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.

           

A BARNEY IN BAJA: DAY 3 SUN 09OCT2011 NOON

            I’m so used to waking up with darkness still outside my window. Back home, it’s a must. I have to get up early so I can move lethargically through my El Segundo apartment. Take my morning piss, shit preferably. Make my coffee, pack my gear, kiss Lauren goodbye, and then hop in the wagon to beat the traffic or score free parking locally. But here in Baja, right here in a mansion on the beach, we can be picky with what window we choose to surf.

No Rush:

            It’s about 0730. I wake to the sunlight peering through the clear tiles in the wall. Jonathan’s knocked out. Kevin’s sleeping on the tiny bed in the corner. I have to take a monstrous piss, so I wake up. The house is silent as I walk up the stairs. I grab a cinnamon Pop Tart and go out to the balcony to take a look. It’s a clear day, but the sun’s still weak. The beach break in front of the house looks unappetizing. There are peaks but too many of them. They are so scattered and breaking really late. Every time there’s a shoulder, it runs away too fast. I walk to the south end of the balcony to see if there are any surfers out. I see none. I go to the living room, plop down the couch, and munch on my Pop Tart. Alan’s sleeping on the couch. He turns and mumbles in his sleep, and then he pulls the covers off of himself. He’s wearing his boxers. I’m grateful that he doesn’t have the natural motor reflexes of jacking off in his sleep. He reaches in his pants to scratch himself. I go back to my room. I figure since it’s high tide that I’ll take another look after it’s dropped a bit. 

            At 0900 I hear Kevin get up. “What time is it?” he asks. He’s the first one to go upstairs. After a couple more moments of debating what to do, I follow suit. Jay is up cooking bacon. As soon as Jonathan catches up he assists with the eggs. It’s another morning of engorging ourselves. I eat too much; I think we all do. The morning football games are on, and most of us are in front of the TV. I decide to do a little recon, so I take my sombrero and walk out to the cliff. I sit there for fifteen minutes. There are three guys out, and their rides look pretty average. Two turn at the most, maybe a partial cover-up followed by a pinch in the tube, but they’re mostly one-turn wonders. The sight is a bit disappointing. The swell has backed off, and everything looks like a mediocre beach break. I fancy the thought of glassy water, still as a lake, with only rideable waves to break the integrity of it at a consistent rate. Kind of like Churches or Sunset on an early Tuesday morning when there’s no wind and decent swell. Right here, right now, it’s consistent but with waves breaking on the inside only. It’s almost 1100, and I wonder how yesterday’s right-hand point break is looking. It’s too far to see exactly. All I can see is the white foam indicating that the wave is peeling, but I can’t see the face. I go back upstairs and tell Jonathan that I’m heading out. He says he’ll join. 

Jonathan and his ripped back

I had to hand off my camera to Jay who was nice enough to take some pics of us paddling out

            Jay decides to walk with us, not to surf, but to see how it looks. I take my camera along. The waves I was looking at earlier are actually bigger once I’m on the sand, and they look much more rideable, but the shape still isn’t that great. We three talk about last night’s adventure/misadventure. Jay says he’s not drinking today after last night. When we get to the newly discovered point break, the tide is so low that more rocks are exposed than yesterday. The waves off the point aren’t too promising. I’m trying to give the briefing on what Kevin and I experienced yesterday. A wave rolls through. The pocket is tight, and the rest of the wave down the line looks weak. Jay and Jonathan seem disinterested.

There were tons of more pics on the walk to the point, but they were a little too revealing of the location.

            I say, “It’s smaller here, but it’s consistent. We may be able to get a couple turns on a couple waves. Over there (where we just came from) the waves are a little bit bigger, but the shape’s not that great. I’m easy, man. It’s up to you.”

            Jonathan says, “Yeah . . . well we can surf here for an hour and see how we like it.”

            Alan was trailing behind us. I didn’t even now. He walks up to see what the hype has been all about. From the look on his face, he’s obviously not impressed. 

“You going out?” I ask him.

Alan pauses as he looks out with a smirk on his face. “Nah,” he says. “There’s nothing for me out there.”

Jonathan decides to walk on the rocks forming the point to jump into the deeper water. I take the lower road instead and walk parallel to the shore. I turn to Jay and say, “I’m going to try to sell it to you, but I can’t promise anything.” He smiles. 

Pic courtesy of Jay

            Because of the tide, my walk to deeper water takes forever. With my leash in my teeth, I’m losing my balance and put my hand down to save me several times. When I can finally paddle I see Jonathan jumping in the water. Fuckin’ bastard, he beat me.

 

            Jay’s still chillin’ on the rocks waiting to see if we catch anything. Jonathan and I scratch out on a couple at first. I have my doubts about the session. I draw first blood, almost fall on the pop up, regain myself, pull off a turn, and then stall. I turn to Jay who’s watching. He gives me a thumbs up. By the time I’m back by Jonathan, Jay’s already heading back to the house. Jonathan catches his first wave. It bogs out right after he drops in. “It’s pretty fun out here,” he says. Yeah, I’m thinking. It’s better than nothing.

The Baja Wave Buffet is Officially Open:

            Jonathan and I have this peak to ourselves. In what appears to be weak surf, a random rogue wave pops up and breaks past the point. I forget who catches the wave, but when we’re reunited we’re surprised at the gifts being given. After my next wave, I see Kevin waving at me from the rocks. He’s paddling out to join us. From here, it’s gets consistent. Waves are breaking off the point, just inside of it, and swinging wide just south. Some of the waves feel like they’re bogging after the drop, but we learn that if we cutback and stay in the pocket, that it reforms on the inside for a long ride. For the first hour, the three of us are just trading off waves. Jonathan even makes us get on his board so we can get some GoPro footage of ourselves. It’s almost 1300, and the wind is still light. 

            Jay now paddles out to join us, making our total number four. From here things get incredibly ridiculous. The consistency doesn’t let up, and just like a cycle, we paddle to the point, catch a wave, and as we paddle back, everyone else is catching waves. One by one, taking turns, this goes on for three straight fucking hours. Talking about the wave, it’s not huge, but it’s clean. I’m talking an easy 3-4 feet, but the shape is just short of perfection. I’ve never pulled off so many turns in one session; this is literally the day to practice turns, cutbacks, and whatever you can do on an open face. We are all scoring. We start to hoot each other on each ride, but we get so many waves that we get tired of hooting. Drop after drop, bottom turn to top turn, cut back, pump, bottom to top again, reform, do it again until it’s shallow, each “wave of the day” gets cancelled by each ride. Before long, every prior ride is replaced, erased, and forgotten because the moment keeps reproducing itself.

            I see Jonathan catch the outside bombs, and so does Kevin. Stand out surfer of the day is easily Jay. He paddles into everything. And when it seems like he’s gonna bog out, he pumps and pumps, working his way to make every section. He even goes left, getting a partial cover-up heading towards the massive rock that makes the point. When he resurfaces, I tell him he’s fuckin’ nuts. 

            Today’s rides are beyond describing because there were so many. Just imagine soft shoulders, open, lined up, and begging to be carved and gutted, nonstop. It was good training. How many times have we all gone out of our way to surf good waves, but have been forced to deal with sharing them with thirty-plus people? Today, the waves were good, and the total amount of wave time easily amounts to a weeks worth of surfing a good but crowded break.

            By 1500 the wind picks up. We’re hungry. But we mostly end the session due to the wind. Once we all make our way past the rock path, we see Paul in the distance, approaching with a beer in his hand. 

            “How was it?” Paul asks.

            Kevin fills him in on how good it was. 

            Paul says, “Yeah, when you guys didn’t come back after two hours, I had a feeling it must’ve been good.”

            Back at the house, Alan can’t believe that the surf was good. “I wouldn’t have expected it,” he says. I understand. Neither did we. 

Jay and Allen's turkey keilbasa pasta. From left, clockwise: Jay, Kevin, Alan, Paul, and Jonathan.

The rest of the late afternoon into the evening is spent splurging on more food. For lunch we actually sit down at the table together like a family: plates, utensils, drinks, food displayed, and all. Dinner is another concoction of man food. Jonathan puts together a film clip from today’s footage. I hate to admit it, but I used to laugh at people that film themselves in the water. But after today’s glory, the film clip is a great representation of the day’s events. We’re not stoked just to see how we look on the waves, but the way that Jonathan put it together. It was an experience that we all shared, and Jonathan made the memory more unforgettable by cementing it in a movie.

During lunch, Jay looked up with a mouth full of pasta and said, “We’re truly blessed.” I looked around at all of us eating, thought about the surf, listened to the ocean behind my back, and thought, what have I been doing with my life?

A BARNEY IN BAJA: DAY 2 SAT 08OCT2011 MOR

Last night I asked Jay if he wanted to paddle out at first light. “No,” he said. “It’s better to paddle out right after nine. This is a mid tide spot, the tide will be too high.” With that being said, I wake up a little after 0700. I hear the sound of food sizzling on the pan as I walk upstairs. Jay and Kevin are cooking breakfast. There’s a mountain of bacon on a plate and scrambled eggs cooking in two pans. The eggs are mixed with chopped vegetables; it looks professional.

Kevin and Jay on breakfast detail

“Orange juice?” Kevin asks, raising his own glass in offering to help myself. I thank him. The surf outside looks clean, but Jay’s right about the tide. It’s a bit too high still and breaking too late. We eat a good breakfast, all of us on the balcony scanning the water. It’s clear, there’s no wind, but the air’s a little cool. I have no doubt that this is a morning for my thicker wetsuit. After eating, we all go out to the top of the stairs. It’s a little after 0900 now, and there’s a small crowd of six surfers claiming one peak. It’s so hard to tell how big the waves are from our vantage point. We are far and sitting high on a cliff. We see their peak working, and best of all, we see guys getting slotted. These aren’t long, impeccable barrel rides, but some guys manage to pull in for partial cover up and make it out unscathed. Some other guys try and get clipped in the tube. Either way, the potential is obvious. Kevin goes on a surf recon mission further south, Jay and Jonathan suit up, but I opt to wait until the tide drops a little more. 

 Baja Time, Round 2:

Kevin returns from his surf recon mission and tells me that he discovered an empty, right-hand pointbreak. He asks if I wanna come along. I oblige. I cake on the facepaint, suit up, and head out the door. We walk past Paul who’s filming again. Once on the sand we see Jay and Jonathan. We think about signaling them to come along, but we can tell that they’re devoted to their spot. Kevin and I continue. He tells me he’s a pilot, he and Paul are roommates in Hermosa, and that he surfs all the local places that I do as well. We reach the pointbreak, and it’s really rocky. There are jagged rocks sticking out everywhere. At the point we reach a path which drops off sharply into the ocean. “We can’t jump down there,” says Kevin. We back up and scale the rocks to get down to the water. There’s one guy sitting at the top of the point. “What’s he waving at?” says Kevin. I look up, and the guy is flailing his arms. Instinctively, I assume that he’s telling us to go somewhere else, or he’s warning us not to enter there. I wave back but receive no reply. Kevin goes in first. I see him paddle and then walk because he’s still in shallow water. It takes a while for him to get out. I hear someone yelling behind me. I turn around, and it’s an older woman on the balcony; she’s yelling at the guy in the lineup. Mystery solved. 

When it’s my turn, I get hindered by the rocks. Memories of duckdiving my board into the reef in Bali crosses my mind. I need to be extra careful, for I only have one board with me, and the last thing I want is an accident during my first morning on this trip. Once I’m past the rocks, I’m in the impact zone, but the white wash isn’t “roaring” or too difficult. I’m a little uneasy at our spot. I don’t know if there are any gnarly boulders that we can’t see under us, and the big rock formations forming the point are close by. We watch the old guy by the point. He’s farther out there, and some bomb sets approach him. It just seems so sketchy. One wrong move and he’ll get bashed into the point. He’s scratching out a lot. Some of the sets swing wide. Kevin and I scratch out on our first set. It’s reminiscent of Trestles but just a little more slopey and harder to get into; we have to catch them a little late. Another set comes, and this time I’m in good position. It’s a decent sized wave. I don’t want to exaggerate, but I’ll call it at just under six feet. Once again, since it’s not a “round wave” and is more gradual, it’s an “easy” five feet, plus. I get a lot of speed on the drop, bottom turn, and top turn just under the lip. I can’t hit the actual lip because the wave is too mooshy. It’s still a fun ride. I practice my backhand cut back, redirect, and stay in the pocket. Unfortunately, it’s one of those waves that are almost too soft, where the only chance for a turn is if you stay right where the wave is crumbling. The high tide may be an issue too.

Kevin’s happy for the wave I got. On the next set he catches his first wave. From behind I see him maneuvering back and forth along the face; he’s getting some turns down. A Mexican surfer paddles out to join us. I say good morning, and he returns a greeting to confirm the good energy. So it’s just us three with the older guy at the point. The old dude gets a couple rides at the top of the wave all the way to the inside. I cheer him on every time he rides by. If his house is right there by the rocks, then he truly has local priority. After the old guy goes in, another Mexican dude shows up. I take my chances and paddle to the top of the wave. Seeing the rocks that close is a little nerve-wracking. I sit in the wrong place, and a bomb set breaks on the outside. After duckdiving it, I’m able to make the next wave. It’s one thing to catch big waves at a familiar spot. However, this point break is all brand new, and I have this wave all to myself. In a way, I realize that a crowd brings some comfort, and being all alone on this point is a little eerie. I paddle into a steep drop. When I regain myself, I see that the wave is lining up to be a long ride. I see Kevin in front of me going over the wave; he’s hooting for me as I do my first top turn. On my second one, I do it by the Mexican guy. On the way back out, the Mexican dude says, “Nice wave.” I thank him.

I paddle up to Kevin and say, “It’s funny how good, uncrowded surf is talked about like it’s some kind of myth. Yet, here we are. We have this point to ourselves with only a couple guys out. It is possible!”

There’s a problem with catching waves at the point. At the end of the ride, it leaves you in the impact zone. On my last wave at the point, it takes me forever to paddle back. My right shoulder muscle feels worn out and is getting weaker. I paddle up to Kevin and tell him that I’m gonna join the other guys. I can either wade through those sketchy rocks to get back to the path, or I can paddle around the point to the other break. I choose to paddle around. Set waves lift me as they roll by and crash against the massive rock forming the point. It actually gets slabby when it breaks close to it. It’s a long ass paddle, but I finally clear the area. I see three dots and assume that Jay and Jonathan are two of them. By the time I make it up to Jonathan, my right shoulder is worn out. He tells me that the waves there are pitchy, fast, and they’ve watched guys get clean barrels. It’s hard to imagine because it’s a lull at the moment, but that soon changes. A wave catches us by surprise. It’s already breaking on the outside, but I’m by the shoulder that’s beginning to stand. I catch it as the lip’s about to throw. Everything seems textbook, but I’m not prepared for how vertical the face is; it’s really steep. The surprise predicament throws me off balance. I’m leaning backwards, struggle to stay on the board, and I back-plant. I emerge with a look on my face that says, “Holy shit, what was that?!” Clearly, these waves here are not like the waves at the point. At the moment before falling, I was near the base of the wave and saw the face standing. I blew a potential barrel. I do my best to respect the sea and prepare for the next one. Unfortunately, the lulls are long. Now Paul joins us in the lineup. That’s the issue with this break. Big waves roll through only to break late. On the next rideable set, Jay paddles for the first wave.

“You got it?” he asks.

“Yup.”

            He could’ve taken it, but he offers it up. Thank you, Jay. It’s another steep drop, but I don’t feel the wave going hollow. I feel water from the lip hitting my deck, but I negotiate out of the section to the face. Finally, I can practice some turns. I’m pumping with a lot of speed and initiate my cutback off the top. It feels graceful, but it probably looks sloppy. Either way, my feet are positioned to set my outer rail for the motion, my arms are outstretched, cheeks puffed, and it’s one of the very few times that I feel like I pulled it off. I keep pumping, and then I pull off one more. At the end of the wave there’s a little ramp before it closes out. I’ve watched enough surf porn to know when the pros attempt their airs, and this section is asking for it. Instead I just do a body air flop without my board. Come on . . . you know I ain’t ready for airs. . . . Paul, Kev, and Jonathan acknowledge my ride. I’m feeling pretty stoked. The next set is a goddam monster. None of us are in position for it, but a lined up, long, six foot wave pops up and starts peeling. It’s a little sloppy, so it’s not perfectly hollow, but the face is so vertical while still holding shape. That would’ve been the wave of the trip right there. Today this break isn’t perfect, but again . . . potential. 

            My last wave is a left. It’s like my first one at this break, but this time I don’t fall, and I’m able to get to the open face. I see the wave standing up, but there’s a problem. The wave is connecting with another section that’s closing out. I should kick out or go straight, but I say fuck it, fade out, and pull in. It’s a milestone for me. On this foul day of our Lord, October 8^th, 2011, I’m standing up in the barrel. There’s only a slight hunch in my shoulders. There’s a marble pattern in the water. The wave is blue and white wash mixed with beige sand, but as soon as it happens, it ends. I see the sections connecting. The mean wipeout is inevitable, but I remain standing until the very end when my outer rail gets clipped, and I fall awkwardly backwards. I resurface not really realizing all that’s happened. I try to paddle out, but the next waves in the set are ferocious. I see Jonathan, Paul, and Jay on the sand, so I turn around. We wait for Kevin and walk back up. We talk about this morning’s war stories. Jonathan has blood on his feet and so does Kevin. Walking up the stairs I recollect my last wave. I do not by any means count it as a barrel, but for the first time my awareness was heightened to slow down time inside of it. I’ll never forget it, everything: my stance, seeing the building wall to my left, the closing section approaching, and the will to ride it out despite the dirty lickins. If that’s how a counterfeit barrel feels, I can only imagine what the real thing must be like. 

Taco Time:

Paul on the right

            For lunch, we head to the seafood taco stand by K38. It’s windy as hell on the highway. A giant statue of Jesus Christ looks over us, and we meet Robert the cook who’s ready to grill. We feast . . . fucking feast. I eat one fried fish taco, one fried shrimp taco, two grilled shrimp tacos, and three octopus tacos. Yes . . . octopus tacos. Friggin’ delicious. Seven seafood tacos and a soda cost me $13. 

            Back at the base, I take a short nap, then . . . it’s seafood dinner time again! We head to Puerto Nuevo looking for the elusive “fast pass” to cross over the boarder in the “fast pass” lane come Monday. Unfortunately, none of the restaurants have them anymore. 

            Now . . . I don’t want to say any names, but one guy in the group gets pretty damn drunk. We keep going from restaurant to restaurant asking for the “fast pass.” We give up and decide on one by the sea. Everyone else orders lobsters, but I opt for the shrimp dinner instead. Drunkee is a little loud. I’m uncomfortable, but I hide it. The homemade tortillas and beans are the highlight of the meal. Drunkee has been very rude and aggressive with the waiter. He’s been negotiating hard for the margaritas. By the time the bill comes, he’s making sure the waiter goes over each item step by step. I can sense the frustration in the waiter’s voice. When it’s time to pitch in, there’s some disagreement about how much everyone is paying. A couple “fuck yous” fly across the table. I’m sure we’re looking like some classy Americans at this point. These are situations that I try to avoid at all costs. After being involved with the military, I’ve gone through a lot of cultural briefings or the “don’t be an American asshole” briefings. Even when I was stationed in Germany, they put us in a two week “head start” program to make sure we knew the basics of the culture. Well, this moment in this Mexican restaurant is getting pretty ugly. Another one of our guys demands clarification over the bill. Drunkee’s counting the money. Everyone else is demanding it from him. As he slaps their hands away, he knocks his drink over and spills margarita all over the table. The poor waiter has to spring into action to clean up after us. Classy. Finally, we’re out of there. We stop at little shop that’s about to close for souvenirs, and drunkee slaps one of our guys dead in the face. A slap is returned. Hmmmmm . . . really close friends perhaps?

Lobster Village AKA Puerto Nuevo

            Now we’re back at the house. I’m with different people with a different energy. I just want to score good waves. That’s all I want.