Finding Your Spot on the Wave
I became too comfortable. Too confident. Too sure of myself.
By the time we reached San Cristobal, I'd been traveling for months. I'd surfed the path with increasing grace—finding the right hostels, meeting the right people, stumbling into synchronicities that felt less like luck and more like confirmation that I was exactly where I needed to be.
I'd started to believe I was special. That the universe was taking care of me. That nothing could go wrong as long as I stayed in the flow.
And that's when Marco's face caught fire.
It happened at the hostel in San Cristobal. We were having a barbecue in the backyard—me, Marco, his friend from Italy, and three German girls we'd been trying to impress all evening. We'd had a few beers. The meat was grilling. Everyone was laughing about the awkward morning incident at the temescal ceremony, where we'd been told off by the shaman for trying to film the ritual.
I noticed the bottle of lighter fluid sitting by the grill.
I'd learned this trick at parties back in Europe. You take a mouthful of lighter fluid, hold it in your mouth mixed with air, and spray it over a flame. If you get the ratio right—enough air to create a spray, enough fuel to ignite—you can blow a massive fireball like a dragon.
The trick is knowing how much air to add. Too much air and there's not enough fuel to light. Too little air and the stream of lighter fluid stays liquid. And if the stream stays liquid, the flame can backtrack. It can follow the fuel back into your mouth.
But I'd done it a few times before. I knew what I was doing.
I wrapped a paper towel around a fork, doused it in lighter fluid, and lit it. Then I filled my mouth halfway with lighter fluid, looked at everyone to make sure they were watching, and sprayed.
The fireball was huge. Six feet tall. The girls screamed and giggled. The guys cheered. I felt like a fucking rock star.
The conversation moved on. We started eating. I didn't think anything of it.
But Marco had been watching. And Marco wanted to impress the girls too.
I turned around just in time to see him fill his mouth with lighter fluid.
"Marco, wait—"
But before I could finish the sentence, he sprayed.
And I watched in slow motion as the flame crept up the stream, igniting it before it left his mouth.
The fire exploded across his face like a bomb going off. Flames poured out of his mouth, spread to his cheeks, his forehead, his nose. His clothes caught fire. He was running around the backyard screaming, completely engulfed.
I ran at him and grabbed his face, tucking it into my chest. He spat the rest of the fuel onto me and it caught fire. I let go. His face was no longer burning, but it was steaming. The skin was peeling off. His eyebrows and eyelashes were gone. His lips were swollen and bloody. The first layer of skin on his cheeks, nose, and forehead had been burned away completely.
We crushed ice. Put it on his face. Called an ambulance.
He was moaning. Twitching. Delirious.
It could have been worse. We'd reacted quickly. But Marco was fucked.
The mood at the hospital was somber. We sat in the hallway smoking cigarettes, drinking beer, waiting for news.
I couldn't stop thinking about how easily everything could go wrong.
I'd been surfing this wave of serendipity across continents, feeling invincible. Feeling like the universe had my back. But the truth was simpler and darker: one wrong turn, one moment of carelessness, and the whole thing could collapse.
I'd been arrogant. Overconfident. I'd shown off with a dangerous trick, and someone I cared about had paid the price.
That night, lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, I had a vision.
It was a wave. A perfect wave. Enormous. Long. Tall. With every possible angle so it could be surfed from the very beginning to the most extreme Maverick-level barrel.
And on this wave, there were hundreds of surfers. Thousands. All surfing simultaneously.
But here's the thing: there was a specific place on that wave for each person. A unique spot determined by their skills, their potential, their archetypal position in life. And if everyone surfed their own spot—if everyone chose the angle that was actually right for them, not the one they thought they should be on—then everyone could surf the wave simultaneously without getting in each other's way.
Life would be joyous. Effortless. Graceful.
But because we're selfish beings who operate through ego, we rarely choose the right spot. Some people are overly ambitious and seek the deeper, steeper parts of the wave even though they're not capable of surfing at that level. Others are lazy and choose to surf the calmer sections when they could be riding something more challenging.
And as a result, we get in each other's way. We complicate each other's rides. We crash.
I'd been surfing someone else's wave. Trying to be the guy who does the dangerous trick. The guy who impresses the girls. The showman. The performer.
But that wasn't my spot.
And Marco, trying to imitate me, had crashed.
The question wasn't whether I could blow a fireball. The question was whether I should. Whether that was actually aligned with who I was and what I was here to do.
If I wanted to stay in the flow, I needed to be more humble. More thoughtful. More aware of the role I was playing and the impact I was having.
I needed to find my spot on the wave and stay there.
The next morning, we left early. Marco stayed behind with his friend Oscar. He was going to recover for a few days and then fly back to Italy. His trip—six months of traveling still ahead of him—was over.
I was leaving with Ingrid, one of the German girls. She was worried about her visa. It was expiring soon, and she wasn't sure if she'd be able to leave Mexico and then come back as a tourist. She was tall, lanky, wore glasses, had short hair. She was put together but also flustered. Her Spanish was better than mine, but she always seemed confused.
"I can understand maybe a third of what people are saying," I told her over coffee. "But I always get the gist of what's going on. You speak fluent Spanish and you're still worried. Just trust it. We'll cross the border. You'll be fine."
She didn't look convinced.
As we walked to the bus station, the door to the hostel opened. It was Oscar and Marco.
Marco's entire head was wrapped in gauze like a mummy. There were three small slits—two for his eyes, one for his nose. He couldn't speak.
Oscar looked exhausted.
"It was pretty bad," he said. "They operated on him for a couple of hours last night. Shaved skin from his thighs and grafted it onto his face. By the time we got to the hospital his face had swollen so much they were afraid he wouldn't be able to breathe. But he's lucky. The burns weren't as severe as they could have been. He'll heal. But he's going back to Italy."
We stood there in silence.
"Safe travels," Oscar finally said, hugging me. "And be careful with that camera from now on. Don't stick it in people's faces without permission, especially if they're shamans doing sacred rituals."
I laughed. It was a relief to laugh.
"Take care of Marco," I said.
The door closed. Ingrid and I walked out into the cold, humid morning air. The sun was just about to rise. The sky was bright enough to see the silhouettes of clouds hugging the tops of the surrounding hills.
The bus to the border was a few hours. I fell asleep immediately. I hadn't really slept the night before.
When we arrived at the border, it was hot and dusty. I didn't have my sunglasses, and stepping off the bus after three hours of sleep felt harsh. I looked disheveled. Disoriented. Unshaven. My hair had fallen out of its ponytail.
We were supposed to take our bags, walk across the border, get our passports stamped, and get back on the bus on the other side.
I walked to the kiosk with the border official. He looked at my passport. Stamped it. Let me pass.
It was simpler than I'd imagined.
Ingrid was behind me. She'd been biting her nails in line, looking guilty as fuck. I'd given her a dirty look earlier, trying to tell her: Stop looking so nervous. You're waving a flag.
She lowered her hand, but she still looked anxious.
I stepped into Guatemala and took my backpack off, trying to organize some of my stuff. The official didn't seem to be scrutinizing anyone's paperwork. I assumed Ingrid would get through just as quickly.
But ten minutes later, she was still at the kiosk. And she looked frustrated.
I walked back over. She was sweating. The government official had an unsympathetic look on his face.
"What's going on?" I asked.
Ingrid explained that she couldn't get a clear answer from him. She didn't want to cross the border unless she could ensure that she'd be able to come back into Mexico in a week.
I turned to the official.
"If she leaves now and gets a stamp on her passport, can she return as a tourist in a week?"
"Of course," he said, looking bored.
I looked at Ingrid. "See? No problem. What's the issue?"
She still looked worried.
"But what if—"
"Ingrid," I said. "He just told you it's fine. You're overthinking this. Let's go."
She hesitated. Then nodded. Got her stamp. We crossed into Guatemala.
Looking back now, from 2002, I realize Guatemala was a turning point.
Not because of what happened there—though we'd have our share of adventures in Antigua and at Lake Atitlán—but because of what I learned in San Cristobal before we arrived.
The wave metaphor stayed with me. It became a guiding principle.
Because here's the thing: serendipity is real. Flow is real. The universe does seem to conspire in your favor when you're aligned with your purpose.
But alignment isn't the same as arrogance. It's not about being special or invincible. It's about being humble enough to recognize your actual role in the larger pattern.
It's about finding your spot on the wave—not the spot you think you should be on, not the spot that looks most impressive, but the spot that's actually yours—and surfing it with grace.
Because when you're in your spot, you don't crash. You don't burn anyone's face off. You don't get in people's way.
You just ride.
And everyone else gets to ride too.
That's what Guatemala taught me.
That's what Marco's wrapped face and Oscar's tired eyes and Ingrid's anxiety at the border all pointed to.
The journey wasn't about proving I could surf the biggest wave. It was about finding my wave. My angle. My unique path through the chaos.
And once I found it, staying there. Even when it looked boring. Even when it wasn't impressive. Even when no one was watching.
Because that's where the real magic happens.
Not in the fireball. But in the humility to know when not to blow one.