Having recently returned from a trip to Mexico, I had planned to share the whole experience with you in one concise article. As I was writing, it became clear the whole story was going to run long, so I’ve broken it down into a mini-series for your reading pleasure. Here is Part 3..

The second and third days were a little more mild, and only the true hardcore party animals were able to continue partying and drinking at such a fervent pace.

To escape the madness, I joined a small group of guys on a day trip to a little-known seaside village, which was reputed as a good surfing spot. We rented our boards — $20 for the whole day — and I was excited about my first surfing experience, maybe even a little cocky as we waxed up our boards and charged into the waves.

The next moments were a blur of pain, confusion and frustration as the waves — no doubt pathetic by real surfer standards — battered me like a rag doll in a washing machine. Again and again I tried desperately to paddle out to where the biggest waves were breaking, but I was repeatedly bashed off my board and ground against the sharp rocks covering the ocean floor. Bleeding and gasping for air, I sheepishly retreated to the ‘learner’ area, where the waves were far less vicious. Here, after several hours or practice, I managed to ride waves on my knees for awhile, and even got to my feet for a moment or two before tumbling back into the churning Pacific.

Exhausted and mentally beaten, we retreated to a small sea-side ‘restaurant’ which consisted of a few rickety tables under a thatch roof. Apparently the establishment employed half-a-dozen stray dogs to clean up after guests who dropped food on the dirt floor. After enjoying some half-cooked octopus and a few Coronas, we returned to the ocean with renewed courage.

The waves were a little milder after lunch, and I began to feel like I was making real progress — until a 10-year-old boy on a shortboard went ripping by, carving back and forth through the waves with the greatest of ease. He even did a handstand as he went by to assert his superiority over our sorry group of surfing newbies.

By the time we had finished ‘shredding’ for the day, I had learned a valuable lesson about a painful affliction surfers call ‘board rash.’ My stomach had been rubbed raw and was seeping blood, my nipples had been reduced to burning red scabs, and my feet looked like they had just stomped across a mile of broken glass. And I’m not even counting all the unknown internal injuries I surely sustained.

All this suffering, and I had yet to conquer a single wave.

But rest assured Pacific Ocean, you haven’t seen the last of me.

Previous entries:

• Part 2: Offensive Speedos at the hotel pool party

• Part 1: Matrimonial mayhem in Mexico