The next day in San Sebastian we tackled La Bufa, a mountaintop lookout accessible by a mostly one-ish lane dirt and cobblestone road. Straight up, tires spinning, blind curve fun. When I rent cars it is almost always the tiniest cheapest thing they’ve got. We grabbed a Bronco for this trip instead, paid the insurance, and went looking for trouble.

It was well worth the effort. The views were fantastic from 8,900′. We could see all the way to the boat, and the curve of Banderas Bay as it stretched away from us. These are the mountains that act as hurricane protection for Puerto Vallarta.

All that climbing and it looked like we could toss a rock back down on top of San Sebastian. We could see clearly the plaza we’d been sitting in the day before.

There’s a tiny village inexplicably located halfway up the mountain. We detoured to have a look at the old church and ended up buying some arroz con leche from an old man across the street who waits patiently for people like us to come through town.

The ride down the hill was wild. We had gone up pretty early in the morning, so we only saw one or two other people making their way up. But by the time we left to go down again, some tours had started up. Pickup trucks filled with families sitting on benches in the back. That was normal enough, but the craziness was watching locals make their way up in old, battered, bald tired cars. They just put the gas on the floor and went for it. When we thought we had seen it all, up came a huge garbage truck blasting his horn the whole way so you could find a spot to pull over enough to let him squeeze by without him taking his foot off the gas. Cobblestones were flying off of his wheels in every direction.

Good sized rattler wasn’t too happy with us for shooing him out of his spot in the sun so we could drive past. Even in the safe confines of the truck, there were some squeals when he turned his head back on us.

By nightfall we were back on the boat and slipping back into our routine, which lately has consisted of an after-dinner surf session with the neighbors. The kids go until well after dark, then rinse off the salt with a swim in the resort pool. I remember when I was their age I visited family on the west coast and bought a surf magazine. I think I spent two years thumbing through that magazine wishing I lived that life. Now my kids get to live it. I wonder sometimes if they secretly dream of a suburban Minnesota life and year-round ice hockey but just don’t tell me.