Mexico City, a metropolis so landlocked even the fish use Uber, has declared itself the new centre of the surfing universe. In a breathtaking display of geographical denial, city officials have announced a world-record attempt for the biggest artificial wave ever ridden. And who is called in to consult on this aquatic absurdity? British 'surf engineers', the sort of chaps who still think a wetsuit is a type of tweed.
Yes, the same nation that brought you the Cornish pasty and the begrudgingly polite queue has been flown out to assess 'coastal resilience' in a city that hasn't seen a coastline since Pangaea was a going concern. One can only imagine the briefing: 'Right, chaps, the Mexicans want a wave. A big one. In a basin. With no current. And possibly some tequila.'
Let us pause to salute the sheer brass-necked audacity of the Mexico City authorities. While other cities fret about flooding, sinkholes, or seismic instability, these visionaries have looked upon their concrete jungle and said, 'What this really needs is a 30-foot swell and a bloke named Pepe hanging ten.' The wave, if successful, will be generated by some contraption of pistons and pumps, presumably powered by the hot air of local politicians. It will be a beacon of hope, a testament to human ingenuity, and a fantastic way to avoid discussing the potholes.
The British boffins, no doubt recruited from the same pool of eccentric geniuses who dreamt up the dodgem car, have of course solemnly opined on the matter. 'Coastal resilience,' they murmur, adjusting their anoraks, 'is not just about withstanding storms. It's about withstanding the sheer bloody ridiculousness of this project.' They have brought graphs, tide tables, and a profound sense of scepticism. Their final report is expected to recommend more tea breaks.
Meanwhile, actual coastal cities suffer real waves. But why let reality intrude? Mexico City is chasing the world record, or as it's known in British engineering circles, 'a jolly good excuse for an expenses-paid jolly.' The new wave pool, to be called 'El Tsunami del Suburbio', promises to be the pinnacle of human achievement, surpassing the Pyramids, the internet, and those little umbrellas they put in cocktails.
I raise a glass of airport gin, necessarily neat, to the magnificent folly of it all. Here is a city that refuses to be defined by its limitations. A city that says, 'We may not have a coast, but damn it, we will have a wave.' And if the wave collapses and drowns a few investment bankers? Well, that's just the price of progress.
As for the British contribution, it will be characteristically understated: a series of polite suggestions, a few sketches on a napkin, and a deeply profound inquiry into the availability of proper clotted cream in the Distrito Federal. The world record attempt proceeds. The surf engineers are smiling. And Mexico City is, for a glorious moment, the wettest, most nonsensical place on earth.
