"Hey, your friend is going to be the first person to die of rash guard!" Joked one of the crew of four southern California guys. They are driving all the way down on their surf trip. How far down? They didn't even know. Immediately I am reminded of my first significant trip to Mexico in 2001. Two guys, one truck, a 100 pound yellow Labrador, three surfboards on top, and a mission to make it all the way to Cozumel and back to San Francisco. But that is a whole other story, to be told at another time. Right now I am looking out to sea, black helicopters cruise north to south along the coastline. Is this a military operation? The hills surrounding coastal Michoacan are known for growing large quantities of marijuana each year, and for a moment I imagined that they were looking for plantations.

Looking down at my chest I check my wounds. Either I have extremely soft skin, or the shape of my ribcage forces my lower chest to rub against my board in a funny angle, or I put on too much wax, or I don't know what . . . because I have a sickeningly dreadful rash that has turned into deep wounds. They are right on the scars that always open up when I surf warm water breaks. With nothing more than a rashguard, one millimeter of buffer, my skin inevitably opens up again on the same spot each year, but this year has been worse. I chalk it up to all the paddling. Double and triple sessions each day, at least two hours minimum for each session -- it adds up! That is a lot of hours pressing down against my board, rubbing and making contact with the layer of holey wax constantly. So it may be time to take a few days off to heal these things. Sit directly in the sun and bake them dry. Tropical humid biomes do not serve as good healing conditions. And each time I go into the saltwater, the corrosive effects of this element dig into my cuts and make them deeper. What a knucklehead! I need to take better care of myself and avoid serious injuries, especially out here - hours from any serious help. I don't think they'll send the black 'copters to come get a gringo with a funky red holes in his chest.

Well, if ever there were a time to take a break on a surf trip, this would be it. Looking out to the point it looks like Florida: blue, brown, with a just a tiny bit of white. The last color is the indicator of the surf -- tiny. Let me put this together, this shouldn't be a hard deduction. It would be a good time to take my first break of the surf trip because of the festering wounds in my chest, the surf is pathetically small and dirty, and I am reading Thomas Pynchon's greatest novel, Gravity's Rainbow. Melting into the hammock out front of our cabana, I let the warm breeze stir my thoughts, then go back to WWII war-torn Europe, time travel via excellent fiction.

ER Harris