Mexico’s shore might feel like a secret that only those who pay careful attention know about. There are palm trees with surfboards hanging from them and the sun shining. You load up your board and get in the car, where the windows are down and the salt air sticks to your skin like a second shirt. There is a mood here. Old VW vans are parked next to decrepit surf shops, dogs are dozing in the shade, and wax is melting in your pocket before you even get to the ocean. This page.

Most people start their journey on the Pacific side. Puerto Escondido, Sayulita, and La Ticla are easy to say. Every place has a taste. Puerto’s Zicatela isn’t for the weak of heart; locals call it the “Mexican Pipeline” for a reason. Thundering barrels, wipeouts on the shore, and a lot of seaworthy gladiators. From the sand, it all looks like a movie, but this wave will quickly put you in your place. Even the finest surfers are careful and occasionally pick their days carefully.

Sayulita moves the pendulum in the other direction. Here, surf schools cover the beach, cheerful vacationers balance on soft-tops, and longboarders from long ago ride the same fun ankle-busters they’ve been surfing since the last El Niño surprise. It’s a terrific place to start. The Canadian who abandoned his tech job to surf full-time and the grandparents who surfed across glassy sets at sunrise are just two examples of stories.

When you come into La Punta, where the sands are nice and the mornings are quiet, you realize that crowds change everything. People who get up early get glassy waves, while people who come late have to avoid rogue SUP boards and grinning groms. Be patient, grasshopper. In Mexico, you don’t chase waves; they come to you.

Smaller communities south of the tourist throng offer something more subtle. Barra de la Cruz, where the bush practically consumes the beach, or San Agustinillo, sleepy and honest. You find coconut shrimp at a food stand, drink beer with strangers who feel like friends, and lose sight of time. There is no schedule; time here pours like syrup.

You hear stories about Baja’s wild waves. There are endless right points, dodgy desert campsites, and scorpions crawling beneath boards before morning. You could become lost and coated in dust, but stoke brings you back to the lineup. When night falls, you can count millions of stars.

Storms come out of nowhere. The weather in your area might change in a matter of minutes. In September, the southern swells became very strong. The roads get muddy, and flies swarm. You can only adapt, with your feet firmly planted on the ground and your eyes scanning the horizon for the next wall to ride.

One night, while you’re camping by the water and the embers of a dying fire crackle, an old man says to you, “Waves teach patience.” Also, Mexico. He could be right. Maybe the best waves aren’t measured in feet or seconds, but in the quiet, still moments that come between.

When you pack up weeks later, you realize that the real magic of Mexican surf isn’t necessarily the waves. It’s the time between sessions, the laughter in taco places after dark, the sound of boards piling on top of busses, and the way salt never really leaves your skin.

Now, every beach back home will seem a little quieter and less rowdy. But the wave song from Mexico stays in your head, murmuring softly till you come back.