We had only one reason for taking a trip to Las Flores, El Salvador, last June. It wasn’t the country’s abundant righthand points. It wasn’t frustration with Virginia Beach’s summertime flatness. It wasn’t fleeing persecution for all the bad things we’ve collectively done at The Block over the years. It was this: Duh Joe (aka Joe LaMontagne) was getting hitched! So nine boozehounds from the Eastside’s biggest liquor store with a zip code (Virginia Beach, VA) embarked on a voyage that featured all the elements of a reality TV show like The Real World or Wipeout: alcohol, a bunch of bronzed dudes in tight quarters, alcohol, a bat, overhead waves, alcohol, and most importantly, Duh Joe himself. Composing the rest of the clan were trip captain Chris “Topher” Todd, Marc “Bat” Manlove, Robert “The Self-Proclaimed Bertster” Temple, Chip “Howard The Duck” Clark, Rocky “The Rock Ness Monster” Parr, Granger “Stranger” Clark, my brother Scott “The Point Grinder” Schirmer, and myself, “The Knee High Ripper.”

When you’re from Virginia Beach, you don’t argue your bequeathed nickname, or you’ll be given a new one that’s much worse. You just have to learn to live with it.

For most people, the easiest part of a surf trip is getting to the airport… well, not us. When you throw nine drunks together in a town full of bars (Washington D.C.), you end up with problems. What should have been a nice, relaxing night of going to a Washington Nationals vs. New York Mets game turned into a couple bottles of Patron and George Dickel on top of several plastic bottles of stadium-chilled Bud heavies. Inevitably, 3:00 a.m. rolls around pretty quickly, and the wake-up call hits harder than Sweet Pea Whitaker in his prime. Somehow, we made it to the TACA Airlines counter for our 5:00 a.m. flight, where Duh Joe himself was nearly turned away for reeking of straight tequila. The agent eventually let him on, though the rest of us felt deeply sorry for whoever had to sit next to him on the plane — a sweat-and-cig-reeking, snoring beer fart.

Our drivers from Las Flores Surf Camp met us at San Salvador Airport with big smiles and shakas. The two-hour drive gave us more time to catch up on sleep. I awoke in Cuco, a small, underdeveloped fishing town that sits on the ocean south of Las Flores, where some truly world-class righthand points awaited. The first one we pulled up to was pumping — way overhead, sheet glass, and a single kneeboarder out. Screw unpacking, forget the sunscreen, scrape off that old wax later... and hangover? What hangover?

Two hours later, I realized I had done more turns than I had in the last six months in VB. Paddling 200 yards up a point is a way better workout than any gym could offer. But between the previous night’s imbibing and the 90-degree water here, dehydration was imminent. Round Two would have to wait for us to eat, drink, and get settled into the camp, which is the ultimate setup: incredible accommodations and service right in front of the Las Flores pointbreak, three boats to take you to the other points, wireless internet around the entire property to keep you in tune with the swell forecast, a chef cooking three tantalizing meals a day, and Francisco the Barkeep’s fully stocked bar to keep our livers cursing us throughout our stay!

To say we had timed it good would be a profane understatement. A fresh Southern Hemi had just filled in that morning and the forecast called for six-foot-plus over the next three days. We took the first boat of the morning to Punta Mango, another hollow, rippable right point 20 minutes or so from the camp. “I surfed for five hours” is a claim that’s thrown around pretty loosely these days. I mean, really, when’s the last time you actually surfed for five hours straight? Well, this time, we surfed for five hours straight. I struggled to pull my fat ass back on the boat when all was said and done.

To make a long story short, this was our routine for seven days in a row: surfing ten hours a day, followed by cold beer, pool dips, and chill time at night. All for one single purpose: to send our bud Duh Joe off to the Land of the Married with one overpoweringly fond memory of his final days as a sinning surf bachelor from the Old Dominion State.

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