LIKE CUMMING DUST, FRI 21OCT2011 MOR

BAJA VIDEO

Crew: Solo

Time: 0700-0845, 1hr & 45 min

Conditions: Gloomy, onshore wind, 1-2 foot surf, weak, and crumbly. 

            This weekend I am obligated to take a trip to the Ocotillo desert with my childhood friends. Unfortunately, none of them surf. It’s actually quite the opposite: they love dirtbikes. I have been up to my nose in midterms, papers, readings, and homework to the point that I haven’t surfed since Sunday. I know for “normie nine-to-fivers” a surf schedule like this is normal. Perhaps I’m spoiled, but for me that’s a long time. Finally, it’s Friday, and I’ve done all my homework for the weekend in advance to free me up for this trip. It pains me to leave the ocean, so I must, at all costs, get some kind of surf in my veins to hold me over for the weekend. Driving to Porto, I already see that it’s blowing onshore a little. Even though surfline forecasts the surf to be minuscule, I can’t help but be optimistic. After all, it’s been four days since I’ve even seen the water, so the image in my head is ideal. I score the last free spot on 45^th and take a look at the surf. It’s gray, overcast, and the waves are looking more like ripples. Any other day I would turn around and go home, but surprisingly I am so surf deprived that I’m already dawning my Jedi robe to change-out. I know it’s small. . . . Fuck it. 

            Vans and cars pass me on their way to the lot. I wonder if they think I’m wasting my time. The goal is to catch anything rideable. Getting one turn would be considered a miracle. The lot’s pretty sparse, indicative that people pulled up and left no sooner than they could give the sigh of disappointment that we all know so very well. Once again, fuck it, I’m here. It’s kind of hard to write this session because I feel like I can sum it up in a paragraph. There are mostly longboarders out, but there are a couple guys on thrusters too. I sit and let small waves go by until I accept the fact that this is all I’m gonna get. Waves that look like lefts and rights end up being fizzlers that have me going straight. I feel like a fool in my disco wetsuit, for these are not the conditions for an ocean disco. I get a couple waves that have shape, but they are so weak that I can only go down the line. If I pump too hard I stall, so I lightly trim until the spilling water hinders my progress; it’s one of those small days. I surf until 0845, just in time to escape being sodomized by the few, the brave, the Manhattan Beach parking enforcement. 

The Trip:

 

            My best friend Manolo is the most unorganized person I know. He doesn’t think; he acts and cleans up the mess after. Basically, he’s my polar opposite. It figures that we’ve been best friends since sixth grade, and since second grade we hated each other. He’s at the dealership getting an oil change on his truck. The plan is to meet up and have breakfast to kill some time. I take him to Bob’s Hawaiian Restaurant in Gardena, where Klaude and I ate last weekend. It’s still gloomy in Gardena, and this Friday morning brings an empty atmosphere.

            A table of Gardena city employees eat their breakfast; three of them look local (Hawaiian). An old Japanese man enters by himself, sits in the corner, and orders scrambled eggs, spam, and two scoops of rice. Manolo’s grateful that I’ve taken him here, and coincidentally our table has a map of Maui under the glass. I take a look at my beloved Napili until the waitress places my plate on top of it. Manolo orders the machaca which I’m surprised is even on the menu. The waitress easily passes as a local chick; this restaurant really resembles a hole-in-the wall local spot. We talk shit and go over the daily plans. 

            Afterwards, I drop him off and am ready by 1100. He’s lagging. I call to see what’s going on. He says he’s still packing but to come over anyway. When I show up, he’s throwing shit in his cab and truck bed. No folding, no placing items appropriately where they fit, he’s just chucking shit here and there. He looks at my two items, a duffle bag and gear bag, and says, “Damn, Matt! You were in the military. I can’t pack that light!” 

He goes back into his house while I try to make room for my things. “Really, Three comforters?” I say to myself. He spends the next hour trying to rearrange Smokey’s dog cage, two dirtbikes, and some other camping supplies. I grit my teeth, holding myself back to tell him this absolutely can’t be done. Finally, he sacrifices the dog cage and extra bike. 

The next stop is at the motorcycle shop to get some tie-downs, and from there we pick up my dirtbike from our other friend Boris’ house; he’s meeting us on Saturday night. By the time we’re on the road, it’s 1600. We reach Mission Viejo to meet our other childhood friend Sebastian. He’s an amateur dirtbike racer, the grease monkey of the group, and the organizer of this whole getaway. 

Numerous problems occur on the way to Ocotillo. One, Seba’s truck constantly needs to be jump started. Two, they fuck up our order at Carl’s Jr. which results in us going back and acting like assholes. At 2200 we finally reach Ocotillo Wells where we encounter our last problem of the night; Manolo’s truck gets stuck. The sand is so powdery, fine and soft. Also, not having two-wheel drive doesn’t help. Going into the weekend I justified this trip in my mind. These are my best friends in the whole world, and trips like these are necessary. All three of us are on our hands and knees digging out the truck with firewood, the closest thing we have to a shovel. 

 

It’s 2345, and we’ve finally reached camp. It’s hot. Fall weather? I don’t think so. Even with the sun down, the earth radiates energy like a boulder that’s been smoldering in fire. It’s Smokey’s first camping trip. Manolo got Smokey days before his execution date at the pound. Sure, he slobbers all over the place and is so hyper it’s annoying. However, he’s loyal to us and barks or growls at anything foreign; he’s one of us. Seba’s on the phone until we fall asleep. His friend Mike is lost and can’t find the camp. 

It’s about 0730 when I wake. I’m dirt-tired, but the sun’s rays are putting a hurtin’ on our tent; it’s more like an oven now. It’s so early and already so hot. I turn over and see Manolo sleeping butt-ass naked. Stretch marks on the side of his ass are visible. Hmmmm, nothing spells out “close friends” better than tent nudity. He scratches his balls as I unzip the tent. I damn near trip over Smokey who’s spent the night at the entrance. 

The heat constipates our progress. Mike finally arrives, and by the look of his tattoos, weird gums, and ear rings, I figure that he’s a filthy animal like the rest of us; a pirate. Manolo’s in charge of breakfast which . . . to me is a big mistake. I fight my control-freak tendencies and let him do his thing. Copious amounts of Rachael Ray cooking oil get poured onto the pan. He cuts the potatoes on the dirty ass table that’s been exposed to the dust all night. There’s no sanitizing here; this is some straight-up man shit. Bacon, eggs, grease-soaked toast, and potatoes . . . gawd damn it’s good, but it’s so oily that I feel a light headache coming on.

We gear up, warm up the bikes, and head out. Seba always takes the lead, as we would be lost in this vast land of dust, hills, and sand. Unfortunately, Mike misses our cue and darts away from us. We wait . . . we wait . . . and then we wait some more. The fucking guy is gone. This is against dirtbike riding protocol. We always leave together and stay put if we get lost, but he’s drawn his own line and gone rogue. After riding around for an hour looking for him, we decide to go back and rehydrate. 

 

When Mike finally comes back to camp, he says he assumed we were behind him. Oh well. So here we go, our official riding can officially begin. I’ve never been a motor head. I had a phase in my younger days when I upgraded the turbo in my Ford Mustang which led to $$$$$$$ in racing parts that I’m ashamed to admit. Thank god that’s over. I’m no better on a dirtbike. When I ride I ride to survive and return uninjured. Manolo likes to take ridiculous risks. Years ago he ended up down the side of a mountain. Seba and I were sipping our beers waiting for him when we heard his cry for help. He wasn’t seriously hurt, and it actually ended up being fuckin’ funny seeing Seba recover his bike in the bushes and seeing Manolo with all that dirt and grass in his helmet. Good times. Seba’s a pro in my book. He would be a contender in the pro circuit if he had some kind of sponsorship and more resources. Jumps, hill climbs, he can do all that shit. 

So here we are following Seba. The cloud of dust is so thick that I have to hang quite a ways back. I’m always last, and I’m approaching a little hill. Once I’m over it I realize that there’s nothing under me. I’m catching air on what appears to be at least a six foot drop straight down. What should I be doing? From my time on the bike, I’ve learned that I should be hitting the throttle to raise my front tire, but . . .  all I see is the ground below, my handle bars and wheel getting closer to it, and I’m struggling to keep my feet on the pegs. When I land, in that fraction of a second, I’m thinking, Yes, I fucking made it! But what really happens is my front wheel gets buried, my grip is ripped from the handle bars, and my head feels like it crashes into a wall as it hits the sand. All I hear are engines. Dust and sand are in the air, and I slowly . . . slowly get up to raise my bike. I see Mike yards in front of me. He’s standing, but he’s slumped over his bike and holding his chin. Once I start it and join everyone else, I learn the outcome. Seba accidentally led us over a razorback. Manolo followed, and the king of spills miraculously made the landing. Mike’s chin slammed into his handle bars. His back is tweaked, but he never fell off his bike. Blood drips down his chin and onto his shirt. It’s hard to assess the damage because of his beard, but he downplays it and motions to continue. 

We ride the sandwashes, check out the geological sites, and watch Seba practice his jumps. We stop at the Blue Inn for cold drinks and ice cream. The cashier sees Mike and offers a wet rag for his chin.

We’ve been on the saddle for over four hours. Seba is pushing us to the limit. Manolo lets his frustrations be known. I do my best not to throw in the towel and let Seba know I’m tired. We’re dehydrated, Mike’s legs are cramping to the point that he can’t kick start his bike without resting. We’re all out of water. After Seba’s last couple jumps, we enter the dry river bed which is a straight shot to our camp and Smokey. We’re all fifth gear pinned at good intervals. I approach a cloud of dust and see one of our riders on the dirt. I think it’s Mike, but it turns out that Mike is standing over Seba. Gawd damn . . . it just doesn’t stop. 

 

Poor Seba. He’s a good rider, but he’s not completely in sync with the differences with his two-stroke from his four-stroke. He popped a wheelie at fifty-five mph. With a four-stroke, letting off the throttle would drop the front wheel, but not with his two-stroke. The horse broke loose which flipped and rolled him over the hard, compact dirt. “That must’ve hurt!” Manolo says. “I ain’t never seen Seba that fucked up.” My childhood friend, 6’3”, the same guy I saw knock out the neighborhood gangbanger when we were kids, disrobes all his gear down to his bare chest and lies down. His pants are ripped, and he has two raw road-rash marks behind his shoulders that look like strawberries. 

He pulls out his cell phone, calls Boris, and leaves a message: “Guy, we’ve encountered some difficulties. I’m pretty fucked up, the bike’s fucked up. It’s better if you stay home, guy.” He gently places the phone on his chest and rests another fifteen minutes before heading to camp.

Vicodin and beer rescues the wounded. Mike comes out of the darkness near the camp fire and says, “Look, it’s like a vagina.” He spreads his chin apart to reveal a deep, fleshy wound. I cringe, Manolo cringes, and we can’t believe he functioned like that throughout the day. After verification that none of us know how to stitch, he opts to see the doctor during the week. 

The rest of the night is buffoonery. We eat so much that we require Smokey’s services to kill everything off. A couple gunshots later and a propane tank nearly misses Manolo’s head as a mushroom cloud of a fireball erupts in the sky. Seba puts a cardboard barrel over the fire without telling us that he’s soaked the inside with two-stroke fuel and gasoline. When it catches, everything around us turns to a bright orange followed by immense heat over our exposed skin. Everyone, including the dog, gets up to run away from the heat. 

In the morning it’s another splurge fest. We pack up, hit the road, and say goodbye to Mike at the gas station. Mike ends up being a really nice guy. Manolo and I give Seba our approval for him to be part of the crew. We follow Seba home to make sure his truck doesn’t die, and by 1700 on Sunday I’m home. 

I missed the surf, and this whole weekend, on its surface, looks like one big debacle. But now, looking back, I appreciate this weekend so much. We’re not kids anymore, and with our own agendas (like surfing) it’s so rare that we get to see each other. I love seeing my best friend, the disaster that he is, live his life on improvisation. No matter how messy and ugly, he manages to get from point A to B every time; isn’t that all that matters? Seba, with the appearance of a beastly man possesses a forever giving heart. He’s been persistent over the years until we give-in to make these trips happen. So selfless that he’s taught me how to ride and maintains my bike without request of reimbursement. Days later, we call or text to see if we’re all right. Who am I to be so selfish with my time. More than family, these guys are my blood. Good friends are hard to find.