Kids on a Mexican beach

“If I were ten I’d know the answer: there is no purpose, it’s just fun”. 

I sit on the porch of a rented casa in Troncones, on the beautiful Mazatlan coast in northwestern Mexico, and watch two boys playing in the breaking surf, some forty yards from where I sit. A puppy runs back and forth along the water line, wanting to play in the water but still unsure whether he’s a really surfer dawg.

There are three lines of breaking waves on this section of the beach, endless rolling whitecaps, maybe two feet high, sometimes double that. They thunder in with a predictable grace alone the beach and to wreak pretend storm surf crashes against the black craggy rocks that break up the beach monotony every 300 yards.

The boys are playing a game, focusing on the second line of waves. When the wave starts its break in front of them, they jump and turn, sometimes a full half-turn, sometimes just a slight twist. I’m not sure what the purpose of the game is, then realize if I were ten I’d know the answer: there is no purpose, it’s just fun.

I understand fun, I answer to the boys in my head, but do you know that on certain parts of the beach, under the water, surfacing maybe only at the lowest tide, there are rocks, some good size, all with sharp edges? If you’re not careful, you’ll land on one of those and get quite a bruise.
The boys answer they know about the rocks, their mom told them to be careful and they are. Quick, here comes another one!

I go into that surf every day, wading out past the middle breaking line. I go slowly, watching for the hidden dangers. A few steps then wait. Wait until the water goes rushing back to the sea fast enough to lower the water level and revel any lurking boulders. I’ve discovered quite a few rock clusters that way, but then I’m not a jumper or a twister. I enjoy the coolness of the water in the tropical springtime. If asked, I’d say I was enjoying myself. I would not say, I was just having fun.

So what happens between ten and sixty that changes the surf experience? Well, I’ve been around longer and I know some of the dangers life has up its sleeve and, more importantly, I know what to look for and how to behave to minimize the chances of getting hurt.

Second, if one of the boys hit the rock he’ll feel pain or yell and then look at his friend and laugh. Their mother will say a few words about how she asked them to be careful, but mostly she’ll focus on wiping the cut clean, bandaging it if needed and, after giving him a quick hug, ask if he’s OK.

If I hit that rock, I’d have a subdural hematoma that would persist well into the next month. I’d feel the pain longer, regardless of pharmaceuticals. And my mother wouldn’t be here to make it all better.

Boys playing — made me remember wooden blocks, the magic material that could become anything: a villain, a hero, a locomotive, a really fast sports car that, in my hands would win Monte Carlo, or rescue a trapped maiden, or catch up to and subdue a super-villain.

The wooden block cost range was in the pennies. Of course, it came labeled, “everything required.” If you wanted it to move, you provided the locomotion. Your lips provided the sound of its engine. Brrrmmm. Brrrmmm! Your imagination provided the surrounding context: jumping a mountain canyon, racing a train to an intersection, chasing an evil villain through the streets of Metropolis.

I don’t play with blocks any more. I don’t even have a block in my house unless you count the piece of 2x4 propping up the short leg of the kitchen table.

I do have a sport car. It costs more than a million pennies but it comes with it’s own engine and provides its own locomotion. And, of course, the sound is real.

I’ve said to people that I bought it because I enjoyed driving it.

But I wouldn’t call it fun.
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