Coastalsurvey

From: “Bonzer”
Newsgroups: alt.surfing
Subject: Baja
Date: 18 Oct 1996

We left one Thursday approx. 2:30 pm. Intended a run to Abreojos, but wanted to check Rosallita on the way. Knew a swell was due from the south, but also a west was expected. Had to check it. Went with my friend Mark. This guy has been surfing nearly forty years, every day there is something to surf. He doesn’t talk much, never says anything bad about anybody, but he can surf. Very quietly. But he can surf. He never says how “great it was dude”, or how he “caught the most awesome wave dude”, but it was, he did, and you saw.

Driving Baja at night is the best. Especially with someone who doesn’t talk, which is why I like traveling with Mark. The miles peel by, soaking up the ambiance (or whatever that smell outside is) and dreaming of what is to be. Occasionally being shaken back to reality on a blind corner staring into the headlights of an 18 wheeler on your side of the road.

Anyway, this particular trip, we noticed a number of places that the federales were stopping traffic. They always asked “do you have any drugs”? Sorry, no. I don’t know what they wanted with them, I always thought they had enough of their own. But it was curious.

We were stopped just south of Ensenada, again south of Santa Thomas, again just north of San Quintin, and just after El Rosario. Weird. Always the same question posed by one soldier who barely speaks English backed up by 30 who don’t. All of them of course are carrying old 30/30′s or 30 06′s or something like that. It brought to our mind the problems that summer on the road to San Felipe wherein a number of Americans had been relieved of vehicles by federales, or posers at least.

After El Rosario, we figured easy rolling. Approx. one million miles with no people, towns, federales, etc. Think again. We are driving about 2am and hadn’t seen but maybe 2 or 3 trucks north bound when suddenly there is the tell tale pot of burning tar (Mexican sig alert) in the middle of the road. We are in the middle of nowhere. I swear, 100 miles from the nearest electrical service! The stars are so close in the sky you can touch them. Then, there they are. About 30 soldiers. Dim flashlights, burning pots, guns everywhere, and we are being flagged over. Great. What the heck is this all about.

Both Mark and I tend to be pretty cool customers, but I can tell you, the senses were alive. Mark was driving and I could tell by looking at him, he was considering the options. As we slow and pull over some, about 10 of them stand right in our way. Good place for a stop, there is no shoulder. So we do.

The only guy who speaks English tells us to turn off the truck and the headlights. Great! Mark complies but his hand never leaves the key, and he shifts in reverse as he turns it off, leaving his foot on the clutch (I knew he saw the turn out just behind us), while I have visions of bleached bones in the desert sun. A number come over and crowd around the guy talking to us shining the flashlights in our eyes, which is helpful. We see no vehicles at all. None. What are they doing here? Where are the vehicles?

The spokesman says “do you have drugs”? We say no, then he flashes the light in the truck bed and sees our surf boards and camp stuff and smiles. He says “you surfing”? Everyone begins to laugh and say “surfing, surfing, surfing”? The main guy says “bueno, you surfing ok, we see you later, have grande olas”. Everyone laughs and waves, and we leave. What was that about? Oh well, that’s Baja for you. Kind a like a woman, never know what to expect. Keep posted for the rest of the story. ….

… Where was I? Oh yeah. Rolled into Rosalita at about 3 or 4 am. Grabbed a few winks on the ground and woke with the sun to check it out. My first time there. This place supposedly has one of the longest waves around. But it needs a big swell from the west to go off. It was breaking, but small, about 2 foot and was breaking forever. I had my longboard and was tempted, but the south and warm water was beckoning. On the road again.

Stopped in Guerro Negro for some food (and the can opener I forgot), and found a “surf shop”. Cheap rip off Chinese made surf clothes. A couple of bars of beeswax. No boards, or supplies of any kind. The head tacos were good though, as long as you didn’t look at what was in them.

Another couple hours to the turn off to Abreojos (and a little store that sells only beer) and then a long, long, long, long . . . . . . hot (no air in the truck), dusty drive back to the ocean on a tooth loosening, bone rattling, roid bursting, washboard road. All along this road are little columns of rocks people have stacked up like alters, why?!? Maybe some of the crew from seaside reef has been here (you have to know the place). Just the day before, there had been a heavy thunderstorm and rain, and evidence of it was in every depression in the road. Finally the tip. A small fishing town, cannery, military barracks, “store”, and waves. There are several breaks on this peninsula. The reefs are on the east side and are open to all south swells. The west side is open beach break and looks to pick up most everything. Most surf the east side. It’s weird, the sun comes up over the ocean and sets over land. You are so far out on the point, feels like you are on an island or the right coast.

Razor’s was cranking, so we didn’t even set up camp before hitting it. First wave, I found out why it is called razors. Caught a nice head high peak and surfed into the reef. A little backed off from high tide. Inside, I pushed off the bottom onto my board to paddle back out and felt something funny (kinda like a razor?) slice my toes. That reef is sharp. But no matter, the waves were good. Machine waves. As the tide dropped, it got hollow on the inside. By the end of the session, the water was draining off the reef and sucking up the face of the wave on the inside. Was a little sketchy so we went in.

Then the we noticed the flies and mosquitos. The flies are there because of the cannery. The mossies are there because of the storm. They lay dormant until a heavy rain and then come out in force. It usually only happens once or twice a year. Of course it happened while we were there. Those bugs love me. Had no spray, no nothing. It was hot and I was eaten raw by mosquitos and biting flies. They didn’t “bug” Mark at all. Later in the afternoon the wind howled offshore. Too strong to surf it. Got rid of the bugs, but could only sit and watch the spray off the backs of dream waves.

Stayed several days in spite of the bugs (Mark took to calling me hamburger), because the sessions before the wind were worth it. Warm clear water, excellent surf, cold beer, fresh tuna fillets. Forget the wind, the drive, the bugs, the heat, the cuts, the boredom, this was living. Gotta love it.

– See you out there, Bonzer

From: Surfer Bob
Newsgroups: alt.surfing
Subject: BAJA! Part 1 of 6
Date: Tue, 29 Oct 1996

Howdy folks,

I spent the last half of September hitting surf spots in Baja CA with two bro.’s in my ’78 VW van. It’s taken me little while to write it up, since I got back late for classes. I’ll try to walk a thin line between giving you enough detail to get an enjoyable sense of place without explicitly identifying any spots. If you know Baja, you can probably figure out where we went. If you don’t know, please don’t ask me. It’s a little long, so I will send this in 6 installments. This is part 1 of 6

Day 1: Cross border mid-morning. Head south. Spots north of Ensenada are waist high, crumbly, unremarkable. San Miguel looks very pacific. Air is cold. South of Ensenada, we start hitting paramilitary checkpoints along the road. The Federal Narco guys dress like a SWAT team and are pretty thorough. We are wise enough to bring no mota on this trip, so we endure searches with no worries. That is, until one guy starts lighting fragments of leaves from my floor mats and sniffing the smoke suspiciously- right next to our Jerry cans full of gasoline! I try to stay calm.

On the coast south a ways, a small NW swell starts lighting up lots of spots with shoulder high sets. Light offshore breeze combs lines in golden, late afternoon sunlight. We camp after dark rather close to the road under a giant cardon cactus and crazy looking boojum trees.

Day 2: Southward. At a gas stop, we powwow with another surfer in a VW bus and trade notes. Based on that Info we head for Punta Derecha #1. We pull up to see shoulder to head high waves with sideshore winds and textured faces. There’s no one else in sight and the tide is dropping, so I’m in no hurry. I hang on the beach and clean ancient black wax and sand off an 8’0″ Scott noserider loaned by a friend.

My bro.’s are getting warmed up in the lineup as I undertake Solar-Rez repairs of ancient duct taped dings. When I’m about ready to go, my buddy N comes in with a small hole in the side of his booty saying, “I hit something sharp out there when I fell off on the inside…” He pulls his booty off to reveal a hideous, bloody, gaping wound 3 inches long and half an inch deep! YEA GADS! I have visions of driving him out of Baja deliriously feverish with a systemic infection on about Day 5.

He winces and makes with the bleach, betadine and gauze as I paddle out for a fun, cautious session. The theme is warm, backlit green walls on a 6’10″ Skip Frye history teacher, another weird older board we have along. It’s a trifin, kind of a wide spud. The bottom turns feel mooshy- not a lot of bite in these neutral, egg shaped rails. But the topturns feel fun and slithery and it recovers real well in the whitewater. It’s probably fine for the crappy Pacific Beach waves Skip designed it for, but these waves are asking me for something with more precise trim. After a while, I trade boards with J and get on another hybrid spud with much harder down rails. The difference is immediate and gratifying: I stop slithering through turns and start carving clean lines. On the way in, I notice big pink sharp edged barnacles on the larger rocks. It’s the only sharp thing I can see in the lineup. I wonder what N’s foot would have looked like if he were barefoot when he hit one of those.

……

In our last episode, we scored epic rights on the best day of the trip, surfed all we could, then partied hearty with the local sheriff.

Day 7: More good surf at Punta Derecha #3. The swell seems to have peaked, but is holding at fun size. I have a morning session with J at the hot sandbar on my newly repaired thruster. Head high takeoffs into shoulder high waves. Fast, hollow, occasionally makeable rights over a shallow bar of fine white sand always end in thumping closeouts. I pull in at every opportunity and make a few, get thumped a lot, and go really fast down the line on a couple. Fun, but tiring. N’s foot has finally healed enough that he wraps his bandage with duct tape and goes surfing. He’s stoked to be back in the water. I hoot him into going late on a big one, but he gets axed. What are friends for? :-)

The incoming tide really pushes the swell and the evening high tide session is epic. Sets are definitely well overhead on the takeoffs. Long rides all the way to the inside with big, swooping carves on dark warbly walls are the theme. I get an outrageous long freight train ride and could leave happy but I think about all the beautiful sets we saw in the moonlight last night, and decide to go back for ONE… MORE…WAVE…

That proves to be a fateful decision. It gets dark, everyone else gets out, and a big lull sets in. I bob and wait. I don’t even know how long I wait- I took my watch off when we crossed the border. I wait until my subconscious begins to merge with the dark sea I float in and things get a bit transcendent. I wait a long time.

Inevitably my thoughts turn to sharks feeding at dusk, and I get spooked. Eventually I begin A CONVERSATION WITH THE BIG KAHUNA, whom I envision as the spirit of surfers and the sea. The Big Kahuna and I go way back. I often chat with him to pass the time while enduring really long lulls. Because there is no one else around, I speak aloud on this occasion.

I tell him that I have been virtuous, deserving, and am working hard on developing the patience of a Saint, and may I please have one wave to the paddle out rock so I can go eat dinner? Kahuna remains implacably silent and refuses to give it up. I bob and wait. I ask again and say pretty please. Nothing. I wait some more. I finally scratch hard for a tiny one and get about 1/4 of the way in.

I entreat The Big Kahuna to send a set wave to take me home, but Kahuna continues to blow me off and offers not even a ripple. For another fifteen minutes of so I float on a mirrorlike ocean and try to fill my attention with the beautiful, silvery moonlight on the water and the stars coming out overhead as the sky goes from indigo to black. I keep coming back to imaginings of a sudden splash, a toothy tug, a white belly in the moonlight, and severed arteries spilling blood into blackness.

There are lines out to sea that look like incoming swells, but they are just wind waves on the water outside the point. In the lee of the point the ocean remains mirror flat. I am disgusted. A startled baitfish jumps and I wonder what is pursuing it down there around my feet. Nothing disturbs the Pacific mirror. I tell The Big Kahuna in no uncertain terms that he is being a total dickhead and if I weren’t such a committed surfer I would have stopped hanging out with him years ago. The Big Kahuna shrugs indifferently at my little tantrum of indignant self importance. I’m pissing in the wind, and I know it. I paddle slowly in, stopping three times to stare hopefully over my shoulder and out to sea for a reason to spin and go. Nothing.

The Big Kahuna waits until I am up in camp, dried and changed before unleashing a series of four wave sets, most of which break all the way to the paddle out rock. I’ve had so many good ones in the last two days that I’m only a little mad. I knew they would would come once I went in, after all. I think,” OK, OK! So the joke’s on me and these waves are the punchline. You dickhead…” But I have to laugh.

I think the lesson is either about patience, or about knowing when to quit while you’re ahead (getting out of the water after the magic wave instead of paddling back for one more). Or maybe the ocean doesn’t give a rip what I say or do and “The Big Kahuna” is just a cultural construct I make up because he’s more fun than whistling in the dark. Could be. There’s always a rationalist bug in the back of my mind that says so. But Hell! If I’m having conversations with voices in my head, I’ll talk to who I want to. And it never hurts to respect the spirits of a place just to be sure. I’d rather be caught talking to myself than risk snubbing The Big Kahuna.

It is another beautiful evening. There is cold beer and hot food a la J. Redwood firewood from Santa Cruz turns slowly to red coals as a super cool woman from Hawaii tells us stories about surfing Mexico in the early days. And every so often the point still wakes up and does its dream wave thing.

………..

What I did on my summer vacation, Part 6 of 6: In our last episode, the swell faded. We drove through the regions of despair, saw UFO’s in the noonday sun on a salt flat, and drank tequila on a windswept plain of outrageously thorny cactus. This is Part 6 of 6.

Day 10: I wake before dawn and decide that lingering weird feelings from last night’s tequila binge must be dispelled early and decisively. I get J’s big bamboo didgerydoo and climb atop the VW bus to greet the dawn like a rooster. J is sleeping in the desert on one side of the bus and N is on the other.

As the first ray of sunlight breaks the horizon, I let out a long blast on the aboriginal instrument, “BWAAAAAA BWAAAAAA…” They both wake instantly. “Good morning!” Five minutes later J shows no sign of stirring, so I direct a prolonged, “BWAAAAARRR RRHHHHAAAA…” straight into his sleeping bag until he emerges laughing. “We have many miles to go before we sleep. Let’s GO, bro.!” Soon we are rolling northward again on the long haul back to Punta Derecha #1.

We arrive in the mid afternoon to find shoulder high waves being torn to ribbons by strong onshores. There is no evening glass. Next morning is more of the same. Neighboring campers tell us it has been like this for at least 4 days nonstop and then paddle out to brave Victory at Sea conditions on their longboards. I try to get stoked enough to surf but can’t do it: It’s just too sloppy. We play on the beach a while, collecting seashells and waiting for the tide to drop.

Then we hear a whoop and watch a surfer camped beside us catch the biggest white seabass any of us have ever seen, right off the beach. Way too big for his cutting board, he lays it out on his longboard and filets it with a wickedly sharp knife. He lops off a huge piece and presents it to us, cautioning, “Wash this well before you eat it.” We accept gratefully, pack it in ice, and roll northward. With this wind there is nothing for us here.

It’s another long day of driving. Checkpoints and more checkpoints. Uniformed teenagers with machine guns. At the frontier to Baja California Norte one young soldier politely asks permission, then slaps a Merle Haggard cassette into our tape player and turns it up loud. His commanding officer unpacks our luggage and inspects the inside of our tennis shoes for contraband and weapons as Merle sings, “We don’t like to burn flags around here…” Merle is on his third song when they conclude we really don’t have any bales stashed among our dirty T-shirts, and tell us we may go. We return the tape to the young guy with a smile and hit the road again.

We get the last 8 liters of gasoline available at a certain central Baja PEMEX station when we need about 45 to fill up. Good thing we’re traveling with extra fuel cans or it would be a long wait for the next gas truck.

A cursory surfcheck at Punta Derecha #4 reveals a pretty beach but blown out junk surf, so we proceed to Punta Derecha #5, one of our accustomed homebases on northern Baja trips. We arrive just in time to paddle out on longboards and catch a few small ones on a rising tide before dark. Cold murky water, fullsuits, very kelpy. After the classic warmwater lines of Punta Derecha #3, this place doesn’t seem like much to get excited about. We wash the huge fish carefully with purified water, barbecue it thoroughly to be sure it’s done, and eat mountainous portions of seabass for dinner with the last of our Mexican beers. When old Shithead the camp dog makes his rounds later we are glad to see him again. He nibbles our fish scraps appreciatively. He still needs a bath.

Day 11: I awake at 3:30 AM feeling like Hell. I toss and turn until dawn when my intestines begin to rumble and I rise just in time to make a mad scramble to the bano. A chilly gray dawn finds me shivering in a drafty outhouse, sick as a starving dog. Must be something I ate, I think. I cringe at the thought of the fish. But N and J are both fine. It’s not fair. I load up on ibuprofen and crawl back to bed. When I awake, it’s warmer. J is out surfing crappy waves and N, our resident poet, is out on the point writing what he describes as, “Crappy doggerel.” Everyone is waiting for a long predicted big south swell, and about twice all morning a good strong pulse rolls through, but mostly it’s a sloppy west swell that just isn’t performing. Yesterday the prospect of leaving just before a new south swell arrived was driving me nuts, but today it’s all I can do to overcome my flu-like malaise and sit up, much less surf. It’s amazing how fast sickness can take the fun right out of a vacation. Game over, amigo. It’s time to go home.

J and N take turns driving the long way home while I lie in the back, miserable with cold sweats, body aches, and nausea tinged with hunger. More checkpoints, but with weekend traffic they have large volumes of traffic to process and mostly just wave us through. J and N load up on blankets, bracelets and chiclets at the border circus.

A few hours later we’re showered and eating pizza in familiar surroundings in Alta California. Cold Sierra Nevada Pale Ale rapidly erases the memory of warm Tecate but it takes me another four days to shake the aches and turista stomach.

I drive north through the Los Angeles Nebula and think of the endless miles of empty spaces south of the border. I pass Rincon and smile quietly as 75 guys hassle for knee-high crumblers on one of the first surfable Sundays of the fall. Home at last, my loving wife welcomes me ecstatically and I smile broadly. I’m even glad to see our whiny, wannabe cat. There’s no place like home.

The upshot of a Baja surf trip (for folks who like to keep score): 6 days of good surf, Miles and miles worth of dreamy sandpoint waves Scores of crisp, green little warmwater barrels 20+ all time incredible waves 0 broken boards 1 ugly fleshwound $21 per person per day 464 liters of Magna sin gasoline 2,000 miles driven 0 flat tires 0 major car troubles 1 ugly gravel ding in my windshield 130 (+some odd) beers 0 rip-offs 11 military checkpoints 12 incredible Mexican paletas (ice cream bars) 1 bottle of tequila 1 bottle of scotch Thousands of smiles and waves from hundreds of friendly Mexican people 7 surf magazines, 18 packages of crayons and drawing paper distributed among the youth of Mexico 1 bad case of turista 1 filthy vehicle 3 stoked surfers = 1 really good time.

This was one of the good ones. I’ve been on harsher trips to Baja. Can’t wait to do it again next year. That’s all folks! Aloha, Surfer Bob

From: RBrannan
Newsgroups: alt.surfing
Subject: Re: Baja .. and boards required.
Date: 15 Oct 1996

I’m contemplating a month long trip to the Baja with two boards.

I have heard there is a surf shop of some sort in Guerrero Negro, and one in Ensenada. I wouldn’t be surprised if there were something in Cabo. I would not expect them to be well supplied though.

In general though, treat Baja like a trip to the moon and pack accordingly. Take sturdy boards, not potato chips. Take repair supplies. You might score a board off a visiting gringo if you hung at a popular surf spot, but don’t count on the local economy much for equipment.

Traveling through much of Baja is like travelling through the Old West of the late 1800′s, you’ll find soda stands and bars and eateries and hotels, dirt roads, some wooden sidewalks, hitching posts, etc.. Most small city streets are paved in “dirt”– so expect to be mostly self sufficient.

You will not find well stocked autopart stores and mechanics (except Guerro Negro), there are few to none supermarkets, and what choices you have are mostly meager. Also be aware that Mexicans pay the same price for a coca-cola or a pair of levi’s that you and I do, so don’t expect to find grande’ prices down there.

As for a replacement board, ask someone how to repair a broken board using a fiberglass wrap before you go down there – - don’t forget a nice two sided file- one side fine , the other coarser.

From: DS
Newsgroups: alt.surfing
Subject: Re: Cabo San Lucas
Date: 25 Aug 1996

Contact The Surf Report from Surfer Mag. Get report report 2#8 Baja Sur. It has maps and info for the entire area. If you don’t score in the west side be sure to check the east cape on the old coastal road. First day, go to Costa Azul, just west of San Jose, (first town on the coast after the airport) look for Zippers, then the Rock and the point called Acapulitos. There is a turnarouond and parking right above Acapulitos. All rights. Have fun. Don Scott In the desert

From: JAL
Newsgroups: alt.surfing
Subject: Re: Cabo – Zippers
Date: 19 Feb 1996

Zippers is generally A great wave, but I think that it only breaks during the summer — late summer plus at that. As always you should bring your “all purpose stick” as size fluctuates. Last year I was down there during some storms and I saw everything from 1-3 and glassy to 4-6 and stormy chop. If zippers is dead try San Pedrito beach and Pescadero about an hour north — definately worth it and way more consistant. Look up a friend of mine — Jeff Bradshaw. He’ll be in a grey 4×4 with a pitbull, a black dog and a trailer. Also, give the locals lots of room/respect at zippers

Newsgroups: alt.surfing
Subject: Re: Thievery in Baja
Date: 9 Jan 1996

About 1 1/2 years ago I set out for my first weekend surf adventure in Baja with 3 of my friends. After checking into our hotel in Rosarito, we decided to check out the surf at K37 (or is that K38)- a very well-known spot in Baja. We didn’t bring our boards, as we got in late and just wanted to drink beer that day, and had nothing vuisible in our car to steal. We parked under the “highway” underpass and walked the 25 yards to the beach to check the surf.

We were gone about 3 minutes. When we got back, one of my friends opened the passenger door. I said to him “You dumbass, We’re in Mexico, you have to lock the door!” He said “I did” and I thought nothing more of it. When we got back to the hotel, my girlfriend noticed her camera was gone. We checked the room and then upon rechecking the car, I notice someone had “jimmied” my doorlock. I checked the trunk (which can be accessed by lifting the trunk cover from the back seat) and found my box of my favorite CDs missing and a box of tapes. They left my wetsuits and booties.

So anyway the moral of the story is you’re never safe not even for a minute so keep your wallet hidden and your car in sight- if you can.

From: HW
Newsgroups: alt.surfing
Subject: Re: Thievery in Baja
Date: 10 Jan 1996

Unfortunately, I had a similar experience a couple of years ago on the campground right next to La Fonda. Although I was sleeping right next to my wet suit (outside of the tent!) , it got snatched during the night from the bench, where I had hung it to let it dry. The same night (the place was as always crowded, funny for such a crappy spot) others “lost” their suits as well, as I learned the next morning.

I do share a certain amount of understanding for these thieves, since it is true that even my spartan student budget exceeds their dreams of a decent income. Still, I hate to have my stuff stolen, especially considering what could have happened had I woken up. Maybe a good thing to do would be to talk to the people charging for a stay at the campgrounds. They at least depend partially on surfers coming back to their place.

Btw – having paid a fee for an overnight stay or just a surf session does not justify trashing the place! The Mexicans don’t seem to care much, but exactly because we are better off, we should leave not more than a good example!

peace, h.

From:SLAC
Newsgroups: alt.surfing Su
bject: Robbed in Mexico Date: 31 Dec 1995

Last week, on Friday, December 22, my friend and I were robbed just outside of Guaymas, Sonora, Mexico. We had pulled off the highway and down a dirt trail to a beach, to pull at the coleman stove and cook some food. It was just around dusk.

After about half an hour, a white Chevy pickup drove past, down this dirt road. They returned ten minutes later. Jumped out of their truck with guns and threw us on the ground. We were held face down in the dirt for about 45 minutes while they complete unloaded our truck. Surfboards, camping gear, clothes, car stereo, laptop computer, cameras, food, and spare parts. Then, their battery was dead because they had left their headlights on, so they stole our battery. They also slashed three tires, beyond repair. It was a 3 hour walk to the nearest town and police station.

If anyone is interested, I can e-mail the complete story which I have written. I put it down to a learning experience, through which I came physically unscathed. I know I’m not the only one who has had such an experience.

Newsgroups: alt.surfing
Subject: Re: Surfing In Pacific Baja???
Date: 16 Jun 1997

hey,there really is surf in baja..i drove the whole penisula in ’92. But anyway..i’m going to mex next weekend that’s this friday…i’ll be in a place called salsuipudes…which means “get if out you can”..take the offramp of the same name and put your foot on the brakes and you’ll know where the name comes from….anyway…it is truly a good spot..been going there for years…i’ts about 20 or so miles NORTH of ensenada and san miguel…check it out some time…i call it the wave machine…because when it is good…there is this sort of backwash channel that makes for an easy return to the lineup…when it’s good….it’s great…and especially if you can catch the place with harldy any other surfers…but don’t tell that to our san diegans…they visit the spot on the weekends….any way time to go..good luck and hope you have a good one(((((((TIME CHASE)))))))))………… More on Baja: Hmmm I better spill the beans. Actually Baja has plenty of great surf, the only problem is getting to it and making it out alive. Gringos are worked, especially the ones with new 4WD with boards stacked to the sky. Virtually all the locations have no facilities and the locals range from warm hearted true spirits to raging drunk manic automatic weapon carrying military types. Travel at your own risk and be warned that most of the trips highlights will be in the journey, unless you hit some rare mysto swell. Then you’ll be glad you trashed your truck and got jacked by the locals since you’ll want to stay. That is until a scorpion bites you in the arse. Then is bush doctor medicine and you better hope they didn’t steal your Mezcal, cause your gonna need it. Baja is not for the weak of spirit. Its another world… commonly called the 4th world, where sand, heat, sun and surf will bake your brain and steal your soul. You’ve been warned. Stay away!

BAJA NOTES:

Baha: Best tequila — Tres Generaciones or Herradura.

Books — Baja California, AAA of Southern California; Baha Sea Guide, aerial photos of the coast, circa 1959, out of print; Baha California Guidebook, Walt Wheelock, also out of print.

Worst roads — north road to Scorpion; Punta Prieta to Punta Cono; Laguna Chapala shortcut; El Huerfanito grade; Punta Canoas road.