Once we cross the border, everything drastically changes from cookie-cutter homes, smooth gravel roads, shopping malls, and safety of mind and body, to taco stands, potholes, and funky smells. About the time we hit Ensenada we start to get the hang of things, passing by the authentic hand painted signs, coco stands, bad driving, and half finished construction. We see the gigantic Mexican flag and pass Papas & Beer... we’ll soon be in the mountains with the city in our exhaust.
The countryside instantly turns to sheer beauty and the vibe turns more inviting. The cactuses grow taller, the roads stretch longer, the gas stations are more spread out, unmarked speed bumps appear out of nowhere, as well as the sketchy military check points. Imaginations run rogue with how many good waves lie on this treasure map of the dusty unknown. We think to ourselves around every bend and twist of the coast, “what’s over that mountain range over there?” “what about through that valley?”
The rugged mountain coast is reminiscent of Big Sur’s beauty, and home to the lonely fisherman with two broken down trucks and a crude shack. He inhabits the entire cove and is unphased by the spitting peaks that crash on his beach. This is the promised land we set out to find, in this man’s everyday backyard. We trek deeper and dustier into a couple of zones we have never been to, more or less connecting the dots of exploration and quenching the surf exploration in our souls. We lug eight, 12’ 2x 4’s, a handful of tarps, rope, and all the camping gear we own to build a Water World fortress that we could call home for the week. After one day here everything that was so prevalent no longer exists. Like a Pink Floyd track that normally seems long, now seems like the beat of our footprints on the unprinted beach. It plays through our minds in the form of wind and waves. If you walk to either side of this wave-rich mystical cove you see and hear nobody. We talk to the lizard with our stillness on the red rocks at the point, talk to seagulls and the dead fish on the beach, while observing the sun bleached green Fresca bottle on the sand and wonder when and where it came from. Our sand castle of Modelo’s grow tall, signaling the trip is coming to an end.
Heading back north, the car has taken on an evolutionary look as the dust coated paint job now blends in with the roads. The dashboard is as colorfully scattered as a 4th of July night and with the lack of WiFi, we know the playlist by heart. What’s WiFi? Who cares what anyone else is doing on social media? When is the next swell, so we can return to this beautiful wave-filled lizard land?