Post Mex, Volume I

Brett and I took our first trip to "real Baja"(1) the first week in June. it almost didn't happen, as work schedules, wife schedules and life schedules continuously got in the way, but we finally both committed to the trip, and went.

We packed lightly, having little time to do so. For food, we brought some bagels, cream cheese, fruits, oatmeal, and carrots. "The rest of our diet," I confidently asserted, "will consist of the taco food group."

We drove through Ensenada, stopping for a stomach full of tacos, and off of the 1-D road to the little seaside town of erindria, and turned north. There was supposedly a strong south swell in the water, but when we reached the rocky shoreline, we saw no such thing.

We drove north for a half hour, looking at the ocean conditions as we went. The further north we drove, the more the swell filled in. But, the coastline was pretty inhospitable, consisting mostly of very rocky reefs that didn't look pleasant to get into or out of.

With the town of erindria little more than a memory behind us, we came at last to an amazingly picturesque cove of sand. We drove down a trail to the beach and looked at the water. A single wave was breaking all the way across 200 yards of beach in one smooth motion. We watched the wave break for some time, and concluded it was a consistent wall.

I walked out to the point on the far side of the cove, where a rock rose from the beach up to a high point. From there I looked north and found a larger cove(2), some miles long and with sporadic beach break waves all throughout.

We navigated a series of trails to find our way to the beach and a camping spot. At one point, the sand was very thick and we feared an inability to drive back out. We started setting up camp several hundred yards from the water in the middle of a sand dune, but after some encounters with off-road gringos, decided to try the drive out and find a better spot.

A better spot we did find. Brett drove out on to the pebble beach and we found a flat spot in a sandy cliff overlooking the break. We set up an e-z-up, rather than pitching a tent.

The evening surfing was decent, with wind still on the water. We surfed alone until just before sunset.

At camp, we realized that we were miles from any source of food. The taco food group I had so confidently placed my faith in was to fail us. We rationed the bagels and cream cheese to last us the next day and a half and lit a campfire.

The next day was Saturday. We woke up and surfed a spectacular morning of chest to slightly overhead surf for about two hours. Not a soul was in sight in the water to either the north or the south. The water was clear blue, cool, and calm. The only living thing we saw was a seal that seemed to be in love with Brett, and followed him around.

By chance, this day was the day of the famous Baja 500 off road race. After some rest, we broke camp, packed the boards, and went up to the main road to sit up by the road for the day as the motorcycles, quads, dune buggies, and off road racing truck barreled by. The road was littered with an audience of both gringos and locals. We discovered that there was a popular camping flat about 2 miles north of our surf spot.

After watching the spectacle, we returned to our campsite, ate some bagels and cream cheese, and slept.

Sunday morning, the beach and our campsite were covered in fog. The idea of using an e-z-up tarp rather than a tent had backfired. Our sleeping bags and stuffs were wet from the fog and dew. Looking out to the water, I couldn't see any waves through the fog.

We paddled out into the gray midst.

Just outside of the visible range from the shore were glassy a-frame peaks. I think I caught a right at one point, but for the most part, they were super long lefts. We caught some rides that were ridable for 50 yards. The set waves were a foot or two overhead, with an accessional "crap, paddle fast!" wave bigger than that. Both of us had longboards, and the take off was soft and smooth on the shoulder with the wave gaining power after it broke.

We surfed for over two hours and left the water exhausted but entirely satisfied. Again, during the whole session, there were no other surfers to be seen. The seal was there, but he didn't hog any waves.

We took the long road, following the race path, back to Ensenada. Brett wanted to test the 4 wheel drive abilities of his car. We drove through Ensenada and thru to rosarito where we stopped with grumbling stomachs to feast on many tacos.

The border wait was hell. Total hell on earth. ...but worth every minute.

Notes:
(1) "Real baja" is what the "Surfer's Guide to Baja" calls Baja south of Ensenada. At that point, the author claims, Baja stops being a "low rent suburb of san diago" and becomes real Mexican territory.
(2) The spot we'd discovered, come to find out, is called Punta Cabras. Wannasurf.com has some cool pictures of the cove on the south as well as the spot we surfed at. Apparently, the south cove is what the locals call "Punta cabras" and it's a popular Mexican campsite for the weekends. The northern, less accessable cove is what the gringos (or, at least the "Surfer's Guide to Baja") call "Punta Cabras" and is where most of the surfing happens. The south cove is reported to break better in the winter, with wrap around north swells sending a right across the cove. But, when we saw it the wave was just dumping.

Kinda big Wednesday 6-21-2006

Surfing on a Wednesday, it’s been a while.

I met Chase and Joe at Bolsa Chica this morning at 6:00 in the morning. My though was to stay north and out of the way of the brunt of the swell which had already made the papers. I had deliberately avoided the first day of the thing, hoping to let it loose some energy before braving it.

My friend, Chris was talking about paddling out at the river mouth in the overhead surf when I saw him and Joe on Monday night. There were sure to be quick take offs, fast turns and brutal walls of water.

“Doesn’t sound fun” Joe replied. “ I need a bit more time to stand up.” He smiled. “And when I turn, I ain’t so fast. I put on the turn signal first, you know.”

We laughed. “That sounds more like it, man.” I told him. “I think I’ll be going with you.”

So, we planned to meet at Bolsa Chica.

I got there early, about 10 till 6. The waves were small, textured by the wind, inconsistent, and the sets didn’t seem to be coming in at all. Chase pulled up in the his big white delivery van, and I waved him south.

“Nothing here.” I said, and recommended we try the cliffs.

Chase drove of to the cliffs. I stayed back to wait for Joe a few minutes. When Joe pulled in, I waved him to turn right back around.

We stopped at the upper parking lot first, but moved on. I got to the south parking lot at 15 minutes past 6, right as a monster of a set rolled in. I could see a big left shoulder from the road.

By that time, I was rushed. I typically need to be in the water before 6:15 to make my time count. I called the office from my cell phone.

“This is Travis. I’m running a little bit late this morning. Can you sign me out until 9?”

I hung up. I hoped the secretary wouldn’t pay attention to the time code on the message. It might be a give away to get a message at 6:15 in the morning saying that someone is running late to be at work by 8. But, in a sense, it was true. I was late getting into the water, and I wasn’t about to limit my time. So, I was going to be late.

On the shore, we walked south a bit looking for a lull. We crossed paths with a guy who was getting out, and asked him about the current. He said that he’d started at 17th street, and drifted to where we were in about an hour. 17th street was just over a mile away. So, the drift was going to be bad.

There were nice lulls between the sets to get out to the line up. The set waves were healthy and strong. Most of them looked like walled close outs, but here and there were shoulders and peaks among them. The “tweeners” (in-between set waves) were pretty good.

There was one girl in the water who seemed to be keeping good time with the current. She must have triangulated a spot on the shore, and was constantly paddling to the south. I followed her all morning. She was easy to spot, so when I noticed she was too far south of me, I put some paddling in. I fought the current for the whole hour, something I knew my arms would not forgive me for.

My first wave was too big and too late. I wound up on my knees, practicing my longboard kneeboarding technique. I actually made a decent turn, in an attempt to avoid killing a high school age kid on a shortboard.

My first real wave was a good drop into a fun left. In fact, all my waves were lefts. Such is life in Huntington in the summer.

“that’s one thing I know about this beach.” I told Joe while paddling south. “if ever you think you are lining up on a nice right…. you are mistaken.”

I had a really good wipe out also, trying to stand up and instead flipping forward to smack my face into the water before getting flipped about by the churning foam. I ended up on the inside, where two more set waves crashed into me before I could gain my board and paddle back out to the line up.

“Don’t worry” Joe said, paddling south and laughing. “nobody saw it!”

After my second good ride, my arms started to give. At one point, the girl I’d been following was missing. “Great.” I told Chase. “ I lost my marker. I guess I just paddle indefinably now.”

I also had the song from Pirates of the Carribean stuck in my head for some reason, probably having seen an ad for the upcoming movie. So, I kept humming to myself about "yo, ho, ho, ho, a pirate's life for me."

I started looking for a wave to take in, joking: “I’m going straight!”

“What do you mean?” Joe asked.

“That’s from when I started surfing. When somebody would ask: are you going right? Are you going left? The answer is ‘fuck that. I’m going straight.’”

I found my wave, and went left, turned off the bottom and headed up the face but saw that it was going to crash on me, so I turned back down and went straight.