Baja California

Mexico is a land of many things, one of which is great lobster. Great Big Lobster. Danny, George, Chris, and I were dwarfed by the feast and soon we were stuffed to our gills.

You see, I had gone down to Mexico to start my solo trip south bound and met these guys in Puerto Nuevo. From there we wandered south to La Boufadora to get hussled by salesmen and take in the magic of the infamous 'blowhole.'

It was at this point that our paths diverged and while the three drove back to the US, I kept my purchase and maintained my southbound course. I made it as far as Catavinia that night just in time for the local Catavinia dance. I was obviously out of place the moment I stepped into the little dance hall complete with a band that was playing a Spanish song that just kept repeating the word 'Catavinia' as I entered. I got some puzzled looks from a few, and even a sideways glance from a dark eyed girl folllowed by a bit of a giggle. That night I drove off the road into the desert avoiding Seguaro Cacti and granite boulders until I found a satisfactory spot and set up my sleeping bag in the back of my car and closed my eyes until sunrise.

The next morning I was awestruck by the glow of dawn illuminating the landscape to reveal a surreal vista of cacti, boulders, hills, and valleys that I was completely oblivious to in the twilight of the night before. As I stretched and yawned waiting for the sun to peak over the crest of the distant mountains I noticed the buzzards perched on cacti were doing the same. That morning I went for a hike into a valley where I had seen palm trees, and sure enough, when I got there I found a desert oasis. I left Catavinia by 10 and headed for Bajia De Los Angelas, which is on the Sea of Cortez side of the Baja. My first stop in this dinky little town with less than a few hundred dwellers was the museum. I lounged around the rest of the day, took a long walk up the peninsula, read a book, and when the sun went down I put on my ipod sat on my beach chair cocking my head to the stars and zoned out.

I woke up early for the sunrise and then rented a kayak and paddled a few hours to an island cove. Along the way I saw seals playing, plenty of fish, more sharks and sting rays than I could count, and a friendly sea turtle. I parked my kayak and tromped around the island only to come back and realize the northern wind had picked up. This was a good thing because returning the wind was on my back, creating small waves that propelled my tired vessle back to Bajia. Once I got back to shore I convinced a friendly fellow to let me borrow a fishing pole and we pulled out two fish from the shore, cut them into fillets on the spot, and fed the remnants to the birds. On my departure I got some ice for my cooler and the fish (this was a futile attempt that was only realized later in my journey when I went to cook the fish and found the fish and previously ice now water to have been warmed up considerably in the desert sun to spoiling proportions).

The next destination was Punta Rosarito at a surf spot called the wall which is one of the most consistant right point breaks in Baja. However I made an executive decision (I guess when you are traveling solo every decision is executive) to take the long way and stop off at Mission San Borjas. The road quickly deteriorated on this 26 mile trek to the center of this desert peninsula from washboard dirt pack to rock field. After mile 5 there was a military checkpoint in which men with AK's approached my car and asked to search it. I complied and after they were satisfied, they asked for a donation for their 'work.' I almost laughed. I asked them if they had any milk, of course they didn't they were in the middle of a godless desert, I opened up my cooler and produced one quart of soy milk, presented it to the puzzled men, and said a parting "Adios!" It was after the 24th mile that I really ran into trouble. A sharp rock punctured the tire letting air out slowly. I didn't notice it because the car was rocking and bumping around so much already, but when I tried to avoid a rock with the assumption of a clearance that I didn't actually have, I was quickly aware of my miscalculation. I jumped out of the car and saw my tire slowly deflate in seconds to the point that the rim was resting on the dirt. My first thought was to mentally tally up all the food and water I had and was releived to know that I had enough for several days should I need it. I looked around. Silence. The wind came every now and again spraying me with dust as I worked the tire jack and put on my 1/2 size spare. Satisfied, I idled my way to the mission.

At first I thought the place was deserted as I walked around the beautifully carved cantera stone mission. Then a young kid about 16 came out and greeted me. We talked for a while when he saw my car and the spare. He offered to patch the hole in the original, and I quickly obliged. He went to town on my wheel, improvising every step of the way. First he spashed soapy water on the tire, grabbed a pick axe and hit the tire with the scoop end, liberating it from the metal rim. He did the same on the other side and finally pried the two apart. Then he glued a rubber patch on the hole and repeated the process in reverse. Aired the tire and swaped it out for the spare. As we replaced the tire, we noticed a bit of a leak in the oil pan. Which turned out to be quite a gouge. The temporary solution was to collect the dripping oil and buy a quart of oil from the kid's family so that I could make it to the next town. I was introduced to his family and they seemed to be the nicest, most genuine people you could imagine. They had lived in a small house by the mission their whole life, sleeping outside, carting water from the desert oasis (I later found out it was a series of three thermal vents that brought the water to surface). They just recently received a solar panel for their porch light as gift from President Vincente Fox. The kid took me on a tour of their farm, mission, and the surrounding land. When we got to their hot spring, I noticed soap and he informed me they bathed in this one, got water in that one, and let the animals have the third. I tested the waters with my feet and then took the plunge. It was the only bath I took the whole trip and it was far over due at that. Before I left I thanked the family and asked how much I could pay them for the repair work. I almost sat down and gave them an economics lesson when they said 20 pesos would do. I went to my car and got $10, a big hand full of zip-ties (because they are strong and easy to use, especially to fix things impromptu in the desert), two bungee cords, and a gallon conainer of lemon gatorade powder (a huge hit because their water tasted of sulfur). I thanked them and drove off towards the sunset.

I couldn't make it all the way to Guerro Negro that night (it was another 70 miles south and I was spent... plus I was 2 miles from Punta Rosarito) so I drove to the beach and watched massive waves glide down the coastline, their crests blown by the onshore wind, as the sun drowned itself into the water in the horizon.

The next day I woke up excited to surf. The waves were bigger than the night before and they were coming from a slightly more western direction (versus the north west). The huge swell promised by surfline.com had arrived. I had no idea at the time it was this swell that would be making headlines for largest waves back in San Diego. I surfed from 7 to just past noon. So as to not get tossed, I walked to the point and paddled perpindicular to the lineup. What I didn't know was that I was just delaying the inevitable. I paddled down to catch the first wave. I was flailing my arms and in great position. The wave came and took me with it, but I was not prepared for its speed or size in the slightest. I lost balance trying to stand up and it swallowed me, chewed on my bones for a few long seconds, and spit me up in its frothy wash. No sooner did I secure my board and get a second breath than another, more sinister wave did the same. This process continued for the next 6 waves, and I was losing ground each time. I felt like I was in the middle of a cruel game of keepaway. I finally conceeded and boogie boarded the next wave. This proved to be both effective and fun. The ride lasted for at least 30 seconds and I got barreled at least twice as the wave progressed perpindicular to the shoreline. I got out and walked back to the point and tried the process again. Similar failures ensued this attempt. It wasn't until my 4th attempt from the point that I actually rode one of these monsters. I was tired and angry at that point. Frusterated at myself, suspicious about my board's integrity, and downright exhausted. I paddled just as the wave was breaking and the offshore wind somehow managed to keep me from catching it. Instead I was blown off the crest and a shower of salty droplets engulfed me in the calm water that didn't break. A rainbow shown through the mist almost as encouragement. The next wave was identical to the first, but somehow I stood up just and it was breaking and I was propelled with great speed to the curl below. I adjusted my back foot for balance and turned a sweeping right turn. I rode the wave for what seemed like 5 minutes (later from the shore I timed the waves crashing down the coast to be more like 50 or so seconds... but still far longer than I've ever experienced). It was like I was skiing rather than surfing. I carved up and down the wave all the way back to the shore. That day I spent over 5 hours surfing and talleyed up only a handfull of waves I caught, but this one made it all worth it.

When I made it back to my car I had to face reality again. I still had a hole in my oil pan the size of a penny. By now all the oil had dripped out (I found a few abalone shells and put them under the car to collect the drippings) and I was officially stranded. I gues I was technically stranded before, but I wasn't ready to acknowledge it until I had surfed a bit. I mean, that's why I came to Baja in the first place. But now I had a hole to plug. I tore through my supplies in my trunk and after a great deal of thinking found a solution. I dug a hole in the sand below my car and threw down a towel so that I could work on the oil pan. Then I grabbed some surf wax and put a light coat of wax in the hole to keep any residual oil from coming through. I took a piece of used sand paper and scraped the metal clean and rough. Next I squeazed some Solarez onto my figer and smeared a coat around the hole (Solarez is a surfboard repair product that has an expoxy resin with fiberglass fibers included in the matrix. It is activated by the UV in sunlight, which was the biggest problem) I waited for a while for the Solarez to cure, then found an emergency blanket in my first aid kit that is made out of reflective mylar that worked brilliantly as a mirror to reflect the sunlight under the chassis of my car. After 4 applications of Solarez, I was pretty confident the patch would hold oil. I put in my quart and fired up the engine. The oil light went off and underneath I couldn't see any drops, so I was good to go... except I was 4 quarts shy of a full oil tank. Thats when the winds of chance blew my way. A guy in a red truck came blazing down the road leaving a cloud of dust behind him. He was camping further north on the point than me and as he drove by he slowed down and asked if I wanted beer from Guerro Negro. "Beer would be great, and I need about a case of motor oil, too." He looked at my hands and saw the oil and grease and realized my burden. Several hours later he returned and I filled my oil and took off.

I zoned out to the sounds of "Dick's Picks #11" Greatfull Dead compilation that was playing on repeat and soon I was again in Catavinia lit by the moonlight. I pressed forward after adding a quart to my oil tank (The heat of the engine and vibrations of the road had loosened the edges of my fiberglass resin patch and oil was leaking, but at a comparatively slow rate). I made it to Ensenada that Tuesday night just before midnight. There I met Angel Saad (a friend from Stanford who lives there) and we partied the night away at Husong's Cantina. The following day we cruized around Ensenada and hung out. I met his family (his uncle was an ex-Mexican Wrestler) and bonded with his dad about our shared Lebanese heritage. His dad took me to an auto shop to replace my oil pan and that night a ton of Angel's friends came over and we had a fiesta at his place. The next morning I thanked Angel and his family and left for the good ol' US of A. I picked up my brother in San Bernidino and kept driving north finally stoping in Visalia once our nostrils were permeated with the smell of farming.