As I walk into the terminal, Gen calls, she's just meeting Beth who has arrived with all her kit, and is going to the large objects check-in. The queue to check in is already full, so I join, wondering if I need a ticket, which prompts a check of the envelope of stuff that arrived a while back - yes, there are tickets there, and they seem to want Adam to be present as well at check-in! Fortunately he arrives in the nick of time, and we get a window and middle seat - he's only got 14.5 kg, could have brought the videocam! Our neighbours are impressed by my queueing for both of us and his timing of arrival - if only it were planned we'd be dangerous. The general mood is fairly amiable for a bunch of British queuers.The airside terminal doesn't seem crowded, and as we walk in they're already telling us to go to the gate - it's one of the ones in the middle of the airport, with the huge bridge spiriting us over planes and tarmac, right into the centre of the field. We don't seem to be waiting very long before it's time to board, right after I've gone back to get some water, of course. The only interesting thing that happens is one of the ground staff gets locked in on the 'plane, and the gantry pulls away, so we're delayed a few minutes while he is found a ladder or steps and climbs out and down. It's much further than you'd want to jump, and I realise I'd not considered this height before!
And the flight passes painlessly. Am I anesthetised? I read the Media Guardian, rattle off the Quick Crossword, mess with headphones and decide I don't care about Ricky Gervais' film character, before running aground on the rocks of the Cryptic Crossword. I pretend to occupy myself with this whilst taking pictures, eating dinner, chatting in a desultory fashion to seat-sharer Janet, ex-teacher and marriage guidance counsellor, traveller and widow of a year. I don't open my book, hurriedly selected by its reviews, or attempt to listen to ipod music. I do check the GPS on a plane, a first, and yes, we're doing 485mph at 35000 feet! Amazing. And the British OS grid doesn't have a reference for somewhere slightly north of the Canaries, which, when they appear, look pretty uninvitingly barren and dark-rocked, a black moonscape set in a tiny gold and white sand and surf strip.
Getting into Cabo we queue for a visa, because it seems we don't have one, even though I applied for one ages ago on the Thompson website. Nick the rep reckons he'll check for my email and we'll get a refund if he finds one. Right. But the best part is dealing with Beth's kit, which takes up lots of space and is pretty heavy, not to say unwieldy when going sideways across the terminal! It gets packed into the wrong coach before we end up putting it in the trailer behind the minibus for the short Djadsal Hotel trip. The rep takes some convincing, but the nylon straps are sufficiently credible for him to risk putting the boards on top of the luggage. OK room, put on shorts, walk to beach, discuss Gen's rental with Anna, strangely wild-eyed Portuguese girlfriend of windsurfing guy who should be running the booth but is currently elsewhere. Walk down beach to far end and Santa Maria, where we see a wedding party, or is it a carnival pre-event? We drink beer on a deck overlooking a chunky break - the waves just sit up and barrel, lovely lovely pleasing shape you want to ride but for the rocks and harbour wall! The sun sets, we talk about families, and Beth's mum's imminent wedding. Time for food - head back to an Italian-style place, pizza and beer. Huge pizza! Walk back along the causeway, Adam and I grace the upstairs bar for half an hour, then we retire. Tired!! It's 10.30, but really later. Tomorrow eh?
And the flight passes painlessly. Am I anesthetised? I read the Media Guardian, rattle off the Quick Crossword, mess with headphones and decide I don't care about Ricky Gervais' film character, before running aground on the rocks of the Cryptic Crossword. I pretend to occupy myself with this whilst taking pictures, eating dinner, chatting in a desultory fashion to seat-sharer Janet, ex-teacher and marriage guidance counsellor, traveller and widow of a year. I don't open my book, hurriedly selected by its reviews, or attempt to listen to ipod music. I do check the GPS on a plane, a first, and yes, we're doing 485mph at 35000 feet! Amazing. And the British OS grid doesn't have a reference for somewhere slightly north of the Canaries, which, when they appear, look pretty uninvitingly barren and dark-rocked, a black moonscape set in a tiny gold and white sand and surf strip.
Getting into Cabo we queue for a visa, because it seems we don't have one, even though I applied for one ages ago on the Thompson website. Nick the rep reckons he'll check for my email and we'll get a refund if he finds one. Right. But the best part is dealing with Beth's kit, which takes up lots of space and is pretty heavy, not to say unwieldy when going sideways across the terminal! It gets packed into the wrong coach before we end up putting it in the trailer behind the minibus for the short Djadsal Hotel trip. The rep takes some convincing, but the nylon straps are sufficiently credible for him to risk putting the boards on top of the luggage. OK room, put on shorts, walk to beach, discuss Gen's rental with Anna, strangely wild-eyed Portuguese girlfriend of windsurfing guy who should be running the booth but is currently elsewhere. Walk down beach to far end and Santa Maria, where we see a wedding party, or is it a carnival pre-event? We drink beer on a deck overlooking a chunky break - the waves just sit up and barrel, lovely lovely pleasing shape you want to ride but for the rocks and harbour wall! The sun sets, we talk about families, and Beth's mum's imminent wedding. Time for food - head back to an Italian-style place, pizza and beer. Huge pizza! Walk back along the causeway, Adam and I grace the upstairs bar for half an hour, then we retire. Tired!! It's 10.30, but really later. Tomorrow eh?
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