Cross the Border

Here goes nothing

Most people I had parking lot conversations with advised me to cross the border as early as possible in order to avoid traffic congestion. Naturally I left Encinitas around 10 am, and rolled up to the border at the crack of noon. The crossing was friendly, swift, and surprisingly uneventful. An hour or so later down empty highways I arrived at Punta San Miguel. Still too close to Tijuana to risk camping in the bush or near the road I opted for the Villas San Miguel campgrounds. Camping was overpriced at 120 pesos per night, but the surf was decent and it was my first night in Mexico so I decided to splurge. The next morning I raised anchor and set sail for Punta Santa Rosalita, aka "the wall." When the time came to exit the highway I was excited for a little jaunt off the pavement. Slowly making my way over the lumps and bumps I drove past some really nice waves. I wondered how good the wall must be if this fantastic setup was left completely empty. I moseyed along further north and the terrain became more and more difficult. The river beds I had been driving through were becoming steeper and deeper. I damn near tipped the van over driving down a particularly steep mound with unavoidable ruts and rocks everywhere. My things were flying around inside the van as it swung from side to side and front to back. Just when I realized I may be exceeding the off-road limits of my '73 Dodge van I reached the crest of a tall and rocky embankment. My heart sank. Here I was, by myself, several hours drive into the desert surrounded by nothing but dirt, dust, cacti and the sea and what stood between me and salvation was a beautiful white sand beach several kilometres long. At this point I had gone way too far to turn around and I had no choice but to hammer down and hope for the best. Well, I made it about 20 meters until my tires sunk into that soft white sand, and it was then that I discovered the extent of my vans off-road capabilities. No amount of tire deflation would help my tires achieve the traction they required to push the blue behemoth, the beach was simply too soft. I proceeded to dig myself out over and over again, I took the longboards off the roof in an attempt to use the bags as runways for my tires. All said and done about an hour or so later I had covered about a foot or two of ground, backwards. Eventually I was forced to realize my fate, packed everything into the van, and set off on foot in search of assistance. According to my map there was a small town several kilometres to the north. When I reached the outskirts of the town I came upon 3 hombres, shooting the breeze and slurping Tecate. It was around noon. I relayed my message in my best Spanish; "Mi coche es en la playa, necesito quatro by quatro." The men slowly sauntered into action, I jumped in the back of the truck and we were off down the beach. A few snapped ropes later we managed to drag the van onto hard sand below the tideline and I was back in business. 40 something off-road kilometres finding myself in the friendly fishing town of Punta Santa Rosalillita. The only payment the boys asked for was a beer each. I ended up hanging out and drinking with those guys all day. Enrique's wife even cooked us lunch. After about a dozen beers each I brought out the guitars and the guys went at it, singing their hearts out and playing classic mexican mariachi tunes. I ended up camping in Enrique's driveway that night.

Freedom

Derecha Pequeña

  The next day I hit the reset button and once again set out in search of the wall, which just so happened to be that initial point setup I had admired, only about 45 minutes down the dirt. Apparently it's a popular camping spot, seldom uninhabited by surfers, but I found the place completely deserted. For some reason it just reeked of bad vibes to me. The wind was onshore, the sky was dark, the rocks were dark, the sea was grey. I surveyed the area and told myself I would spend the weekend regardless, in hopes that some company would soon arrive or that the surf would improve. I awoke around 3 or 4 am to some lights headed down the path. When again I awoke to the rain and my solitude I decided to pull the 'chute and get the F out of there. You know, I've heard great things about the place and I really wanted to spend some time there, but you know what they say, sometimes you eat the bar, and well...

Bluey was mortified when he saw what had happened to his cousin "Senor Amarillo"

Surf Art