When I first agreed to go to La Ventana, I was uneasy. Not because of the destination, but because of the company. I’d been added to a WhatsApp group chat with thirty-two people, most of whom I didn’t know. Alongside Matt Dawson, a twenty-eight-year kiter and owner of Urban Surf, I scrolled through profile photos frozen mid–mega loop, inverted on wing foils, or polished and professional in branded polos. The group felt elite, tight-knit, and intimidating. Who was this crew, and how did I get the invite?
The reason soon became clear. Duotone was hosting a national dealer meeting for the first time in 20 years, a milestone event that doubled as a joint retirement celebration for Doug Hopkins, the President of Boards and More North America, and a passing of the torch ceremony for Dan Schwartz, the incoming president. It was, by all measures, a big deal. For me, it was also a first: my first trip to La Ventana, and my first time in Baja altogether. To complicate things further, I had committed to Dry January just a week earlier, a decision that felt borderline sacrilegious among margarita lovers and high-octane wind junkies. I wasn’t alone in the effort, though others in the group had adopted creative interpretations of sobriety when traveling internationally.
The journey south was a blur: an early flight, a quick layover, and a two-hour drive that ended in the desert-meets-sea landscape of La Ventana. We were lucky enough to stay at Baja Joe’s, the local watering hole that also served as the epicenter for Duotone’s events and demo gear. As Matt and I walked in, any lingering nerves faded. Familiar faces emerged—friends from AWSI, sales reps, and a handful of people I knew from the industry. Hellos turned into hugs, and just like that, we felt at home.
After settling in, we discovered we had a bunk mate. Next to Matt’s and mine, his name was scrawled on the whiteboard by the front office: “Klaas.” Faint murmurs spread amongst the group about the mystery man, imagining a legendary wind sports guru with limitless aura.
As if we’d said his name three times, a black car rolled up to the front gate and came to a stop. In near unison, two mustached men stepped out, faces unreadable. On cue, the rear gate lifted with a soft electric hum, revealing four oversized ION gear bags packed to the seams. Our small group of five stood still, watching the whole thing unfold, unsure whether we were supposed to help or just keep staring.
Strolling in casually, offering German hellos and easy good to see yous, as if this sort of entrance were completely normal, the two men approached our group.
Soon after, I was face to face with the fabled figure, shaking his hand eagerly and blurting “I think we are roommates!” Kindly, he smiles and says, “Ah alright, and who are you?”
After a short, restless night, we were thrown into motion. The morning kicked off with product sessions, including deep dives into Duotone’s new e-foils, design updates for 2026 wings and foils, and the long-awaited unveiling of the holy grail of parawings: the Stash 2.0. As someone who had only deployed a parawing twice on the water, I quickly lost the thread in conversations about shorter lines, single-skin construction, and redesigned bar. Matt leaned over and muttered, “It looks nothing like their V1.” I gave him a blank look as he continued. “Which is a good thing,” he added under his breath.
Our new roommate, Klaas, wrapped things up with a grin and casually mentioned to Matt and me, “First downwind shuttle leaves in 30 minutes, and I’ve got a feeling you won’t want to give these back.” He handed us a 4.0m and a 3.4m Stash 2.0 and smiled, as if the decision to join had already been made for us. Outside, palm fronds rattled as the trees along the property line started to sway in the building wind. I could barely stay upwind with a parawing, I thought. Maybe all I really needed was a full downwind run.
I pulled on my trusty 2mm Hyperfreak shorty from O’Neill and built what felt like a dream setup: a Paradox 75L, Crest D/Lab 925 and an S 160 tail. As I worked, I glanced over at my own Armstrong foil, sitting patiently by the door as its owner headed off to work. “I’m just looking at the menu,” I whispered. “I promise I won’t order anything.” We loaded ten fully assembled foils into the rental van, split the riders into the shuttle, and headed upwind.
Cramped and sweaty, the ride ended at La Tuna, the premier starting point for the three-mile run back to Joe’s. A little stretching, a sip of Electrolit, and I was ready. I pulled the 3.4m Stash from my belt and fumbled through an awkward beach deployment. Somehow, the lines came tight without a single tangle—a small miracle. I looked up to see the rest of the crew already on foil, carving away. I hurriedly repacked, clipped on my board leash, took one deep breath, and stepped into the water.
Once I paddled out to the wind line, I reached back into my stash belt to deploy. This time, the lines exploded into a familiar double-helixed rat’s nest, yanking me straight over the nose of the board. Downwind, I could see my friends were already hooting and hollaring, parawings fully stashed. Slow is smooth, smooth is fast, I reminded myself. After a moment of focused untangling, I got the wing sorted, rose to my knees, then my feet. Two pumps and I was on foil, heading offshore toward long, raked lines of deep-water swell.
The excitement of sailing came back immediately. I leaned against the parawing, banked the foil, and twisted my hips to point upwind. The tech talk from earlier that morning, easy to tune out at the time, suddenly made sense. The shorter lines felt precise, the curved front of the bar settled naturally into my hand as I depowered, and the light, powerful canopy angled hard into the wind.
After growing familiar with the rest of the kit, I remember I am supposed to be moving downwind. I spotted a clean wave, turned downwind, and went to collapse the parawing, something I’d practiced dozens of times before. Carelessly, I neglected my mast height, breached the foil, and dove headfirst into the water next to a kiter. “Yew! Yew!” he yelled, the universal “keep going!” of wind sports. I checked that my bump cap was still on, climbed back onto the board, and went again.
This time I picked a smaller, better-shaped swell, stayed low on the mast and accelerated down the line. I drew in the A-lines, folding the leading edge of the canopy like an accordion. With the canopy in one hand and the bar in the other, everything opened up. I was free to surf the wave, drift laterally, and let the energy do the work. This was what everyone was chasing.
After linking a few waves and sneaking in some turns, I felt myself losing the energy of the ocean, desperately pumping to stay on foil. I reached back to redeploy my parawing and, once again, lines erupted in my face, sending me tumbling over the front board. I thought of a friend who once told me, “The most important part of parawinging is your packing discipline.”
A little more untangling and a lot of drifting later, Baja Joe’s appeared straight ahead. I packed the wing one last time and dragged myself up the beach to rejoin the group.
The next five days blurred together with downwind laps, late nights wandering the desert, and a few proper kite sessions mixed in for good measure. Somewhere along the way, I kept hearing whispers of something called Kangaroo Court after hours. I pictured chaos. I wasn’t wrong.
Dan, the newly appointed President of Boards and More North America, presided over the proceedings in a baby-blue blazer, Pope hat, and pink Pit Vipers. The sun dropped behind him, casting everything in gold. One by one, offenders were called forward to answer for their crimes.
“Till,” Dan announced, “you have committed egregious crimes against the plaintiff, Matthew Dawson. On Wednesday, January 14th, the plaintiff was enjoying a peaceful kite session when you assaulted him and tangled his lines.”
“The court finds you… guilty!”
After half-hearted defenses and roars of laughter, Dan delivered the sentence: a mystery shot, or the left half of Till’s mustache.
The jury erupted as Till chose the clippers.
Over the next hour, cases piled up: stolen gear, abandoned downwind partners, and, worst of all, having too much fun.
The week comes to a close over one final shared meal, the Duotone family gathered around a table that feels familiar now. Conversation drifts easily through the highlights and lowlights, the sessions that stood out and the moments we will carry home. A few short hours of sleep blur the line between night and morning, and suddenly it is time for goodbyes. Dealers, sales reps, and brand leaders scatter in different directions, like marbles rolling away, each returning to their own routines and families.
With a head full of unanswered questions about foil design and a room still cluttered with wet gear, Matt and I are left behind for one last day. The schedule is gone, the meetings are over, and the pace finally slows. We take our time, soaking up our final moments in Paradise, knowing the trip may be ending, but the memories and energy will follow us home.
Author
Cole Stafford
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