The Goodland Journal: Volume One

Tijuana, jumping on a five
hour flight, and driving two
more hours to the coast.
Happy as a clam, shooting
thousands of photos as my
friends traded barrels and
hooted and hollered out in
the ocean until the sun went
down.
Some celebratory beers
ensured, having made it
one piece and finding the
wave we were looking for.
The beers ran us $0.72 each,
cheaper than the drinking
water. The room had running
water that worked about
15% of the time and we
shared it with some of the
biggest hornets I’ve ever
seen, nests behind some of
the headboards and all, but
we didn’t mind.
We were happy to be far
from home and monotonous
day to day life back in the
States. Comfort is nice, but it
is also boring.
“Comfort is nice, but it is also boring.”
We were all on the beach
with boards in hand before
the sun was up that next
morning. We couldn’t see
the waves but we could
certainly hear them. As the
sky began to glow, sun still
hidden behind the horizon,
outlines of waves began
to reveal themselves. Big,
glassy, A-frames that ran a
few hundred yards before
spitting water from their
hollow tubes and finally
breaking on themselves.
Jaws on the ground, we all
looked at each other, not
sure what to do other than
laugh, scratch our heads,
and paddle out.
We surfed everyday
until our arms could no
longer keep up, swapping
barrels and smiles amongst
ourselves and the locals.
When the sun went down
we’d eat chicken and rice,
buy copious amounts of
cheap, cold beers, go to
bed, and do it all over again
- a great reminder of how
simple life really can be.
17 The Goodland Journal Volume One 18