Some Baja Surfing, May 2005

"This must be it." I told Brett, looking off to the side of the road and comparing the vista to my 44-peso map.

There was a small dirt road and a few buildings: a shipping center, a school, a few houses and a church. Brett pulled off the main road, and slowed to a crawl. We'd crossed the federali checkpoint, left behind the last Pemex station about thirty miles ago and crossed into "real Baja", a land undeveloped and populated more by grazing livestock than by permanently settled people.

After the small village, the road climbed a small hill and we could see the next hour and a half of our lives. There was a narrow, rocky, unpaved road winding endlessly through a tight valley between two walls of sprawling natural hills.

Brett switched the vehicle into four-wheel drive. "After seven years," he said, "this car will finally be broken in." He explained later that most SUVs are sold with the suspension adjusted for urban usage. So, while the car was perfectly equipped for the terrain, we were going to feel each and every gully, rut, rock, bump, lump and crevice in our tailbones.

As we drove into the valley, a river ran alongside the road. At one point, the river crossed the road. We stopped to look at the depth of the water and judge whether the car could make it through or if we could clear a path around. While we were discussing this, a small truck with three Mexicans in the cab drove up and splashed into the river without ever breaking speed. The driver flashed me a smile and the two fingered peace sign.

Further down the valley, the floor expanded and we passed agricultural fields with vast rows of planted crops. On the side of the road, we read signs marking the border between rancho and rancho. We passed cattle, free roaming horses, and finally, a group of burros.

"It just wouldn't be a trip to Mexico without running into a couple of burros, would it?" Brett joked.

We passed a road that looked to be a turn off to get out of the valley. A local, standing at the corner, told us that the road went to "punto china", whatever that was.

Finally, we rounded a turn where there were no new mountain to see. The valley opened to the ocean. At the end of the road was a built up damn of sand preventing the river from emptying into the ocean, holding water back to the fields. There were a few houses, an abandoned food stand, and a small beach with a slow breaking, close out wave in very shallow water.

"I didn't come all this way to surf that." Brett said.

We turned around, and went back to the turn off for punta china. After crossing the river, the road hugged the cliffs until it opened onto a waterfront plateau about 50 feet above the water.

We drove slowly, looking at the various outlets and coves, looking for a good looking wave. The best place we found was at the end of the road. There was a cluster of several buildings behind a guarded Iron Gate and concrete wall marked "CEMEX". After a brief discussion with the guard, it was decided that we couldn't bring our car through the gate, but we could park there while we surfed. He opened the gate for us to walk through, carrying our board bags and wetsuits.

Navigating to the water was a mild challenge. There was a road that appeared to have led to the water at one point, but clearly hadn't been used in a good many years. At the bottom of the road was a beach of smooth gray and blue pebbles where we changed into superhero outfits.

I paddled out into the water, past the breaking waves, sat up on my board and looked around. The spot was a crescent shaped ridge of sheer cliff. To the south, a natural rock jetty extended into the ocean, causing a consistent left breaking wave. To the north, a pile of rocks under the water caused a second wave. The second wave looked dangerous. Every swell of water that rolled over the rocks boiled ominously. I decided that the left was good enough.

Brett got the first wave, and rode it more than fifty yards uninterrupted. I paddled around a bit, until he explained his positional triangulation. He had noticed a series of trees, rock, cliffs, and mountain features to determine a constant position in the water where the wave was breaking.

In gratitude for this information, I dropped in on him.

We had both brought long boards, and the wave was perfect for them. It was soft but powerful, with sections of slow crumbles and faster pitches. The wave was forgiving on the drop, but then fast in the second turn. It was a fun ride.

The water was crystal clear blue, miles from any source of pollutant, and warmer than I'd been told to expect from Baja. The spotting of a few dolphins convinced me that there were no sharks anywhere near. (Not true, probably. But since sharkiness is a state of mind, it's the thought that counts.)

There was a nice channel for paddling out, and the waves were consistent. Some of the mid sized sets were chest to shoulder high. When the bigger sets came, they were shoulder to head high. Even the biggest waves were soft enough not to be menacing, and were even a bit tricky to paddle into. Once up and riding, the waves were a wide canvas of possibilities, pushing, releasing, pitching and changing towards the rocky beach.

We surfed the spot for about an hour (in which time I think I dropped in on Brett at least one or two more times), and then got out. The clock was not in our favor. We'd left two wives and three kids in a house in Ensenada some two hours away (including a stop for fish tacos), and were sure to be in some trouble upon our return. The whole trek was a seven hour expedition from Ensenada, and for every hour of that over one - I was gonna get it.

"Well," Brett said, standing on the pebble beach and looking out into the picturesque scene. "After all these years you finally dragged me down here to go surfing in Mex."

I laughed, and looked one more time. I hadn't brought a camera, of course. That would have required foresight and common sense, both of which I were decidedly short of. But, camera or no, I'd never forget the place. It was a small postcard piece of private heaven for an hour of time.

Only the good Lord and the CEMEX guard know if the place breaks 300 days a year, or just that day. But, who cares. I was there.

The next day we Ensenada left earlier and ventured north to the more accessible and better known spot, salsipuedes.

Translated to English, salsipuedes means "leave if you can." The indispensable Surfers Guide to Baja postulates that the name can be attributed to any number of reasons, not the least of which is an excellent wave that we found hard to leave after two hours of surfing in the "heavy" crowd of six people.

Salsipuedes could also refer to the inhospitable foot path from the beach up to the campsite, a treacherous climb up the cliff face over rocks and mud. Or, salsipuedes may refer to the road up to the highway, a lumpy dirt road with series of jagged switchbacks, sporadically populated by sheep and rooster.

In any case, the name seems to be a curse of sorts. As we were packing up to leave, a group of Mexican girls tried to start their car, and found the battery dead. The proprietors of the campsite, in a large American truck, set up to give a jump-start, crowding both vehicles into the small campsite on the cliff. However, when they tried to perform the jumpstart, the truck died.

"Salsipuedes." I mumbled to Brett.

Fortunately, nobody asked us to get involved. I could foresee the curse of salsipuedes claiming vehicle after vehicle as the day progressed and the late morning wind picked up into a blast of air against the steep cliff. Instead, one of the guys asked us for a ride halfway up the hill to his house, where he could get "the other truck" to bring down into the mix. We obliged.

-Travis
5-10-05