LEFTS, SAT 15OCT2011 MOR

Location: South Huntington Beach

Time: 0845-1115, 2 hrs & 30 min

Conditions: Sunny, onshore wind, slight chop, strong current pulling north, fast waves with both shape and walls, 4-5 feet with occasional 6 foot.

            Surfline downgraded the forecast for the South Bay this weekend. On Friday, I asked around to see who was surfing where. I had a really strong itch to surf north of County Line, basically to just get out of the South Bay, somewhere south-facing. I told Rick that I wanted to go up north. He concurred with the call, and he said he’d be on the road at about 0530.

            Last night, Klaude hung out and spent the night to make things easier for the drive. Unfortunately, we stayed up a little later than intended from watching Innersections and Los Atlas. Lauren also cooked some taquitos, pupusas, and dark chocolate brownies, so we were up late splurging too. 

            This morning, Rick texts me at 0600 to let me know that he and Manny are already driving past Zumas. I reply, tell him Klaude and I have a late start, and that we’ll meet him there. I’ve slept just under six hours. When I get to the living room, Klaude’s racked out on my couch. When I wake him, he tells me that he didn’t sleep very well. I feel kind of bad for forcing him up, but we do need to go. We scarf a couple bananas, chug some water, and then we crossload the vehicles. I’m only a couple miles north on the 405 when we call Rick, and he tells us that the surf at our spot isn’t doing its thing. I give Klaude the option if he wants to check out County Line or just stay local. He’s open to anything, but since our friends are surfing local we figure it’s worth a shot.

            Driving on Vista Del Mar, the El Porto Jetty has some small waves breaking off of it—tiny. “You wanna check out Porto first?” I ask.

            “Nah, let’s just go straight to 26^th.”

            There isn’t any free parking, so we go to the metered lots. On the lower tier, there are a lot of guys parked and checking things out. Out of the spectators, Klaude introduces me to Mikey AKA The Mayor of Manhattan. He’s a pretty cool guy. He says he’s been working with the wounded warriors at Camp Pendleton. I tell him I’m a vet, and then he tells me about his service in Vietnam. He’s a former 11B and served with the 1^st Cav. We share our experiences and form a bond. It’s going to be nice knowing another face at 26^th. Veterans are usually pretty welcoming of each other. 

            As far as the surf, it’s even smaller than yesterday. Surfline was right with the downgrade. It’s 1-2 feet, the crowd starts to grow, and everyone is just sitting in the lineup waiting for anything. Even Mikey and his crew don’t want to paddle out on their longboards. Klaude texts Tom, Khang, and Dais. Tom’s aware of the local skunk, so he’s gonna check out Torrance Beach. As I look out at the ocean, I know that I do not want to surf here. I ask Klaude if he’s willing to go down south. I mention North Oceanside, even Trestles. We debate on Newport and Huntington, but we’re not sure. We jump back in the car, and I give Rick a call. He says that they may check out Malibu or Zumas. Rick’s surprised that we’re still in the South Bay. I feel really bad. We planned to surf together, but I’m really greedy to travel where the surf is hitting, uncrowded preferably. Manny suggests South HB. Klaude gets word back from Tom. Torrance Beach isn’t happening either, so we let Khang and Dais know where we’re going. 

            We let Khang and Dais know where the free parking is, and then Klaude and I head to the sand. Once crossing PCH, I can see some waves closing out in the distance. I try to get Klaude’s attention, but he misses it. No matter. By the time we’re on the sand, we can see the top of the waves. They look walled and fast. By the shore, we can make out sets around five feet high and round. The conditions are a mix. Some shoulders turn hollow but the sections up ahead start connecting which makes the rides racy. Regardless, the morning still looks promising. Most of the waves are lefts, and we watch some rippers get clean barrel rides. It’s not that crowded yet, surfers are spread out, so we choose to paddle in between two peaks. 

            I’m worried about getting caught on the inside during a nasty set, but we make it to the lineup in good time. Without delay, a little bump forms in front of us. The water’s so glassy that the overcast makes it hard to see the wave’s shape. It jacks and pitches at the last second, and with Klaude right by me, I drop into my first wave of the day. I go right and top turn into a cutback. When I redirect, I’m behind the section, but that first turn felt smooth. Returning to Klaude, he slaps the water which generates a little splash. “That’s what you wanted, right?” he says. 

            We underestimate the current. Before long, we’re already halfway to the next lifeguard tower. I start paddling south to see if I can maintain position. Just then, another peak forms. This time, it’s a left. One thing I love about HB is that the waves are faster. For a while, my timing was always off at this spot, and I got pitched. Taking off on the shoulder, the wave will still go steep and send you down the line with speed. I haven’t caught a left like this since I injured my shoulder. It’s a fast and steep drop on this four-foot wave, but the speed sets me up perfect for an arcing top turn. I’m only realizing now that speed makes things so much easier; lead the board and it will follow. I redirect and practice a couple more turns on the lip. It’s the practice that I’ve been waiting for. After my wave I continue to fight the current. I see Klaude behind me, but he’s fading farther north. Just as I turn to the shore, I see Khang and Dais on the sand. I wave and they see me. 

            I paddle into the next left a little too deep. The drop is a lot steeper and faster than expected. I feel the wave going vertical as I slide, and then I’m at the base of the wave with the lip curling over me. I try to grab my rail to point my nose down the line, but my board and I crash on a flat surface of water. The pack of guys further north sees this, but I laugh it off. A least I got my first wipeout out of the way. Behind me, I see Dais paddling out. He tells me he saw my wipeout. Khang joins us, and I point out where Klaude is. The next left approaches, and it’s one of the bigger ones. There’s a guy on my outside, but he backs off when he sees me going for it. As I fade out on the drop, I can see the water cascading and the empty slot behind it. Just as I try to fade back in, I see Khang paddling into the wave. I yell, “Whoa, whoa whoa!” in hopes that he’ll back out. He drops in, and I’m forced to straighten. I resurface and let him know that I was on the wave. Khang apologizes repeatedly, but I tell him to drop it. I’m not mad, and I was struggling to make the section anyway. 

            The overcast burns off, and the onshore wind picks up. What was once glassy is now choppy, and the waves start spilling instead of barreling. Dais and Khang drift all the way to where Klaude is. It seems that the morning crowd has all converged in the same area from the current, but I keep paddling south to stay away from them. The River Jetty is firing long, fast, and hollow. Barely anyone is there because one left, plus the current, will take you away from the break. I see Klaude on the sand walking south to paddle back in. I give up fighting the current because there’s just too much water moving around. I drift near Khang and Dais, and later we catch waves in to see if he can find Klaude. We walk several lifeguard towers south when we finally see him. By the time we paddle out, he’s drifted further north. Then Klaude gets out and walks past our break. The whole time we are trying to yell and wave for his attention, but he keeps walking. 

            For about twenty minutes, our spot turns on and gets consistent. Khang and I split a peak, and I get a right all the way to the sand. Even Dais is getting some. I watch him paddle into a monster close out. I tell him, “I’m surprised you went for that one.”

            “Yeah, I’m practicing taking the high line.” 

            I catch a couple more fast lefts that set me up for some easy turns. I only catch about five waves on this session, but those waves are worth it. Once we call the session, we find we’ve drifted five towers north. It’s a long walk, and we finally see Klaude sitting on the sand. He says he’s been waiting forever, and that he even walked back to the car, came back, and took a nap. We explain our efforts to flag him down earlier. 

            Even as we’re leaving, River Jetties is still insanely consistent, but the waves are looking a little more walled. Back at the cars we say our goodbyes. Klaude makes it known that he didn’t’ have a good session, but he simply justifies it by saying, “I had it good last weekend. Today, I just wasn’t gonna have a good session.” 

Post Surf Refueling with Donny Duckbutter:

            Back on the 405 freeway, I ask him if he still wants to grab lunch. He says he’s down for anything, so we opt to check out this Hawaiian Food restaurant called Bob’s in Gardena. It’s in a pretty bad area, but it’s tucked away in a little parking lot with some other small restaurants. The set up represents the local Hawaiian color. The place is crowded with Hawaii transplants, live Hawaiian music plays, and it passes for a small, local, hole-in-the-wall restaurant back in the islands. We order the “go for broke” meals which consists of two scoops or rice, macaroni salad, chow fun, dark chicken meat, and chicken katsu. Klaude also orders the poke. It’s the perfect way to end the day’s surf. The vibe here is mellow, different, and we’re immersed in our new cultural surroundings. When the meal’s over, a Hawaiian lady stands next to me with her arms crossed. She looks pissed. I look at her face, and it’s my old coworker from my corporate clown days. I say, “Cynthia!” and then stand up and hug her.

            “I knew that was you from the back.” 

            She introduces her husband and son to us. We catch up. I’m so happy to see her. She’s always treated me like family. Klaude meets them too, and as we leave the restaurant we are both stoked with the good energy from Cynthia and her family. We bring up how we met Clay Marzo a couple weeks ago, and how the way today’s events lined up brought us to run into my good friend. Despite waking up late, changing surf spots, and losing Klaude in the water, it’s all led to the paths of old friends to cross. It’s funny how that works out sometimes.

THE SOUTH BAY BLUES, FRI 14OCT2011 MOR

 Time: 0800-1000, 2 hrs.

Conditions: Hot, sunny, glassy, mid to high tide window, 3 feet, soft, some shoulders.

            I’m supposed to take my niece to school this morning, but my sister’s text message lets me know she got the day off. It’s too bad I didn’t find out earlier because I would’ve been out at first light. I head to Parks again, but I forget that parking is a bitch on Fridays because of street cleaning. I drive around for nearly a half hour looking for parking that’s not affected, but I end up at the metered lots at 26^th. The plan is to surf for an hour then score free parking after 0900. 

 

            The weather is wonderful; it’s a surfer’s day. The sky is so blue with a couple streaks of white. It’s warm. I wear my short sleeve wetsuit for the occasion. It’s mid tide right now, and as I get to the tower I see a nice shoulder-high set come in. It’s a little walled, but the shoulders definitely look much more makeable than my last go out. Only a couple surfers are fast enough to make the sections, and I hope I can be one of them. 

            I don’t warm up; I just want to get out there. There’s a bit of a crowd for this Friday morning. It’s not nut-to-butt, but there’s a crowd at every take off spot. I sit in between the peaks, hoping that something will swing wide on either side. Bruce paddles next to me. I say, “Good morning, Bruce.” He doesn’t know my name, maybe my face, but I’m not sure.

            “Good morning,” he replies. “Looks like there’s some fun ones out here.”

            “Yeah . . . if you’re sitting in the right spot.” I pass on a couple waves. They are more on the walled side and have no shape to them. I take a chance on a right, but the whole lip crumbles and crashes. My next wave is a left, and thank goodness it holds shape for a couple pumps. Don watches me as he paddles back out. As I get back to the lineup, it’s obvious that the waves are soft. There’s no umph to them like Wednesday. However, some of the waves do open up for decent rides. I get another left with a guy behind me. I take off because I have a feeling that he won’t make the section. I have the open shoulder. I turn around and the guy says, “Go, go!” Now there goes a gentleman in the water if I do say so myself. I’m able to pump down the line but fail to get any turns. 

            Listening to the older guys in the lineup is comedy to me. Bruce, talking to his buddy, says, “I can’t afford a corvette for my midlife crisis . . . so I’m catching closeouts instead!” 

            It’s almost 0900. I catch a wave in, head to the car, and move it to the top of the hill. I paddle back out a little further north of the tower, but the waves right now are looking even softer than before. I see Roy catching good lefts to my south. Man . . . ride after ride, he gets whatever wave he wants. I really want to sit where he is, but there’s a pack there. I hate crowds or competing, so I sit here where it’s inconsistent. A couple waves come without much shape, but I do catch a few which take me some distance. I can’t complain I guess. As Surfing Grandma of the OC would say, “A day of surfing is better than a day at work.” How can I argue with that?

            Afterwards, I head to the VA hospital in Westwood to give some blood, and then I meet up with Lauren for lunch. We go to Noodle World. I must say, for that part of town the food, price, and portions are good. I’m surprised that the Asian food here isn’t that watered down. 

Walking around UCLA town, I see office workers on their lunch breaks in their slacks, dress shoes, buttoned up shirts, and ties. I cringe, remembering that I myself came from a cubicle and was part of the “lunchtime” culture. I walk back to my car amongst shoppers, women that wear designer clothes from their shoes to their shades, and not to mention their plastic surgery. I pass a guy wearing a Hurley shirt, pale as a ghost, this man has barely let his skin touch the sun, yet he’s wearing surf apparel. These are just my biases that may pass one day. Amongst the high class, here I am: flip flops, stale boardshorts, Bintang tank top, dark skinned, eyes bloodshot, and saltier than ever. I may as well be a tramp amongst this mass. While they have possessions and bear the brands of status and wealth, I can only think of one thing: I need to get back in the water.

RETURN OF THE DUMP RIDER, WED 12OCT2011 NOON

 

Crew: Shan

Time: 1230-1430, 2 hrs.

Conditions: Hot, sunny, glassy, mid to low tide window, 5 feet, fast, nothing but closeouts.

            I’ve been so busy since returning from Baja that I haven’t had time to see what the surf’s been doing. Francis hit me up via text on Tuesday saying that there’s swell coming in Wednesday, but it won’t arrive until later in the day. Shan told me that the swell should be here by 1100. 

            Wednesday rolls around. The consensus from both of my friends is to surf it later, not at first light. I agree. As 1200 hits, Francis tells me that he got called in to work. Looks like it’s just Shan and I. 

            I step out the house a little after noon. Surprisingly, the wind is good right now. It’s hot, the first day of this heat wave that we’re supposed to be getting. I drive to Parks and only find a couple empty parking spaces. I’m lucky enough to snag one. The atmosphere is more like a hot summer’s day. It’s an Indian summer, and this is rare. I expect nothing less than for it to be packed with surfers as we drift into the late afternoon. 

            I park on the hill and walk down to check out the water. I see Shan’s car parked, so I know he’s out there somewhere. I can’t tell what the water’s doing. It looks about 3-4 feet, and some of the local guys are getting some rides. It’s not packed at all. I walk back to the whip, change, and hit the sand. I spot Shan and his girlfriend Veronica. They are playing with a bodyboard. I wave out to him, he sees me. Looking out at the line up, I see two of the 26^th St. regulars tearing it up on the “right” in front of the tower. I see a lefthander start to work. I let out a “woooooooh!” It looks promising; I’m stoked. As I don the upper half of my wetsuit, Shan comes up to me. “It’s nothing but closeouts,” says Shan.

            “What? Really? I just saw a couple waves right now.” I continue to look out. It still looks good to me.

            “Nah, dude, I was out there. At like eleven it was good. But now it’s just closing out. I got right out. I was sitting next to that guy out there.” He points to a single surfer sitting out by his lonesome. The lineup is bare with only five guys out. My face is completely caked with Vertra because of the noon hour. I head out, and Shan says he’ll watch me to see if it’s any good. 

            A wave approaches in the distance when I’m halfway out. It’s a straight line without rideable shoulders. I can tell by the way it’s forming that it has power. I duckdive and feel the concussion underwater as it explodes. I make it out the back, but that wave was a straight up dumper. I paddle towards the left hoping I can practice some frontside rides. I talk to one of the surfers next to me, and he confirms that it just started shutting down. I’m still optimistic. 

            There are areas in the water where brown swirls congregate. They are mixed with trash. Also, more wrappers and plastic junk are scattered every couple strokes. I don’t know if the glassiness is just making the trash more visible that would otherwise appear normal. On my first wave, I’m right at the peak. Or . . . it’s really hard to tell what the peak is because the section looks fast all around, ambiguous of which way it will break. I paddle and kick for it, feel it jacking up, and I choose to go right. When I’m at the base of the wave, I see the section racing away behind me, leaving a little open slot to get barreled. Going back to the lineup, I wonder if I can somehow get shacked, but it just seems so fast. My next wave is a left but same thing. It’s a steep drop that I manage, but the section is just racing before completely turning over in a display of white explosion. I see Shan paddle out by the right. I go towards him. By this point my optimism changes. I was really positive paddling out. Despite the claims that I missed the window, I had hoped to still get some shape. Shan and I catch some waves with nowhere to go but straight. After another dumpster, I paddle back to the lineup. In the far distance, I see what looks like a rogue wave. Yes, this dirty bastard is already building even though it’s so far out. It’s by far the biggest wave since I’ve paddled out. I make it over the wave, look back, and Shan is still on the inside. I know I’ve had serious issues with my duckdive, and I become concerned if Shan can make it out or not. After the first explosion I see him still paddling, fighting to get to the line. Unfortunately, that’s not the only wave; it’s the first wave of the set. Two more monstrous bombs roll through. After the chaos, I don’t see Shan. Later, I make him out on the shore walking back to Veronica. Poor guy. I wonder if I would’ve been able to make it back out myself. 

            My goal now is to sit way on the shoulder. Sometimes in these conditions, if you sit where the corner ends, you might be able to get a little something. On my next wave, I’m so far on the corner that it looks flat, but since today is so dumpy, it jacks up enough where I can drop in. It’s the blessing I’ve been waiting for. The small corner turns into a three foot face that holds open. It’s so clean and brown under this high sun. There’s no indication of it breaking yet. It’s just a smooth wall that my rail cuts through as I pump my way along. When it closes, I practice a little floater to end the ride, but in reality I’m just on the lip as it closes. Oh well. I look to the shore to see if Shan saw me. I see him and Veronica packing up. We wave goodbye. 

           

‘Tis better to have ridden and lost than never to have ridden at all:

            That last wave was my curse. Even though I surfed a whole fucking hour of nothing but closeouts, I was feening for another wave just like the one I just caught. That fuckin’ wave gave me hope. I turned around and headed back to the lineup. Sure, I had a lot of homework to still do at home, but I was counting on today; I had to catch some waves. Especially with this fricken’ new swell; I was invested for at least two hours before I even parked. I sat, waited, got desperate, and then finally just paddled into anything that looked like it had a shoulder. Nothing . . . as the seconds ticked the tide got lower; it got worse out there. Afternoon enthusiasts began to trickle onto the sand and into the water. Fuck my ass . . . the rest of the session was absolutely not worth it. Damn, all because of that one wave. Is it just me? I’m sure it’s happened to all of us; we’ve all gone through this. Of course, I’m grateful for any wave I can catch, but that wave had me lingering around for another one for a whole hour, unfulfilled.

Power:

            I know today’s waves have some power behind them. I did have another chance for a shoulder, but some longboarder in front of me still tried to paddle for the wave. Even though I had priority, I backed out. These waves are so fast. The last thing I want is to be caught in a closeout next to a longboard. I was pissed. There was only another guy besides us two in that spot. Is it not obvious that I’m going for this wave and you are dropping in on me? I hate it when people don’t look behind them. How hard is it? Even if he didn’t give a shit, I didn’t say anything anyway. I hate stewing in those situations. Getting snaked or snaking, it happens. 

            Sitting in the glassy, hot, sea, I wished this man harm. I hope his board cracks his fuckin’ head open. I can’t help it; this is truly what I’m thinking but would feel bad if it so happened. The longboarder catches a close out. Once the wave has exploded and passed, I hear him say, “Fuuuck!” I turn around and see his board heading towards the shore without its rider. A snapped leash is his story of the day. That’s what you get. Some chick on the sand hands him his board back, and the fuckin’ guy, he’s paddling back out. I can understand if it’s a small day, but on a day like this? No way, man. I watch him lose his board three more times before he finally calls it quits. 

            Despite the ocean’s display of power, a couple funboarders paddle out. They got those blue, foam longboards. Once I’m in shallow water after my last wave, I see a body boarder caught on the inside. When I take a closer look, it’s not a body boarder. One of the funboarder’s boards snapped in half, and he appears to be struggling on the inside, getting worked, clutching to the half that has the leash. I remember this clearly, the mountain of white water stampeding towards him like a tsunami. He stood in waist deep water, holding his half of the board in front of him like a shield. In an instant, he’s vaporized. Poor guy #2. 

            At about 1430, I finally head back to the wagon. I love the South Bay. I’m proud to call it my home and represent for the surfing community, but it’s a bummer when this place can’t hold swell; it just shuts down. And it’s not like it was even that big. It was only like five feet, and it was pretty walled up. Well . . . maybe I just need to quit my bitching. Maybe I’m just venting. I just got back from Baja. I’m just transitioning. I’ll try the surf again on a higher tide. I should score then . . . should.

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.