May 26-27
"The other night it occurred to me how there's few places in the States where one can do something very cool in the open land and not have to deal with other strangers doing that same thing.
So far in Baja we've seen some picnicking Mexican families, gruff fisherman/farmer types, but no other surfers. Despite camping out in Baja's lonely coastal hills—against the advice of the Gringo hostel owner—we haven't been robbed or even bothered by any of the locals. Not saying the stories of crime and robbery are untrue. But the risk of camping out on our own paid off heavily.
Our campsite was nestled between the dunes. You could only see us if you were out in the water or at the very tip of Punta Cabras itself.
It all felt so surreal. Like camping out for the first time, god knows how long ago that was. We hunkered down shoulder-to-shoulder under the tarp, with the surf breaking only 100 or so feet below our heads as we nodded off, to wake up undisturbed and entirely alone, sipping coffee and contemplating the morning session.
Leading up to that dreamy night, though, the day was windy and rather hot. We didn't get the evening surf session that we had hoped for due to the conditions. I tried to nap at camp but it was sweltering, so I took my camp chair and a book ("Into a Desert Place" by Graham MacKintosh) down to the beach and sat there with my legs in the water, being chased further and further up the beach as the tide crept in. The water cooled me off, and it felt wonderful to do nothing.
We decided to go on a walk, south of the camp, to eye the idyllic coves and tidal pools lining the point. We walked around the tip of Punta Cabras over sharp volcanic rock and dusty two-track. There were lots of pelicans and foreign desert fauna unlike anything I've seen in the southwestern desert of the States.
There was also some graffiti on a dilapidated structure. I couldn't quite read the entire thing, but it was this poetic invective against littering the Baja countryside ("Es contra los jovenes de Mexico"). Evidently Baja has a littering problem. But it’s comforting to know there are some people who are trying to do what’s right.
In the cove on the other side of the point, where we surfed the first day, the waves broke in quick, decisive closeouts that spanned the entire beach. They threw sweeping rainbow mist in the evening light. I wanted to take all of my life's possessions and move them right there, in that little mist cloud, to live there forever suspended in water.
We noticed a sedan racing toward the direction of our camp. Paranoid, I ran back to our camp (I forgot to hide my valuables), picking up a small rock just in case I needed to huck it at somebody. I imagine this stressed out both Travis and Evan to an unnecessary extent. Of course it was a false alarm, but my anxiety got the better of me. The sedan disappeared into nowhere.
That evening the wind never died down and we accepted that evening glass up would not be a reality. So we made a giant trash supper: ramen with the seasoning packets, spinach, and eggs—add more salt. It was way too much food and we all scarfed it down.
The sun set, I washed dishes, and we each settled in beneath our tarp, which had been fluttering madly in the wind all day but—perhaps in an act of providence unique only to Baja—ceased right as we tucked in. Fiver's gorgeous album "... with the Atlantic School of Spontaneous Composition" put me right to sleep.
This morning we each had coffee, little or no breakfast, and got right into our wetsuits. It was another beautifully grey, misty Baja Norte morning in the water, with the sun burning away the clouds at the mouth of the valley a few km's inland from shore.
The waves looked fun but a bit smaller than the day before, maintaining a similar flavor and organization: heaving, pocket-y beach breaks. When paddling for a wave, most looked no bigger than hip or chest-high. But once I stood up on them, they rose quickly and increased in size and power. It required some quick maneuvering on the big board to avoid getting closed out.
The tide was going out during the morning. Sets were infrequent. On two occasions Evan, Travis, and I got caught off guard by a sneaky set breaking further outside than we expected. It cleaned each of us up and delivered a battering for upwards of ten to fifteen minutes. I counted ten head-high waves that I either took to the head or swam through. It was really tough with the 9 footer. Apparently the same could be said with the smaller boards too; when I looked over to Trav and Evan, they were also way inside and getting worked too.
After the second cleanup set my ailing shoulder was toast and I headed into shore. That would be enough for the day. I didn't catch many waves that morning, but the few I caught were big (for me); I distinctly remember standing up tall to look back on the outside at the boys with a shit-eating grin and seeing nothing but an emerald wall of water. Yowza. The big board made everything feel little. [I think after a few days of surfing a big board and getting my feet back under me, it just makes sense to downsize and let 'er rip.]
We shared the lineup that morning with a couple of dolphins. Off in the distance—maybe a few hundred yards— we watched a humpback whale breach over and over again. I sat on my board for a while and watched, reeling as sets rolled through, hypnotized by the weight of the whale's presence.
. . .
(Stopped writing at around midnight last night because we treated ourselves to a resort (a rectangular stucco shack with simple amenities and buggy mattresses) and my cushy twin bed beckoned me to a deep sleep, right on top of the blankets.)
Anyhow, spent some time after yesterday's session relaxing in our dreamy little dune camp before breaking it down and leaving—for good. I still couldn't believe the experience we had the night before, hunkered down under the tarp right above the surf. I was sad to leave but I have a feeling I'll be back...
On our way out of the village of Erendira we stopped by Genesis, a top birrieria. A round-faced woman told us to sit wherever and I forced myself to strike up some small talk. She gave me the keys to the bathroom and I ambled around behind the eatery, fiddling with random locked doors that looked like they might lead to a latrine. I went back into the birreria and asked the woman if she could show me where the bathroom was. Her face turned red, she smiled, and pointed me in the right direction, toward a little plywood box painted red, just a few hundred feet down the dirt road. Small dogs snapped at my ankles and chickens bobbed beneath the shade of large oaks. Wandering around the backyards of Erendira made me want to stay longer, to have a different kind of experience immersed in this little Baja village.
I ordered the birria, which was tender, spicy, and perfect. I ate it with fresh, warm corn tortillas. The boys agreed this was the best meal we had yet. While we hung out in Genesis, I took a good look at us and noticed how we all wore four days of surfing and camping on our faces and skin and hair. I felt like four days of surfing and camping, too. Exactly how I wanted to feel.
After a quick refill on ice, water, and spicy Mexican candies, we left Erendira and pointed it back northeast toward the highway.
Our destination of Punta San Jose was only a few km's to the north from where we stayed the night before, but apparently the beach roads are bad enough that the long drive back on the MX-1 is the surer, safer, and saner bet. But the MX-1, with its high speeds, small shoulders, and foreign traffic customs has its perils, too; once again we nearly got T-boned from both directions at a blind and unmarked three-way intersection.
We needed strong drink, and the small valley just south of Ensenada—Santo Tomas—was known for its wine. At Bodega de Santo Tomas, the second oldest winery in Mexico, an English-speaking Mexican who was really into Legend of Zelda (tattoos, necklace, etc.) sold us some bottles of tempranillo and exquisite rose, which we downed later that night over tall tales.
We misread the map. We thought that camping at Bocana Santo Tomas would allow us to surf some of the stuff around that zone, and also the revered Punta San Jose. We were wrong, and didn't realize this until making the long, dusty drive out to Bocana Santo Tomas. Luckily the drive—during golden hour—was pretty enough that we didn't fully regret our decision arriving at the wrong place [and we wouldn't know until the next day how skunked we could get in this particular area].
At the resort, we were greeted by a handful of dogs and the watchman, whose family lived on the premises. Everything's pretty casual out here: you drive up, say you're wanting a place to stay the night, they show you the whole deal, leave you alone, and you pay whenever you want.
That night in the cabin, Evan made a Mexixan dinner of rice, beans, and tortas con queso. We washed it down with wine and talked a bunch of shit in the dim artificial light, with the evening Pacific breeze seeping through the windows. Climbing, surfing, places in the United States that are livable and don't suck. Certainly there is nowhere like Baja.
...
It was nice to wake up the following morning and depart from the camping routine. With a workable stove, countertop, and sink, I prepared a big breakfast of blueberry and banana pancakes. We ate in excess to pretty much sit in the car the entire morning.
As I write this at about 1:00 PM, we've gotten shut down at all spots: Bocana Santo Tomas (no waves), Punta China (waves breaking directly on exposed reef, restricted access due to mining operation), Bahia de Solidad (uncertain and steep mountain roads, a long walk to the water). I guess even Baja presents the ever-present opportunity to get shut down.
Right now the hope is to maybe score some final Baja surf at one of the spots just south of the border, a far cry from the solitude we experienced the days before. If not, we blast through the border today and surf with the rest of the United States in San Diego. Suerte!
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