swim-up one. Go figure.

So, to celebrate the fact that we made it that far, we decide to cool down with some more beer. Corona, with lime. Basically, en mi opinion, the only way to drink beer when the temp’s over 80º.

So now it’s around 2:00PM and I’m returning home to my wife and the room we so often frequent on the beach. Of course, she’s a little ticked at me for being pickled in the middle of the day, so I take her to lunch to quell the fire.

Lunch ensues. Along with a bottle of cheap, rotgut Chilean white wine (Gato Negro, don’t bother unless you’re in Mexico). Since I ate some salad with the wine, I feel the need to follow it up with a tequila. Gran Centenario repo. Good stuff, and cheap in the local tienda.

Allow me, for a second to segue.

Baja Rules (even though I’m not in Baja right now): When eating any questionable food in Mexico, follow said food with a shot of tequila and make sure to eat the hottest salsa you can find with the food. Keeps the bugs out and, if it ends up not keeping the blow-ass away, it will at least be an entertaining spell on the can.

OK. So where were we?

Oh yeah. So what time is it? Right. Let’s just say it’s now 4:00, because the waiter was also half-drunk.

So now we’ve gotta walk back to the beach and make preparations to watch the Big Event for the day: Sunset. Yeah, it’s 2 hours off, but style is important here. So we go back. Shit, there’s some shorebreak… gotta bodysurf….. hang on…

…big, gaping beachbreak tubes. Free chiropractic work…

… get out, drink some (bottled) water, maybe shower, maybe not. Find the appropriate beach chair and get it positioned. Make sure there are enough chairs for your friends. Head over to Pancho for another beer. Did I mention that the fridge is named Pancho? Well, reader, meet Pancho, Pancho, meet reader. Pancho keeps my surfboards company when I’m back home in the states. Shoot the shit with Hans, the dueño de la Posada. Head back to Pancho, stock up for the sunset.

Where are we now? I mean, are you keeping count? I’ve lost count. So help me out here.

So now it’s time for the Big Event. This takes an hour or so. Good conversation, more Corona with lime. A tequila cocktail (tequila with orange & pineapple juice) for the wife. A Green Flash if we’re lucky. Another day sizzles into the water with a hiss. A cigar. Cuban. Partida.

Now the games truly begin.

Dinner.

Tonight, my friend Hans and his wonderful partner Angie are cooking. Pasta with fresh camarones, right out of the water. White sauce, a whole head of garlic, manchengo cheese, white wine. Dinner ensues. There’s 4 of us, dinner lasts 3 hours. Together we solve all the world’s problems in conversation. We drink 3 bottles of rotgut Gato Negro and it tastes like heaven because the wine’s cold, you’re hot and the company is perfect.

Dinner adjourns. So we pour a round of Don Julio reposado and head out to the beach to look at the stars with another cigar. The women go to bed. Me and Hans take one for the team and pour another round of the Don so that we can solve more of the world’s problems. Problems are solved. Things are good. There’s classical music playing with the sound of the ocean behind it. The tequila has been in the freezer, so it’s nice and cold, sweating in your snifter. It’s 9:00 or 10:00pm and it’s 78º with just the breath of a breeze. Tequila has never, ever tasted so good. So we have 3 of them. Glasses, not bottles.

Have you been keeping count? I haven’t. Doesn’t matter. Thing is, after all this, I woke the next morning, stretched, shat, walked 75 steps and paddled out at sunrise to watch the sun crawl over the mountains and light up all the reef fish underneath me while I surfed.

It’s not as if I’d set out to get myself hammered. In fact, quite the contrary: these events just sort of naturally occurred during the course of a (really good) day. But if I had done all this at home in the states, I’d have been puking by mid-afternoon and would have had a turd — maybe mine, maybe someone else’s— in my board shorts by sunset. Instead, I never even felt off-balance. There was never even a point where I said to myself, “hey self: you’re hammered.” Not even “hey self, you’re feeling pretty buzzed.”

What gives? Don’t look to me for an answer. I don’t know it. I’m asking you: what gives?

(6 votes, average: 5 out of 5)

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