The dust, the warm, heavy air, the swarming flies, the road’s pebbles catching between heal and thong with each step, Chris’ freshly half barbered, half butchered face breaking into some awful rash, none of it matters, not one iota. The first view of Barra de la Cruz as we pass over the final crest and down into the bay, you could be facing execution and still be aware of one thing only; how perfect is this place?
Every surfer’s cartoon scribbles have transformed to reality, wave paradise is unfolding before us. A beach shack laden with hammocks from every available post spills on to the sand, surfers waxing up in its shade then jogging up the point. To the right, a headland covered in earth brown boulders drops into the…
