LOCAL BOY MAKES GOOD by Jeri Greene
On the final day of the surfing contest, the clouds were thick and the air hung heavy in the tiny fishing village of Sayulita, Mexico. The crowd was hungry for some balls-out surfing. At least the waves were better than they’d been for the first two days. The waves had been so flat the master of ceremonies had to chatter on about Chuy, the local who was a tad overweight, just to keep the spectators amused.
“I bet three of us could fit inside a pair of Chuy’s swim trunks. Har! Har! Har!”
It’s true, Chuy didn’t fit the surfer mold. He didn’t have sun-bleached hair, puka shells, or flip-flops. He didn’t smoke reefer or listen to Bob Marley. Chuy was a family man who preferred Modelo. He stood five-feet high in his huaraches and was built like a tank. Although very strong, he was considered fat by surfer standards.
The emcee identified each contestant by the color of their shorts. It was the final heat with four surfers remaining—a guy in green, one in blue, another in yellow, and Chuy in the orange swim trunks. Just when they needed those last rides, the waves flattened out. Finally, a good set began to swell outside. The surfers turned instinctively and began paddling. Green and Blue battled for a wave, but Green edged out a spot in the tube. He hung on the nose for almost a full minute, riding the wave so far in he could almost step off, walk up the beach, and order a margarita. The crowd burst into applause. Four minutes left and still no Chuy. He had to catch a good ride to stay in the race.
His wife stood on the sand with their two children who were playing with the half-dozen friendly Chihuahuas owned by Señora Moreno. She watched as Chuy sat on his handmade surfboard, floating over powerless swells. Blue and Yellow made feeble attempts on waves that petered out too early. Giving up, they came ashore.
The emcee urged the crowd to clap for them, the heads of the contestants drooping in surfer shame. “Let’s give these boys some applause, people.”
With two minutes left, Chuy had his shot. He caught a beautiful wave and rode the crest effortlessly, looking svelte and graceful in the distance. Halfway in, he popped into a full on headstand, and rode it out like a damn circus performer. An air horn blared, signaling the end of the contest. Let me tell you, the crowd went nuts.
“Chuy! Chuy! Chuy!” they screamed.
He emerged from the water grinning ear-to-ear and high-fiving everyone in his path. Then he went straight over to his wife and gave her a big, wet squeeze.
That day fat Chuy became a hero in Sayulita, proving once again that size doesn’t matter.
