Labor Day Vacation, seven months before the Bay of Pigs Invasion, I began by night driving Pasadena to Ensenada. The border guards failed to notice the barrel of my carbine sticking out of the trunk and into the cab amongst swim fins, surfboard and kerosene lantern. Fog slowed me in he coastal mountains, although I accelerated to pass the 'Alto' sign. I found a dark and foggy place to park, on the waterfront near the tourist zone, and slept. When the sun warmed, breakfasted on my first and best quesadillas. I bought a Latin Jazz album and two dozen bottles of Carta Blanca.
The paved road ended south of Ensenada.
It must have been this trip--I remember stopping at a lone cantina. A haggard woman came in and sat in a booth. The bartender greeted her and gave her an injection. When he returned, I asked him about the woman. "Oh, she has tuberculosis. She needs regular injections. She lives back in the hills. The regular trips to Ensenada would be too much for her, so her doctor authorized me to administer her meds."
I think it was down around San Martin that I saw him. A revolutionary stood in the dust--camouflage fatigues and machete. I gratefully remembered my jungle carbine in the trunk. He spoke English. He had just come from visiting the nearby historic English cemetery. He said he was a school teacher from England working his way around the world. He asked if I was headed to the ferry. I said no, that I only was prepared to try for El Rosario. He planned to take the ferry to Puerto Vallarta, fly to the Gulf Coast, and from there catch a flight to Habana, Cuba and his next job.
The road became almost impassible. A river delta splayed out in dried-out ribbons of mud. Dried clay ridges, between ruts, scraped the under-carriage. Axle-breaker boulders hid inside larger lumps of clay. It was here that we caught up with a surfing safari--six guys drove a British army lorry towing a dune buggy, a British army lorry towing an outboard motorboat, and a jeep.
By nightfall we reached the junction of El Rosario. The surfers knew Mama Espinosa. They introduced us. All I saw was an old woman bending over a wood stove.
After dinner, we followed the surfers to Punta Baja. We stopped on the cliff edge and peered into the black abyss. The jeep driver trained his spotlight into the blackness. There was another broad cliff below and a steep, narrow, dirt road wrapped itself down our cliff face to the south. It was decided: the jeep would scout the trail below. Only one vehicle at a time would descend the cliff road. The Britisher and I descended last. At the bottom, we discovered this cliff to be scattered with low hillocks. Fog was rolling in--the surfers had vanished!
We followed the most worn tire tracks--until the Ford nosed down--a wave broke as the headlights pointed down--I pulled the emergency brakes! I got out and walked back to a safe spot, and lighted the red Pasadena lantern and placed it. The Britisher stood close by as I drove in reverse to the light. We decided to sleep right there and wait till sunrise to assess our situation.
The morning was tick with fog. Mexicans had driven a stake truck down to our plateau and backed up to the top of the path that led to the breaking waves. When the men had disappeared we crept to the cliff edge. What looked like a fishing trawler, rolled and yawed as it lowered large wooden barrels into the sea. Men waded out on the crude boat ramp, snared the barrels and rolled them up to the waiting truck. Decades later, the Baja Sun recounted the tale of two young men who were murdered in their sleeping bags only a few yards from where we parked. The consensus was that the two men had been murdered by drug runners.
We rejoined the safari. A party of scuba divers motored to an offshore reef for crab. Those of us on shore, listened to the BBC. We went surfing. The cold water set me to trembling. I lost my board to the rocks--only time it ever got dinged. I was the only surfer without a wet suit. They had all been there before and had come prepared for the cold up-welling that occurred on this coast. We took turns shooting the carbine at a passing whale and listening to the shortwave, while the crab cooked. We all climbed into the jeep and dune buggy with buckets of crab and beer and drove round the plateau, shouting, until the jeep ran over a strong cactus spine with a weak tire.
The surfers were well provisioned for an extended stay, but I had a job waiting and the Britisher was behind schedule on his way to be an 'instructor' for Fidel Castro. He said he had not planned on Baja being so rough. He would have to fly from Tijuana to the gulf coast and catch a flight to Habana. He
got a ride to El Rosario in the dune buggy on an ice run. I contemplated the steep cliff road. I tried it in low gear--failed. I removed the six spark plugs and scraped the carbon deposits from the electrodes with my hunting knife--failed. We decided my automatic transmission needed a compound low. It had one--reverse. Scared to death, I drove backwards up that long, steep, narrow, winding dirt road--made it.
At dusk, after one more meal from Mama Espinoza, I headed north and followed the telephone poles. When night closed in, I followed the ruts in the headlights. I stopped when a large wave broke in my headlights. I turned off the lights, grabbed my flashlight and go out. Sure enough the road led me into the waves, bu the telephone poles were missing. I doubled back by fog lamps and flashlight for an eternity. There! Ahead! A pole-to-pole wire drooped into the flashlight beam. For the second time that night, I headed north. I watched for poles and ancient, iron grill-enclosed glass tube gasoline pumps. I smoked Alas cigarettes and listened to KGO to stay awake.
I made it to Ensenada without buying gas. KGO faded with the dawn when they cut their transmitter power. I switched to a Tijuana station that played American rock-n-roll and 'Coca-Cola Grande! Mas por tu dinero!' commercials. Satisfied that I was within walking distance of the border, I found a shady place to park the Ford near Revolucion. I bought a serape. I entered a dark bar and ordered a beer. I watched an attractive stripper on stage. Alicia grabbed my senator weiner and raised the ante--gulping one shot glass after another. She led me down Revolucion to a motel room and a bareback ride. She was not that attractive. She studied my California driver's license. She washed herself off with toilet tank water. She said she had a beach house at Playa Tijuana. I could live there with her and be her boss man. I thanked her, no thanked her, and split. I stopped at the first service station in the U.S., washed myself with peroxide, and promised God to be more careful.
