Oaxacan Late-Drop
A last minute strike mission to my favorite place. Late April, 2025.
I have written about Oaxaca before. I have been there more times than some restaurants on my block. To feel its powerful, fierce, yet generous spirit is always special, and this time was no different. A swell approached, the forecast showed it, and I didn’t think much of it at first. A few short days before the swell was due, I realized that this was something I didn’t want to miss, and had to turn and go last-minute. I called friends new and old, pulled together a plan, bought a ticket, and was off. Late takeoffs are sometimes essential in surfing. That is the story of this trip.
I’ve been to Barra enough times to know exactly what to expect, and yet you still never know what to expect in surfing. What I never could have envisioned was the power and consistency of this swell—for three straight days, every five minutes, a 12-foot set would rage nonstop for fifteen minutes. I have never seen such a sustained, constant unloading of energy. To make the most, our group, which consisted of Myles Freeh, a staunch power surfer from the Central coast of CA, his brother Taylor, and me, had to put in the hard yards—driving away from the swell, or paddling out in between sets to pick waves off the inside. We heard from our friends, who had also travelled to the area for the same swell, of epic sessions going down at places we weren’t. We pulled up to epic waves at one spot, life changers maybe, but the view from the cliff was unsettling. We were a long way off, and only had pro surfers as a size and skill reference, but all the other elements of the lineup looked death-defying--heinous current, wide closeout sets, rocks and shorebreak thicker than it was tall on the inside. That said, some of the waves coming through were perfect. It made my empty stomach twist and my exhausted brain couldn’t imagine the session going successfully, so we drove away without surfing, imagining what could’ve been.
Our only other option was to hit the road. We hired Johnny, a dear friend of our group and un chaffero profesional, and we hit the road hard. Johnny made the hour-plus commutes to other pointbreaks significantly shorter and more exciting, but it didn’t make the waves any better when we arrived. One road trip found us watching and waiting for the howling onshore wind to switch, then haggling with the mute local ATV driver, only to yield side-chop novelty with all of our friends and more. It was fun to feel the camaraderie, but it was not the waves we came for. On our other mission, we pulled up to an unsurfable mess. The hongos we ate in the car had us rolling in the shorebreak until we noticed the waves improving. Did that one just spit? A rare inner sandbar came to life, but only for brief moments on the biggest bombing sets. I caught one good wave in an hour of work. Getting a good one was not easy no matter where we went or what we did.
By the third day it seemed that our expectations would get the better of us, and that the swell would never fade. We thought we may be defeated. That’s when we did the only thing we could at that juncture—we said ‘fuck it’ and sat at Barra from sunrise to sunset. Sitting under the palapas, watching the waves pulse through, we started to understand the rhythms of the tides and sets, and found windows where we could jump into the river of current and snatch a fun one between bombs. Our efforts and miles of paddling started to yield some results, and fun waves were had. Eventually, later that day as we sat eating tortas and shooting mezcal, we noticed the sets starting to weaken and wane. The wind swung more offshore. The tide settled right where you would want it.
Suddenly, it was on and we were paddling again, coughing against the mezcal and quesadilla-induced heartburn, shoulders feeling sinewy and strong from the past few days of torture. The waves we caught were more than just fun, they were good. Tall and sharp-lipped and hitting the bar just right, I dialed in the rhythm of air-drop, slow bottom turn, kick-stall, wait for the umbrella, and then point and shoot for the exit. The waves were big enough to need a step-up, but in a moment of hazy indecision that morning, I had grabbed my self-shaped 5’7 quad instead. The extra foam it packed turned out to be what I needed most to push through steep drops and doggy doors. The session was an unexpected score, and we realized that we were in for something even more special the next morning, as the conditions would be very similar to that evening.
We rose in the dark, and without much preparation were strolling the dusty streets in the grey of dawn, barely awake or hydrated. The waves, as expected, were firing. The biggest sets were now manageable size, and were detonating at the top of the point just right. The smaller waves were reeling through the inside bar that had been groomed by the endless sets of the big days, growing taller and hollower as they went. The handful of us that were out there at sunrise found the waves perfect inside and out. The Atwoods got standup tubes, 10 point rides, on the outside past the rock, but Myles and I knew the inside was where we wanted to be on our little quads. I pulled through section after section, whipping in kickstalls, dragging arms, and pumping through the running end closeout. The pair of fins on the inside rail of my quad bit the wall of the wave, letting me ride high through the barrel, shooting me through each section with more and more speed. Each time I reached the beach, I felt more satisfied. Everybody got equally tubed and worked, and came in stoked.
Again, we leave Oaxaca thankful. Thankful to be home safe, to have gotten what we came for, and that it will persist, it will continue to liven up our lives in the future. Each time we return, we learn and experience new things, even at familiar places, and deepen our connection to a rich and powerful place. Oaxaca will endure, its power never fading or changing, even as it changes us each time we visit. All of us, the itinerant motley crew who return to Barra year after sweltering year are in search of something—a stroll down a dirt road in the moonlight, sunset beers under the palapa with friends, or sand-sucking barrels. For us pale interlopers, alien to this land, these simple pleasures must be earned. Whether it’s pesos dropped on the table or sweat under the flaming Oaxacan sun, she does not give up her jewels easily. If you’re tough enough to withstand the trials; the burning sand and thorns under your feet, manic car rides through the twisting highway, and the relentless sweep of current, you may announce your wishes with dignity and respect, and they may be granted. That is the story of this trip.
