“You’re full of crap! Riding waves on a stand up board IS surfing,” I reply.
How did this conversation get to this point? And why? Traveling in a foreign country can be stressful; it’s guaranteed to raise anybody’s blood pressure. Mix in a would-be know-it-all, either across the campfire from you or, worse yet, in the passenger seat riding shotgun, and you have a volatile mixture ready to ignite with the smallest spark.
Camping smack dab in the middle of nowhere means you have few, if any, distractions. There’s a lot of down time, with plenty of time to savor anything...or nothing. That’s one of the main attractions to seeking out isolation: no people, no phones, no nada. Arguing face-to-face with a complete jackass is not how I want to spend my Baja vacation. It’s like trying to relish the creamy goodness of a chocolate milkshake while standing in the middle of a freeway.
I’m posted up under the awning of my camper at a remote northern Baja point break. The place is perfect for surfing. There are three breaks all within an easy five-minute paddle. I drove here south of the border with my good friend Kent and his friend Terry. They are both prone surfers, I am the lone stand up surfer. Terry is an unknown entity, a last-minute addition to the trip (always a situation to be wary of). I’m driving my camper. Kent — whom I’ve been calling “Kento” since 3rd grade — and Terry are in Kento’s rig. I don’t know Terry, or at least I didn’t before this Baja run.
STRIKE ONE:
Even before we cross into Tijuana, I realize that I can’t stand Terry. Among other things, he has an annoying habit of saying, “That’s nothing! Last time I was here...blah, blah, blah.” That’s strike one. In describing his own surfing style, he tells us that he carves the wave face like an artist on a canvas of brine. I spit out a mouthful of Negro Modelo on that one. By the time we blow through Ensenada, he’s made the top of my travel ban list. I nickname Terry the “The Veteran,” and it’s not a compliment.
STRIKE TWO:
No matter what I say or do, The Veteran has seen it or done it better the last time he was here. He also has a big chip on his shoulder when it comes to stand up boards. He says shit like, “Are you going surfing, or are you riding your stand up board?”
STRIKE THREE:
The Veteran surfs a shortboard in a herky-jerky, bouncy sort of way and is not shy to drop in on anybody. Strike three: you’re out!
Clean six-foot waves can’t add up to the greatness of the last time The Veteran was here. After the first session of the trip, I am so stoked. Paddling up past the point, I surf a spot that I’ve never surfed before. Arriving back at camp, The Veteran tells me, “That’s nothing. It was bigger and cleaner the last time I surfed there.” I comment on how clear the water is. I’m met with the same response: “That’s nothing. It was so clear the last time I was here that there must have been a hundred-foot visibility.” And so it goes, for days on end. Even the lobster tasted better the last time he was here.
There are people with whom I would travel to Baja with, and there are people with whom I wouldn’t. Kento is a proven commodity: we’ve literally been down this road before. We might not always agree, but there is more to seasoned Baja travelers than just agreeing with you.
Central Cal’s longtime style master of windsurfing, kitesurfing and SUP, Brian Caserio, once wrote a story that really stuck with me. On the subject of surf buddies, Brian wrote that a good travel companion in Baja is one who gets stoked for the trip, not just the conditions. Good waves are a bonus, not a right. You don’t want to be stuck with somebody who gets bummed out as soon as the surf goes flat or the south wind crumbles your waves. Brian went on to write that you need to be content, biding your time doing nothing. Happy to sit and throw little rocks into a hat once the surf turns to crap.
Unfortunately, Brian’s scenario comes true on our trip. After great waves for the first two days, the surf goes flat. The wind veers south, and ominous black clouds roll in. It really looks like rain. Rain is a big deal in Baja. Any rain — except for a light sprinkle — turns the dirt roads here into the stuff of nightmares. Unpaved roads in Baja are notorious for washing out and flooding in any kind of storm. Kento is all for waiting this one out, and I agree. It’s better to be stuck here than stuck in the mud somewhere on the way out. But The Veteran wants no part of it. He wants to bail. We vote. We stay.
The rain comes down with a vengeance. It never rains until it pours, and it pours for twenty-four hours straight. Cats and dogs. Clouds the color of wet cement open up and empty their guts out. The road out to the paved highway is now 40 miles of muddy quagmire. The surf is a jumbled mess. We have no choice but to hunker down and wait it out. We can’t leave now, and surfing is out of the question. Brown waves the color of yesterday’s chili con queso are being ripped to shreds by the incessant south wind. There is no better time to break out the little rocks and the hat. Thank you, Brian Caserio.
Kento and I sit in the mud and throw little rocks into that hat for two days straight. We toss and toss until the hat turns to shreds. The Veteran is stuck to the inside of Kento’s camper and only comes out every now and then, grumbling about how we should have left before the big rain storm. Boredom finally gets the best of him, and he pulls up his camp chair next to mine. As a peace offering (even though I think of him as a small polyp on the large colon of life), I hand Terry a handful of little pebbles. The Veteran aims for the tattered, muddy target. He stops before he can throw and stands back up. “Hey, that’s my hat!”
“That ain’t nothing,” I say. "Ain’t nothin’ at all.”
~ S. West
