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	Wisdumb
	Drugs and Guns to Northern Baja - Part 2 (9-22-04) ...On the way back from the mercado de pescado, we cruise along the free road and spot some decent surf. We were too cheap to pay a nominal fee to drive on the smooth highway between Tijuana and Ensenada, and it clearly worked in our favor. There is a little cove with a nice left breaking into it. There are some other folks out so we give it a go. Glenn and I paddle out while Dave chills in his board repair sweatshop factory up by the car. The surf turns out to be pretty good and all the people out turn out to be my friends from the Cal Poly surf club. We are getting all sorts of waves when one jacks up to 10' and unloads right on my head breaking my leash. My Mach 10(!) quickly washes in to the rocks and I go to get it. The problem is that the seaweed is so thick it takes me nearly 15 minutes to work my way through it just to get out of the water. I was trying my hardest not to freak out and hyperventilate about all the monsters in the kelp I couldn't see but could certainly see me. After thinking we were having a good time, suddenly, an angry man starts yelling at us to get out of the water and off his property. Dave and I get in our car and take off, while Glenn is still in the water. He gets out and is running for his life with his board and fins. It was precious. We dubbed that spot "Angry Man's". After lunch, we essentially headed to a spot that was just north of K38 for an evening session. The tide was super low and these incredibly long and punchy rights were peeling from way outside. I got a bunch of racy dropknee walls while Dave went deep. That was the best surf we got by far. Happily, no one bothered to break into our car while parked, or pull us over while driving. For some reason, I am paranoid of starving to death even though this has never happened to me. I'm sure I am traumatized by some past event I block out of my mind. My fears are unfounded since all we did was eat like pig-kings. Since we had the usual no-plan, we brought our fish to Dave's friend's house and had a nice dinner party. About half way through, one guy asks how far we expect to travel tonight. I mention we were thinking of staying there but that didn't go over too well. Apparently, one of them saw us sleeping in the driveway and had a tizzy. (For the record, if you are a world traveling bodyboarder, you can stay the night at my house anytime; drbrokenman@hotmail.com) So, after I drank too much to drive, Glenn drives us around the neighborhood looking for a flat spot of dirt to suit us. We find a good one and set up shop for the night. The next morning nature calls and we find this thing that looks like a coffee table but with a hole in it. Whatever it was meant to be, it made a fine toilet seat. By now, it is plenty light and we are in view of the highway so I yell out for someone to throw me my $hit brown jacket for camouflage. Apparently they thought I needed a costume or uniform to match the moment so they got another good laugh at my expense. We pack up and head south again to K38 and get some fun surf with sun and light wind. Everyone would get nervous while checking the surf off the side of the crappy free road since I was doing the same, while driving. Later that day, we find a nice spot to park at the top of a giant sand dune that drops into the ocean. It looks like a fine place to camp so we are on it. While we are standing there, some dude comes out and puts up a string of little flags, with little pomp and circumstance, and says we are now in a 'camp ground' so pay up. After the usual talk-back, we agree on $7 or so for the night. Whatever. So, where's the water spout, fire pit and smores? We pick up some tortillas at a local store and feast on soft tacos made with these tortillas and a can of chili. Any disappointment in the menu was smoothed with some cheap beer. That night we set up my tent on the sand a bit over from the car. I slept in the back seat of my large comfortable American automobile while Glenn and Dave slept in the tent. In our slop, we pitched it on a slight slope so during the course of the evening they would slide down the hill in the tent forming a clump of chumps at the low side of the tent. While they were playing games, I was awoken by a bad dog sniffin' at my delicious feet. We both got the poop scared out of us as he went running. The next day, understandably, the new 'camp host' starts in with badgering me for more camping fees. The madder I get, the more my Spanish improves to the point where I win the argument and avoid paying for another day and a new coil of cheap plastic flags on a string. By now, we have had enough of Baja. We got some great surf. We didn't get arrested for nothing, or at all for that matter. We have made our statement. It is time to leave. We head north on the free road, cautiously looking for cows, trash, pot holes or wild cards. We bottom out hard on a dip, challenging the resolve of my oil pan. Cruising along, trying to stay awake in the Mexican sun, I spot a big bus 2 cars back itching to pass. He goes for it on this crappy road and I see him charging around the junker station wagon behind me. Unfortunately, a flat bed trailer truck, the kind that would haul a big tractor is coming right at us. The macho idiot driving the bus will not back down. As the truck races by, his trailer is bouncing off the ground as his locked wheels refuse to roll. I dive off the road into a dirt pull off at 50 mph and the bus races by, on his way to el baño to clean his shorts. I apologize to Glenn and Dave for waking them up, sweat soaking through my clothes. Shaken, a little hungry and certainly dirty, we roll into Rosarito beach for some dice-roll food. We spot a small shack that is making carne asada soft tacos and we are in the zone. We swagger down the sidewalk like cowboys in a Clint Eastwood movie and pass glances at the drunken blond coeds j-walking through traffic like the car drivers would bother stopping. The salt and filth smothers our massive sex appeal and the drunken girls stagger away. On the side of the road as we take our final stroll in Baja, we spot a man who is completely covered in charcoal. He is very dark and makes us feel very clean and sterile. We try to get close for a picture but he gets spooked so we take off. We proceed north to the traffic jam that is the boarder crossing. I practice my Spanish on a blanket seller and see how low I can get his price. I see a woman boarder crossing agent and maneuver my car towards her lane as I speculate she will be kinder and gentler to our journey al Norte. This turns out to be a tactical error as she brow-beats me into a stuttering idiot. I admit we had some oranges and a half bottle of tequila in the trunk. As we learned on the way in, we don't pull any stunts and donate our snacks and drinks to the hatchet-faced goddess of authority and avoided a secondary vehicle cavity search; a gloved hand probing our exhaust pipe... The long drive north to San Luis Obispo is relatively uneventful. I suppose the biggest thrill for me was going through Gaviota which is a stretch of road facing due south and notorious for strong winds. It is about 11pm by now and the wind is rocking my big green 1974 Oldsmobile Cutlass all over the road. Dave stirs a bit as my hooting abbreviates his endless nap. Back home, I look the car over, not unlike the pre-trip brief. This time I notice a huge gash in the sidewall of my tire that somehow held on through all the beatings and mud donuts. Since I can't help but live in the past, I haven't returned, by car, to northern Baja. I am crippled by superstition occasionally, so I fear trying to recreate the magic since the odds are against me. Our trip was an unqualified success and should be left alone. I have little interest in rolling the dice again in a nation where theft and corruption is institutionalized and littering is sport. But who can blame them? They are simply inspired by their neighbor to the north, where we have taken those same attributes to a higher, professional and global level. According to high school history, after the Spanish American war, we could have had Baja California to add to our booty but we declined. What would we do with a bunch of desert land with no water or trees? Instead, it has remained a semi-desolate region, full of adventure, thieves, broken glass and surf, where everyone can have their personal dirt road. As a recent development, the Mexican tourism ministry is trying to put in a string of marinas down the coast of Baja so that US yacht owners can skip down the coast with their chardonnay and trophy wives. http://www.laescaleranautica.com/ Unfortunately, the best place for a marina is a perfect point break. Like Punta Abreojos for instance. This project has gone on and off the drawing board due to protests from people like us. Meanwhile, I might change my mind and roll the dice on another journey south, before they start choking on the bland, fattening flavors of American style urban sprawl. more stories >>