When I received a reprimanding email from an older concerned traveling surfer for publishing photos on the Internet of a certain spot on the Pacific mainland of Mexico, should I have been worried? Should I have worried that the Mexican locals, who are now apparently Internet savvy, would whip my ass for publishing photos on a rinky-dink surfing photo website? Have I ruined my welcome to this pristine spot by sharing some photos of me and my buds tearing up a few warm Mexican peelers? All I did was name the spot. I mean, cripes, I was only there with at least thirty other surfers from all over the globe. I’m afraid the precious "secret" was way out on this spot. So why do I feel ostracized for running the photos?

It appears that some of the old school traveling surfers still feel the need for secrecy. The need for cloak and dagger intimacy. The need for a close-knit web of traveling surfers that allow only a few to know of the hallowed secret spots on a need be, need-to-know basis. And I totally agree. To a certain point. All I did was name the spot. I never said anything about how to get there. Let them figure it out on their own, like I had to do. This spot was the most consistent spot along the entire Pacific mainland coast that we traveled along last winter. It was overrun with good-natured folks from all over the world. From Israel to South Africa. From Australia to England. From California to Texas to Florida. We were all there for one thing: to catch some consistent warm water waves on our own little separate vacations. The line-ups were friendly and arguing over waves was at a minimum. We all just got along, in and out of the water. Just give the local Mexican surfers their quota of waves and everything was fine.

The spot had even recently been upgraded. New palapas were popping up everywhere as the surf camp was growing to fill the need of the influx of spot knowledgeable surfers. The freakin’ Secretary of Tourism of the state we were in even paid a visit to oversee the set up of the new short wave radio for the little upstart village/surf camp. The antenna was being put up right next to a pole that held up the palapa where my tent was resting. If anything, the locals were applauding the influx of tourism and wanted more people to come to their little corner of the world. The tourism pesos the surfers brought in totally bolstered the local economy. There was electricity and running water. There were actually restaurants, bathrooms and showers that were built for the growing surf camp. With the new short wave radio, banditos would steer clear of the surf camp for fear of a run in with the local policia. Up the hill in town some local Mexican wahines had even opened a restaurant to feed the traveling surfers. I even met up with a friend who had recently moved into town. Moved into that little Mexican village to live there, for good. So what did I have to worry about?

Upsetting the old school, I suppose. Back in the day, you had to walk a couple of miles down a dirt path to get to this spot. The surf camp, if you could call it that, consisted of some run down palapas, a well, and one lovely lady (who still resides there) who would cook your meals over an open fire for a mere pittance. There was no electricity, gas or running water. The line-up was empty and you could surf any wave you wanted. You could kick back with the knowledge that you were one of the few who knew about this spot. You could revel in the fact that you were one of the few that got to enjoy this hidden point break treasure. Back in the day, it was indeed a treasured outback secret.

But this is not back in the day. The secret is unfortunately way out on this spot. El gato is out of the bag. You can now drive and park right next to your palapa. You can now take a shower under hot water. You can now take a crap in the comfort of your own private stall. You can now walk thirty yards from your palapa to a restaurant where they will cook you a delectable lobster dinner for about 70 pesos (about 7 U.S. dollars) and order an ice-cold cerveza (from electric refrigeration). You can now plug in your jam box and crank up some good tunes. Gone are the days of hiking in, crapping in the palm orchid, cooking your food over an open fire and showering with a bucket from the well. And unfortunately, gone are the days of the empty line-ups.

So why did this guy try and make me feel guilty for running the name of a once secret spot? Why did this guy try and scare me with stories of locals destroying cameras and film of photos of that illustrious location? Why had he tried to spook me with stories of knife wielding angry locals chasing away camera toting tourists? Why had he tried to warn me of wearing out my welcome to a far away outback, secret spot? Why? Because he hadn’t been there in a while. Back in the day, I wouldn’t have dreamed of revealing any information on such a pristine secret break. So I didn’t. But the secret is out now and the flood of tourism has started. Such is the case with many "secret" spots along the Pacific mainland of Mexico as the word gets out to a whole world full of hungry traveling surfers.

So I apologize to the old school (which I am probably now a member of) for revealing the name of the spot where my buds and I had a blast tearing up some warm Mexican peelers with a butt load of other surfers from all around this water covered rock we live on. I apologize for letting the word out on a little surfing photo webpage of the name of this sweet Mexican point break. So what’s the name and location of this hallowed Mexican surf spot? I’ll give you a hint. It’s in between Arizona and Guatemala along the Pacific mainland of Mexico. Figure it out.