Cowabunga! Hop on and hang ten for a sunny, gnarly week of surf camp down Mexico way.
By Mark Borden

(FORTUNE Magazine) – Israel "Izzy" Paskowitz has surfed thousands of waves, but the one he remembers most clearly is his first. On a Corky Carroll longboard, the 6-year-old and his father paddled out tandem-style into the surf at Tourmaline Canyon in San Diego. "The sensation of going down that first wave," recalls Izzy, "I still feel it. My dad rode it all the way in, and for the first time in my short life, everything was perfect."

His dad is Dorian "Doc" Paskowitz, the 79-year-old surf legend and founder of the Paskowitz Surf Camp in San Clemente, Calif. Since 1972, Doc and his nine children have turned anyone with a yen for riding waves into a surfer. When it came time to select a successor, Doc found Izzy the obvious choice. "He's the most in love with surfing and the most beloved in the surfing community," says Doc, who still surfs regularly and instructs at the camp. "He was the world champion, and he wants to make his life in surfing."

When I meet the 37-year-old Izzy for my week of camp in Baja California, Mexico, he fits the quintessential image of a surfer: long hair, deep tan, slight Buddha belly. We talk over a couple of cervezas while waiting for another camper at the Los Cabos airport. In addition to the increasing number of business types--including Earthlink founder Sky Dayton--Izzy has taught rock stars Backstreet Boys, Sarah McLachlan, and the brothers Hanson.

"I get just as stoked watching someone ride their first wave as I do riding eight-foot Cloudbreak in Fiji," he says when I ask him why he does what he does. "I feed off it, and it's not just me--my instructors do too."

Calling the experience "camp" is slightly misleading. We share rooms, but that's where the hardship ends. Accommodations are in the deluxe El Presidente hotel in San Jose del Cabo, a half-hour from the spring-break hell of downtown Cabo San Lucas. Like a docked cruise ship, El Presidente includes all-you-can-eat meals in the room rate, as well as open bars. A good thing, since surfing six hours a day makes you hungry (and sore, which is where a steady supply of margaritas comes in).

On the first night, we get our only dose of local culture by attending a Mexican wrestling match in an open-air gymnasium. The ref in one match is a wrestler in another. It's surreal, but a good way to bond with the six other instructors--a scraggly, good-time group of current and former pro surfers who, before the evening is over, will have donned masks and entered the ring. No one ends up in jail, but the machine-gun-toting federales don't look amused.

Each morning the campers (an executive from Bay Area software manufacturer Barra, a novelist from Boston, a Vancouver retail-store owner, a San Clemente restaurateur, and a vice president from Morgan Stanley Dean Witter in New York) pack into a Suburban driven by Izzy. The first day we do dawn patrol, 6 a.m. The group is barely awake, but politely mumbles hello to one another.

Along with another SUV (carrying the staff) and a van (carrying the boards), we caravan to the day's surf spots. Driving along the dirt road on the beautiful, undeveloped eastern coast of Baja, we're treated to the bizarre spectacle of being in the West and seeing the sun rise over a body of water. We stop at classic surf breaks with names like Shipwreck's and Nine Palms and watch the waves roll in. The instructors have a limitless appetite for watching waves and mindsurfing each one. Typical conversations go as follows: "Whoa, check out that right." Long pause. "Dude, outside. Check out that massive left." Pause. "Awesome." By week's end, everyone's a wave junkie.

At the surf site, we're the only ones on the beach--except for a scrawny herd of cattle attracted to the big, red Suburban. The instructors get the boards and gear in order while the campers stretch and apply sunscreen. Each camper is assigned an instructor; as a writer for a national magazine with a million readers, I manage to snag Izzy. After some basic instruction on position, safety, and etiquette, he has me lie on the ten-foot board and practice popping into my stance. Ten reps later, Izzy thinks I'm ready. "Schweet," he says. "Let's surf."

Each of the perfect three-to five-footers breaks in roughly the same spot and slowly peels to the right for about 50 yards. Izzy points to where I'm supposed to drop in, then to the calm channel where the waves end, saying that's where I should paddle out. I head out with Izzy, who is wearing fins, swimming beside me.

As a wave approaches, Izzy angles the board with the direction of the wave and tells me to start paddling. It seems as if I'll never have enough speed to catch the wave, but at the last minute, Izzy--like a human outboard motor--pushes me into it. The added force provides the key seconds of glide time that I need to focus on standing up. (Later in the week I notice that some of the instructors on boards secure the inside, priority position on waves. They then allow the campers to drop in on them--normally a breach of etiquette--at the more crowded spots. This blocking dramatically increases the number of waves we catch.) Growing up in Southern California, I spent many frustrating days trying to surf before finally resorting to the infinitely less cool Boogie Board. Under Izzy's tutelage, I'm up and surfing on my first wave. Of course, many wipeouts follow, but so do many long, soulful rides.

My experience isn't unique. On the second day, I'm chatting with Izzy on the beach when he, Mr. Mellow Surf Guy, gets agitated. He's watching Lisa, the Barra software exec, repeatedly take off on a wave, stand up, and fall. Unable to bear it anymore, he grabs a board and paddles out to Lisa, telling her to hold the board's rails longer and to widen her stance. On her next attempt, she rides the wave to its end. I ask how she feels; her face lights into a huge smile. "Awesome!" she yells.

Perhaps the most remarkable change among the campers is not in their abilities but in their philosophies. People attracted to the idea of learning to surf in a week are typically type A. "At first they just rattle off the questions--'What time do we surf? When is dinner? Where are we going to go out?' " says Bernie, one of the instructors. "They slowly realize that we work around the tides, and other than that there's not a lot of scheduling."

On the final day of camp, I ride back to the hotel with another instructor, Scott. He's having a minor existential crisis about what he's going to do for money when camp is over. I'm in my own world, reliving the previous day when Kathleen (the Morgan Stanley VP) and I rode massive ten-foot waves. I snap out of my daze when he asks if I know what time of the month it is. ("Like, do you know if it's the beginning or the middle or the end?") This weird reality check is a slap in the face. Not only do I know what time of the month it is, I know the exact date, the time back home in New York, and whether the market is still open. Yet for one last moment, I cling to my temporary surfer lifestyle and lie, "You got me, dude."

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