Miles to nowhere and waiting for swell.
How far will we go? Far enough to feel like we are at the end of the earth. Sometimes I think that surfing is just a way to explain my deep addiction to wild places.
We take rugged roads full of loose rock, steep grades and ruts, evidence of a recent rainstorm. We’ve been on the dirt roads for about three hours when we arrive at what we think we’ve been aiming for: one of several big points in Baja. A surfer’s dream on the right swell — these hooked points fire perfect right-hand peelers.
As we set up our camp just before dusk, we survey the scene. There is a rickety fish camp that consists of a small shack, a pile of rusty lobster traps, a half-finished cinderblock building, two abandoned pangas, an old cooler that has been turned into a planter with a tiny cactus in it, and a small shrine that sits halfway up the hill. The lobster traps look like they have been used in the not-so-distant past, so we know that this camp is not totally abandoned. But for now, no one comes around.
Surf travel can be the ultimate exercise in patience. Today is Friday, and we arrived here on Tuesday knowing there was a swell coming. We set up shop and we wait. We bide our time with reading, writing, campfires, cooking, fishing, hiking up and over hills and going to bed at Baja midnight—7:30 in the evening. Chris does some home improvement projects such as fixing the camper door that keeps jamming. I collect sand dollars on the beach in front of our spot. We are people of leisure.
In four days, we see exactly zero other humans on this patch of red dirt that is dotted with a few agave plants and other spiky plants. No Mexican fisherman, no gringo surfers, no ranchers. No one comes to ask for money in exchange for camping. At night, there are absolutely no other lights. It’s unbelievable and exhilarating.
When the swell finally arrives, it’s really nothing remarkable. We are tucked in here around this big point, so the swell wraps around for a while before we see it. Soft and shoulder high, but long, glassy, perfect and completely wild.
I feel super shifty like I’m a shoplifting. I’ve never shoplifted before. It would never occur to me to shoplift. I’ve been a good girl my whole life. But I wonder if this is what it might feel like. You know you are stealing, but you can’t help yourself because you really want, no, need that CD or lipgloss or booze or whatever it is shoplifters feel compelled to swipe. You want it bad so you keep looking over your shoulder to see who is coming. But there is never anyone coming and you pocket the goods, over and over again. And it’s kind of a rush.
That’s how we felt while we surfed for four hours at this lonely spot. I must have looked over my shoulder 100 times to see who was coming, waiting for some indication that it would be all over. It is confusing that it is a perfect day and we are the only people here. It doesn’t add up.
You see, I forget that surfing is kind of like playing the slot machines. Every time you surf, you put a nickel in that dumb, loud machine. You may get a little back, but most times, you don’t win big. Like summer in Oregon when the water is 48 degrees and the surf is crappy with a 20-mph wind and all you want to do is take those stupid, thick gloves off your hands. We call that big time gambling. When the waves and water were perfect in Sri Lanka, but we were surrounded by Israeli gangs and Eurotrash kooks, more nickels went in the slot.
Like a good addicted gambler, if you play enough times, you do win and hit the jackpot. That day, we won.
