A BARNEY IN BAJA: DAY 4 MON 10OCT2011 MOR

After running out of drinking water, we have to boil some.

One Last Pump:

            The tide hasn’t been cooperating with us this whole trip. It’s been high tide during the mid mornings, which means that paddling out at first light isn’t necessarily the best window. We all wake up around 0800, but we have to wait for the tide to drop. It’s our last morning here. We’ve already chipped in for the house and food, and we’ve paid everyone accordingly. The fridge is full of leftovers, but the breakfast team still whips up some chow. It’s another morning with bacon and veggie egg scramble. I never knew that processed eggs in the milk cartons tasted so good; it’s ninety-nine percent cholesterol free too. It’s a smorgasbord of food. Some of us mix breakfast with the left over pasta, tortillas, and couscous. Alan and Jonathan are even using the last of the avocados for guac. I don’t want to eat too much before the sesh, but I’m from an old fashioned family, and wasting food meant castration in my household. So here I am with a mouth full of couscous, eggs, cilantro, onions, and whatever else that needs to be eaten.

            It’s barely an hour later, and we’re all suiting up already. I feel heavy, but I hope that my food will settle by the time I touch the water. It’s just before 1000, and all six of us are on the sand heading towards the secret right or Kevin’s Point. Unfortunately, the tide is still a little high. The beach break looks much better. Returning from the point is Kevin. He tells us that it’s not good over there yet, so he and Jay opt to paddle out just north of the point, but it’s awfully rocky. It’s a disappointment, especially for Paul and Alan. Those two had to hear about our score yesterday, and they had their hearts set on surfing the point; we all did. I try to make out the waves in the distance. Stubborn, I tell Jonathan that I’m heading to the point anyway. The tide has to come down, and I want to witness the magic again.

            There’s no need to do the rock walk to deeper water. After a couple paces, it’s deep enough to paddle out. I turn to Paul and point out where to walk. I put my leash between my teeth and paddle to the lineup. Jonathan’s behind me, and Paul’s still standing on the ledge. I’m in the middle of a lull, but I’m praying for this place to turn on. Kevin and Jay are paddling towards us around the rock. Finally, a wave comes, but the tide is too high, so it’s really mooshy. Now all six of us are in place, but we’re still waiting for significant rides. Jay sits on the inside to film us on his GoPro. After almost an hour the waves start standing up more. Kevin and Jonathan do well by getting rides right next to the massive rock and get distance. I catch a set wave, but it bogs out on the inside. There still seems to be hope. A set swings wide where Alan and Paul sit. They’ve scratched out a lot during the first hour, but this wave breaks far on the outside. We all yell for Alan to get it, but it breaks right on him. I look at Paul and say, “This is kind of how it was yesterday. The tide’s dropping, so it should get good.” I manage to get a handful of rides, but the canvas is not the same; I’m not cranking turns. I don’t know how to explain it. The swell has backed off, it’s definitely not as consistent, and we are battling the tide. 

            We all switch off on camera duty. When it’s my turn, I get footage of everyone close up. I’m really stoked to see Paul and Alan on some waves, since they missed out yesterday. While I’m filming, there seems to be a lot of good waves. I’m itching now; I want to ditch this camera and get out there. Paul paddles up and says, “I’m tired, Matt. Go ahead, I’ll film.” 

            Now I’m back with the fellas, and . . . it’s another lull. When the lull ends, my rides are still insignificant. Damn . . . I guess it’s just really hard to have a good sesh after a day like yesterday. Jonathan yells out to me from the inside and says, “It’s time to go!” I look at my watch. It’s a little after noon. We have to beat border traffic. 

            Waiting for the last wave is brutal. The place just shuts down completely. Jay, Paul, and I catch our little dribblers to the rocks. Everyone else is on the shore. Paul and Alan say that they had fun. I guess there were still rideable waves, but it’s a deep contrast from yesterday. Oh well. This trip was still worth it. I got to see a new spot, surf a new wave, and most importantly I surfed uncrowded waves. 

The Mad Dash:

Jonathan takes the wheel. Club Bada Bing.

            Once I get upstairs in the house, everyone’s scrambling to pack his gear. I join in on the mess. Within minutes all my belongings are by the door. We all do a last scan. Jay’s convoy is still packing up, so Jonathan, Alan, and I say goodbye to the crew. I thank each of those guys individually letting them know I’m grateful that they’ve let me come along. Let’s face it. This is an exclusive group of friends that have done this trip numerous times already. They could’ve easily said no. I’m also lucky because most of their friends couldn’t make the trip. Either way, the Santa Monica Surfers were very hospitable, and they’re all right in my book. 

            Alan and Jay want to get some tacos to-go before we hit the border. The seafood taco stand is packed. Their business is so good; they need to just get a restaurant location already. The non seafood taco stand is empty. I order three carne asada tacos which come out to $3.30. Alan gets into an argument with the taco guy saying that it was only $1.00 per taco the other day. Things start to get ugly until Jonathan just tells him to pay the man. After all, it is just a matter of cents.

            Eating in the car is not as messy as expected. We seem to be making good time. As we near the Tijuana border entrance, the signs get a little confusing. Traffic starts to get thicker, and then we’re driving in a loop. Without time to think, we’re thrust upon two lanes divided by concrete barriers. We see the sign for the 5 freeway mixed with other Spanish names. 

“Holy shit, which one is it?” says Jonathan. I’m thinking that we need to be in the middle lane; at least it looks that way.

            “The right!” Alan says. “It’s the one on the right!” 

            Within seconds of entering, Jonathan says, “Fuck! This is the wrong one! I did this last time.”

            Apparently, we are in the “fast pass” lane. Without the fast pass (which we tried to get at Puerto Nuevo) we’ll get turned around at the border to go in the regular line. What happens next is what my other group of friends would call a “monkey hunt.” Now we can’t find our way to the normal line to reach the border. We find ourselves in the city. At the red light, a guy approaches our car and starts to clean our windshield. Despite our attempts to wave him off, he has more than enough time to do a thorough job. 

            “Give him this,” says Jonathan. He puts a couple coins in my hand. It’s fifty cents. 

            I roll down the window, hand him the change, and say, “Gracias.” The guy moves on to the next vehicle with routine protocol.

            Alan says, “Hey . . . he actually did a good job!” 

            In the midst of Jonathan cursing himself under his breath, we find the regular traffic lane. “This is actually shorter than last time,” says Jonathan. It’s about 1445. We are stopped because a local police officer puts up the “do not cross” yellow tape to create a gap in the lanes. If you can imagine it’s balls sweating hot, and we’re crammed up in the car dying to get across. The cop goes back to his truck in the shade. As soon as he turns around, a car sneaks under the yellow tape. We’re all beside ourselves, Alan especially. “Where the fuck is the cop?” we’re all saying. Another car tries the same thing, but the tape is too low to get under. Alan gets out of the car, crosses the intersection, and politely orders a car full of old ladies to get to the back of the line. 

            It’s a little after 1500 when the cop comes back, lifts the tape, and waves us through. Alan tells us he’s going for a walk and disappears for a while. When he comes back, he tells us that there are only three lanes open, and we’ve got a long way to go. We buy some street churros. They are only $1.50, but without thinking I give the lady $2.00 and wave her off. A look of surprise overwhelms her face as she thanks me repeatedly. “That was nice,” says Jonathan. 

            It’s 1545, and we’ve barely moved a couple car lengths. This sucks. At 1600 Alan goes for another walk. Alan comes back and says, “Jonathan, we gotta merge to the left. Only the left three lanes are open. Everyone’s merging. It’s better if we get across now.”

            Jonathan replies, “But we’re gonna have to merge anyway if we stay here right?”

            “Yeah, but that’s the thing. It’s gonna take forever. We need to move over now.”

            “Uhhhhh, I don’t think anyone’s gonna let us in.”

            Alan stands next to Jonathan’s side of the car, looks back, and says, “I’ll block this lane for you.” 

            There are certain types of guys in this world. I have friends that don’t plan: men of action, those that “do” before they think. I’ve always been the opposite of that. I’m a pretty non-confrontational guy, and as those words leave Alan’s mouth, my mind is racing ahead expecting the many ways this can go wrong. The car that Alan is trying to block is a burgundy Scion coup. A Mexican chick is driving by herself. 

            I tell Jonathan, “Maybe he can just ask her?” 

            Jonathan leans out the window and says, “Ask her if she’ll let us in?”

            “Dude, even if she says ‘no’ I’m still gonna stand here anyway,” says Alan. 

            Good lord, here it comes. The cars in front of the chick move up, and Alan walks backwards in front of her car. We hear a honk. Jonathan tries to cut in front of her, but she forces Alan to walk out of the way as she pulls her car forward. Traffic in our lane moves, so Jonathan pulls forward until we stop. Here comes the chick’s car next to us, and Alan . . . is sitting on the hood of the car . . . while . . . the fucking car is . . . driving. We watch Alan move past us. He doesn’t even look at us. Calm as a cucumber, he’s resting his elbow on his knee and has his palm under his chin. The situation is clear. For Alan, this is now personal. This is when I put my sunglasses back on. The chick activates the wiper fluid, but Alan is still bone dry. When this fails, the chick now speeds up and repeatedly hits the brakes. At this moment, this spectacle is turning into a show for the car loads of fellow commuters. Even the street vendors stop what they’re doing. I hear a couple smirks, mumblings in Spanish, and I just can’t believe that this is happening. 

            The last time I crossed the border, years ago, I saw another fight break out. A truck full of dirtbike guys all jumped out, grabbed some two-by-four planks from the truck bed, and fought the guys in the car behind them. That same day, once crossing, two other trucks that just crossed were honking at each other. As my friend and I drove off, both vehicles pulled off into the emergency lane to make things more personal. To me, this is the worse part of coming to Mexico: the fucking border. 

            Alan tries to stay on the hood despite her attempts to buck him off. He’s eventually forced off and stumbles on the pavement. The chick still jerks her car forward to push him back. I see Alan slightly sway. This is much worse than the taco stand incident. He’s pissed. He yells at the chick. His hand is on the hood, and I’m not sure if he slaps it or not. I can hear her yelling back at him now, cursing at the top of her lungs. 

            “Hey, man,” Jonathan calls out to him. “Just get back in the car.” 

            Alan comes back to us, expresses his frustration, and still stands outside while the car remains idle. Nothing else comes out of the situation. I believe ourselves to be lucky. It’s now almost 1800. Somehow, a miracle occurs. They open the customs booth in front of us; our lane is open. We get through without further incident. Hallelujah!

Straight Shot:

            We fill up at the Arco, and Alan takes the wheel leading us all the way back to the South Bay. By the time we’re in the OC, traffic is already dead. We crossload the vehicles, say our goodbyes, and on my short drive home I’m so glad that we’ve made it back. I go up the stairs to my apartment, turn the key, enter my humble abode, and it’s so sweet to be home after that grueling journey. 

What Now?:

            Baja . . . I really want to go back. Since reporting my findings to my friends, another trip is mandatory. I know where to go now. I know what to expect. I know what to bring. It’s been four days since I’ve been home, and I’ve experienced either crappy or crowded surf. Baja is out there just waiting for anyone willing to take his chances. I didn’t see any drug violence there. Something interesting that I only recall now, there was a sticker at the seafood taco stand that read “Cartel Don’t Kill Surfers.” Maybe Mexico isn’t the safest place to be, but is it safe for a surfer? I suppose if you’re staying in a shady motel somewhere where you’re exposed, if you go to the wrong places when it’s dark acting like an ass, or messing with the locals, then maybe, maybe you are asking for trouble. From what I can tell, if you use your head, travel during day light, keep to yourself, and stay some place that is reputable and secure, you may come out unscathed. But I know one thing for sure. Baja is dead empty right now. You can score uncrowded waves all to yourself, only with the people that you bring along. In answering the question, “Is it worth it traveling to Baja for the surf?” My answer . . . fuck yeah it is.