According to those who knew the terrain, the drive south was going to include what most Baja trip always served up . My father "pops" spoke of these setbacks, these expected interjections, as a sort of “fee of passage” in order to be granted the right to surf the waves. He claimed every destination had its own particular pitfall and for Baja the list ran as follows - “Flat tire – check, washed out road – check, flat tire – check.
But here we were, finally at a wave with a reputation. Arriving as the latest additions of seekers and the tail end of those who came before us, the vanguards that rode the mystical point break and let slip the whispering' s to friends who promised to hold close the secret. Leaked revelations passed down through intrepid core surf travelers as the early pioneers gambled the journey in hopes of getting the jewel just one more time.
But those days were long gone and the well-worn path had by now sent most of the early believers in other directions while others emptied out their ashtrays and bought up specks of hardened soil at the base of the bay. One such place was the "Palapa" and it was there that we mixed in with the evenings patrons who were all posturing wave heights while swimming in clouds of smoke, drinking down larger than life tales of the greats swell that once was.
As I sat just earshot distance from the reunion of friends with beers, I peered over the baron wind whipped land and almost felt sorrow for those who called this home. Sparse patches of foliage held firm against hostilities of the wind whipped dust clouds pressed over by the heat of the sun. A swarm of large flies clung in refuge behind concealment's of every kind.
Being joined by my father and friend Cole, they quickly pointed out the upper atmospheric cloud line out south- west, and with confidence concluded that what we were seeing was the outer most edge of tropical storm Sandy. Brave words of “head high by dawn” slipped out between rapid hits off the already emptying bottle.
By morning, the winds were on a tear. The dead brown earth, buffeted by the relentless volatile air mass, abruptly ended at a dark sea that was tattered with white caps. With patience and hope, the slightest of grin broke from Cole’s face as a triplet of an energy pulse wrapped in around the last point. Knowing these waters and her moods, it was evident that he had witnessed enough. The window had been opened and the surf was here.
In the end the surf did show up. One wave was said to be ridden from the top of the point all the way through. I think we all had our moments and while some might argue that it’s a long way to travel for just a hand full of waves, I was taught early that yes it’s the experience as a whole and that ultimately, it just takes one.
