When you find a place to camp at night you almost always wake in some ridiculous spot, and we did a good job of that:  we woke smack dab in the middle of the only town for miles and miles.  In the night a cold milky fog rolled off the ocean almost soaking my sleeping through, and, from the roof of The Buss, whenever the lighthouse flashed I could just barely make out a row of rectangular forms 30 or 40 feet away in the mist. 

Turns out the structures were fishing huts.   Oops.  The fishermen all set out in their little pagodas by 7:30am and returned by noon with their catches, and sold their catch to some men with pickup trucks before we got a chance to buy any.  Oops again.

Hanging our embarrassed heads low we packed up and found another spot, infinitely better and all by our lonesome.  We passed two or three surfers camped along the beach, but there was hardly a sign of them except the obligatory surfer stickers placed here and there.

Walking to the beach from our camp,

past the retired fishing pagodas,

it's a hell of a beach.  The surf was pretty big, but mostly just beach break so we didn't see any signs of surfer life.

The beach was sometimes rocky,

sometimes sandy,

and our neighbors mostly kept to themselves,

or so they tried.