Whether it’s the waves, or the food, or the pure emptiness, there’s something wonderful about Baja. Photos: Ella Boyd
Certain moments in life beg for a reevaluation of the decisions leading up to that moment. This was one of those: there I was, driving a car stuffed to the gills with five kids and five surfboards — two longboards and a gun on top, and two shortboards strapped to the inside ceiling.
We had passports, tents, a camp stove, water jugs, maps. We even had a playlist to appease the collective group, filled with Black Sabbath and Jack Johnson. A haphazard collection of songs — and people, if I’m being honest.
I had lied to my parents about the week’s destination (Mexico) after hearing the reactions from my friends’ parents, who’d said “no,” in all sorts of variations. Unwilling to be swayed, I vaguely told my folks I was headed to camp “somewhere in California, Santa Barbara, maybe” and hit up everyone I had ever surfed with. The result was a great, albeit random, trip filled with people I sort of knew to a place I had sort of researched.
The drive alone was worth it: as my eyes drifted from the long, open road to the mountains to the green pastures, I thought about a Nietzsche reading I’d been assigned the week before. It was on the eternal recurrence, where Nietzsche introduces the idea of judging your life based on your reaction to having to relive your life for infinity.
Photos: Ella Boyd
If every pain and every joy you ever experienced were to be repeated, he asks, “Would you not throw yourself down and gnash your teeth and curse the demon who spoke thus? Or have you once experienced a tremendous moment when you would have answered him: ‘You are a god, and never have I heard anything more divine!’”
Right now, as everyone cracked open a six pack while I soberly drove us to our campsite, I thought I might gnash my teeth. And I’d heard about the roads in Mexico being bad, but I wasn’t prepared for just how bad they actually were. My hands gripped the steering wheel, truck barreling down a dirt path that was two different heights. Rocks jutted out from the “road” like sharp teeth. This was probably a bad time to mention I didn’t have a spare.
Somehow, though, we made it, and set up shop on the edge of the orange cliffs overlooking a perfect point break. Our first surf immediately washed away the grit from the six-hour drive. The waves were steady, consistent, unwavering. Beneath a cloudy sunset, we floated out in the water, sizing up everyone’s skill, shooting the breeze. We went to bed, full of overly seasoned lentils and good rides.
Day in and day out, there were waves. And the waves were predictable. Of course, they were predictable rights. And there were kelp beds so thick your fin would stick while you lurched forward. Goofy logger problems, I guess.
A perfect time and place to consider our purpose. Photos: Ella Boyd
We had planned to explore the area for other spots, but the immediate waves entertained us to no end. One morning, as the pickup truck made its trash collection rounds, Richard, the hostel owner, walked over to our campsite. He told us someone’s mom called him that morning. She wanted to make sure we were alive. I don’t know if he thought it was funny or not, but we sure did. We laughed at the kid whose mom it was. A lot. The whole time we were laughing, I wondered what my parents would think if they knew I was here. I wondered if they would call the hostel, too.
The funny part is that the kid whose mom called was probably the most competent one on the trip. Or, at least, the most interesting to be around. He managed to befriend an older pro skater, and I spent hours watching them flow the local bowl, the sound of trucks sliding across coping ringing in my ears.
The skater kid liked to drink. Well, we all liked to drink, but he was the most vocal about it. So my Spanish-speaking friend Taylor and I hopped in my truck and made the hour-long journey to the gas station. Inside, the gas station attendant laughed and talked to Taylor. He asked why we were buying so many beers, “para una fiesta?” Something about a lot of people; I got that much. We laughed, “no, para amigos,” Taylor said.
The drive back to camp that night was gnarly. In the dark, with no reception, we missed a turn, and ended up at the top of what seemed to be the steepest slope I’d ever seen from a car in my life. The road, if you could even call it that, looked harder like a giant, icy mogul patch at a resort. Illuminated by headlights, through the dust we could make out the shadows of the boulders — literally boulders – we were going to drive down. But we had no choice.
Photos: Ella Boyd
I shakingly took my foot off the brake and my car creaked off its rusty haunches down the first bump. Slowly but surely we inched down the steep slope until my car skidded the rest of the way, completely out of my control. I was the driver, but the vehicle was making its own decisions. If I wasn’t self aware to a fault, I’d probably make a claim that, when you’re young, life feels that way a lot.
When we got back to camp, an hour later, we soon discovered no one had a bottle opener. What we did have was a hitch on the back of my truck. It worked perfectly.
Around a raging fire, we discussed Hume’s subjectivity of taste with a very tall, self-proclaimed professional bodyboarder and two women — artists, they said, one, the owner of a small, experimental art gallery in Costa Mesa. The other was a witch, or healer, or something.
The art gallery owner leaned into my friend and tapped his shoulder, lightly. “You want a ciggy, baby?” He took a drag and offered it to me. I shook my head. Later, he told me he didn’t know how to say no to older women. Neither do I, if we’re being honest.
I woke up before the sun was up one morning, sweating. Everyone else was still sleeping off the night before. I plodded over to my truck, stepping carefully through dirt littered with old dishes, pieces of pasta, and dozens of bottlecaps. I thought about my conversation with the art woman. Doing what you want is appealing. Doing what you want in the name of art is romantic – noble, even. I wasn’t leaving without at least one photo of the structure in the distance.
Camp, and a place of refuge. Photos: Ella Boyd
I drove as far as I could until the path became so muddy I had no choice but to get out and walk the rest on foot. One of the guard dogs trotted alongside me, and I watched people collect rocks on the bank and cart them back alongside the ocean. I wondered what my life would be like if I was born here. I wondered if I would collect rocks on the bank. Fate is funny like that, convincing us we have free will when so much of our lives is reactionary. I snapped my picture and headed back to camp, the dog still loyally beside me.
I didn’t want to leave. I was sure the simple routine of waking up, checking the horizon, surfing, sleeping in the sun, cooking, and surfing some more would satisfy me for life. But I was an imposter, someone from the “real world” who was role playing someone free.
The drive back was quieter, more solemn. The thought of classes sobered us as we drove through the night, from deserted ghost towns to farmland and finally back through suburbia.
A few hours upon reentry into the States, my phone rang. It was my dad. Reluctantly, I picked up the phone. “Ella – is that Baja?” Terrified, I thought of excuses. But there was no need. He continued, “It looks beautiful! That’s one of the best spots! We used to go down there, by La Fonda? Used to be a lot easier than it is now, though….”
His words trailed off in my head as I reconciled how crazy I’d been. An adult, scared of what my parents would say because I drove a few hours south of the border. It seemed so silly now. But the truth was, it was fun to be on the run. It was fun to imagine the trip as an escape from reality. An escape from the life I was fortunate enough to live, to a life I dreamt of living.
