A Party of Jackals

The guard at the gate leaned toward the Hyundai, shifted his eyes up to the boards strapped to the roof, and asked us to repeat ourselves: the names on our reservation, the circumstances of our arrival, and what our intentions might be should we be granted entry to the premises. Our driver put the car into neutral and turned up the air conditioning as we searched for answers. It wasn’t clear if this was standard protocol or if we looked a little feral compared to the clientele normally delivered to this specific doorstep. 

Past the guard post, the wall at the entryway to the Chileno Bay Resort, a five-star complex of guestrooms and villas tucked into the Bahía Chileno in the heart of the Cabo corridor, was high and stone and surrounded by immaculate desert landscaping—a barrier impossible to breach without the proper passcodes. Luckily, someone in our party managed to produce the correct series of response mechanisms, since, after posing a few additional challenges, the sentry waved us through, radioing the concierge to alert him of our arrival. 

Devon Howard, Cerritos-based ripper Martín Olea, photographer Mark Kronemeyer, TSJ creative director Scott Hulet, and I were met at the curb by a procession of hostesses bearing hot towels and tubs of ice filled with Bohemia Clara. At check-in, we explained, again, that we’d been invited by the resort to sample its newly minted catamaran-based surf charter service, an offering that we might (or might not) know how to evaluate. It was the type of junket that would have perked Dora’s interest, an angle of opportunity delivered by fortune (and maybe guile) to live far above our normal stations as jackals. 

The first afternoon, I found a member of our party by the infinity pool, wearing a terry cloth robe, house slippers, and a pair of Ray-Bans, wandering around, seemingly unsure of how best to revel in the opulence. Along the white-sand cove, a mixologist stood within an appointed café, expertly walking a sleek couple through an intricate mezcal tasting while their progeny flocked in the waters, piloting resort-issued foil boards and jet-powered Seabobs. Offshore, an obsidian yacht, reminiscent of an Imperial frigate from Star Wars, motored into the cove and dropped anchor. 

“Russian oligarch vibes,” I said.

“Don’t worry—that’s not your ride,” a member of the staff clarified. 

We were shuttled by Escalade to the Puerto Los Cabos the next morning and watched as baggage handlers loaded our kit onto a speedboat. Once offshore, Devon and Hulet sat in the bow and pointed out East Cape landmarks: the runner that Herbie Fletcher liked to frequent during videography sessions; Wai-Mesa, the big-wave spot favored by Mike Doyle and Jeff King; the Tetas de Cabras, an ancient series of arid peaks, which, rising inland, in fact looked exactly like their namesakes. 

The catamaran, a 52-foot sailboat, was cruising a few miles up the coast, and, after a transfer of gear and personnel from one gunwale to another, we arrived at Nine Palms around midmorning. The surf was head high, glassy, lazy, and crowded. We jumped over the rail and Devon and Martín worked the scrum, picking off sets until someone sent word that it was time to pull anchor. We ate a five-course sushi progression that night at the resort, the fish washed down by bottles of filtered and unfiltered sake. 

The next morning, we were told we’d forgo a second excursion by sea and instead were rolled through the gates in another motorcade. It was a frosty and constant 72 degrees in the interiors of the Escalades. In the trunks, we had coolers full of fresh ice, cold beer, and sandwiches. None of us had lifted a finger to do anything that resembled a task in at least 48 hours.

We pulled onto the beach at La Fortuna. Wild donkeys nosed for food among the trucks parked above the high-tide line. One of the males, which had lost an eye to a cactus spine—leaving the orb deadened and milky—was lightly aggressive and had a reputation for biting. His hide was covered in half-radial scars from engaging in battle with his rivals. The waves were fun, warbly, smallish, and, again, crowded. The gleaming Escalades, lined up on the beach beside the rusting carapaces and KO2 tires of the rancho-style pickups, seemed somehow even more conspicuous than the catamaran had been at Nine Palms.

On the way back to the hotel, a coyote darted into the baking road ahead of us, chasing a small, verdant lizard. The pair circled each other in a rapid and deadly cyclone of pursuit and evasion for a fraction of a second, then the coyote feinted right, went left, and seized an angle. We all cheered as he snapped the lizard into his jaws and trotted off into the desert.

[Photo by Mark Kronemeyer]