Seeking Sanctuary preview 2 - Quail Canyon

Quail Canyon offered a hot tub, 3 free pool tables, several bocci ball courts, and group activities. $1200 rented a campsite for 6 months. It offered a refuge from the cold winters of Minden, Winnemucca, and Pahrump. Edgar and Natasha no longer had to move the rig for propane. They were lucky to get in. The season was from October 1 to March 31. The camp became a ghost town during the summer when triple digit heat alternated with tropical monsoons. Someone had canceled at the last moment leaving an available site. Edgar liked the camp because the nearest liquor shop was a nice Chinese lady, five miles away. Natasha did not drive.

Edgar set up their DISH antenna. Natasha watched soaps, crime series--'The Young and the Restless' and ‘The View’--when she was not whipping ass on the bocci ball court.

Edgar monitored MSNBC from pre-market to the closing bell. As soon as they could have a telephone connection, he began seriously looking for a job.

They were not going to get out of this state without wheel bearings.

He applied for everything he could. Arizona did not support good pay scales. He applied to a pharmaceutical company as an entry-level chemistry aid. He met all the criteria. They did not want an entry-level employee approaching retirement age.

The same was true of Lockheed, the State Department, and many others.

He tried to land a job turning over old people in Gila Bend, but the listed address was incorrect.

He applied to be a correctional officer at the prison near Florence.

When he interviewed to be a clerk for the sheriff of Maricopa County, the interviewer laughed and said he would be better off with the sheriffs than he would with the prison. Nevertheless, Edgar had had to use glasses and a magnifying glass to pass the written test. Moreover, when he interviewed with his potential lady bosses, he said he had been clocked at over 40 words per minute. He did not tell them that that speed was clocked over forty years ago in high school. Lately his fingers had not worked so well. He was not sure as to whether his lack of motor skills was due to physical problems, nervous problems, or general old age. He had to admit that although he had compiled a 30,000 entry Spanish dictionary, he was not really ‘fluent.’ Before it was over, one of the ladies commented that his clothes looked like those of a street person. He was wearing polished shoes, a freshly ironed dress shirt, and pants that he had removed the tags from that morning.

☼

He remembered his last days at his old job. He had been given a task of analyzing code for a space shuttle mission critical function. Everyone on the project, except Edgar, had been told that they were scheduled to be laid off at the conclusion. Edgar had already scheduled a hernia operation. He had argued with his boss that there was no point in delaying surgery for a boss who offered no job security. Surgery cut his time available on the project to 8 of ten scheduled days. He was laid off January 30. His October Surgery allowed him enough recovery time to crawl under the car and attach the tow bar in February.

☼

As time went by Edgar realized that the odds of the two of them ending homeless under a bridge in Phoenix was rapidly increasing. Realizing that he only had months of security left. He worked on things he would never have another chance to work on. He researched his ancestry to find out he was largely Scottish, with a few Uzbekistanis, Jews, Ukrainians, and Goths thrown in to his 10,000 relatives. His database limit had been reached before he could find any Asians, or Mexicans. Although he found a few black Africans linked to Cleopatra.

He had so much fun writing about his ancestors that he decided to write a short story about lie detectors. Part of the reason he had lost his job was a lie detector. He felt that a lie detector was an invasion of his privacy. The old witch, who had complained when he tried to close the drapes to stay cool, had reported that she had seen Edgar stealing a case of glue sticks. The irony was that he had only taken 2 sticks in 15 years. The first one dried out from lack of use. He lost the second one. In fact, he thought of glue sticks as geek gear.

When the lie detector kept getting an inconclusive result on ‘stealing,’ his boss assumed the worst--secrets.

It did not help that Edgar had become frustrated with the system. He had told his examiner that as he grew older he had difficulty telling fact from fantasy. When asked what he meant, he told them about his recurrent Mao Tse Tung dream.

☼

Standing on Avenida Revolución, Edgar had observed beautiful young girls of apparent Mexican-Chinese extraction. They were congregating at the foot of a staircase. They mounted the staircase, and disappeared inside the building. Edgar had followed them and had found himself inside of a sumptuous banquet hall. He had helped himself to the grand buffet, with an eye to meeting one of the girls. He sat down to eat amongst a group of vixens and surveyed the room. There, on the far wall, he could not miss a magnificent tapestry of Chairman Mao.

☼

Edgar told his inquisitor that as time went on he had difficulty assigning the story to dreams or something he had really done.

☼

Edgar had assumed Natasha’s upper arm bump to be the result of her falling on a mesquite spine. It was now diagnosed as cancer. She had two surgeries--the aging doctor had left margins the first time. The insurance company only paid about the equivalent of one month’s premium. The anesthetist charged them ten per cent per month--highway robbery. This is when they first began to consider walking away from the motor home and fleeing to Mexico with whatever they could fit in the car.

☼

Christmas came and Edgar and Natasha sang carols with the Swedes. By Christmas, the die was cast. Edgar’s computer projections showed bankruptcy looming before another Christmas. He began to accept the inevitable and plan for past the big bang. He researched bankruptcy and discovered even the old bankruptcy laws were written to protect only the viable workers. Even if they moved to Idaho or Montana, they would only survive with their motor home and their life insurance. Were they young and healthy in a growing economy, they could find a job and keep the motor home. Moreover, unless Edgar could land the job with the sheriff’s department they were doomed.

Edgar decided to do something he wanted to do with his last days. He began to write--novels. He ‘finished’ his adventure story by the end of February--500 pages--and sent it to a big publishing house. He continued to write and completed three more novels by summer. Due to turnaround times and hoped for advances or royalties, their only hope was either the sheriff or the story.

☼

Edgar also tried to establish ties to his estranged son, Zach.

Zach lived on an obscure twist that Sidewinder Track took, before it bumped against the barbed wire fence of the Western Edition of the Saguaro National Park, where he prospected for gold.

Edgar, having dealt with too many hypocrites in his life, probed, even his own son relentlessly. He had every reason to believe that prospecting served his son’s hidden agenda of sabotaging food and watering caches left in the desert by Tucson congregations to sustain illegal aliens traveling the ‘Desert Night Highway.’ In fact, Zach all but admitted his obsession and possibly even guilt with seeking out and firing upon illegal immigrants in the desert for sport.

Edgar had always thought of Zach as a sociopath. If society ostracized Edgar just for growing old, why should he care that his son, whom he had played no part in raising, was a subversive. Edgar had too many personal problems of his own.

Years later, while researching the Ku Klux Klan in San Diego, Edgar would discover that the opinions of Zach and the Pennsylvania side of his family marched in lockstep with those of the Ku Klux Klan of 1930’s San Diego.

☼

As time ran out, Edgar counted the days left before they would be homeless. A bank statement showed that the check he had passed for a job interview haircut had bounced.

Natasha received an offer for a loan from Phoenix Bank.

The loan money would be available August 29.

Their money would run out in September.

The sheriff was due to hire Edgar by Labor Day.

The publisher was due to accept or reject his novel by Labor Day.

They decided to take the money.

Natasha, “Well we can’t leave Kermit!”

Edgar, “We’re broke--not heartless.”

‘He needs his kitty travel box!”

“Yes, I know!”

As the clutter inevitably grew around the motorhome, trucks came and went, mysterious rendezvous took place.

Seeking Sanctuary preview 1 - Gila Bend

A large Bounder motor home sped east on I-10. The Cruise Control kept it at a steady 55. Edgar knew he was running old tires and figured he could handle a blowout below 60. He did not want to buy tires because their money was running out. The stock market had been lousy since George W. gained the presidency--something about M2 or M3 money. Then came 911 and the market did not even open for days.

Kermit curled sleeping on Edgar’s lap. Edgar had just enough space left to turn the wheel and operate the pedals.

The cassette player played a tape of the Crusaders, just loud enough to override the hissing air conditioner. Edgar welcomed the cool Texas jazz. He had waited for Natasha to fall asleep to swap it for her favorite Bruce Springsteen tape.

A dirty smudge grew on the horizon indicating a large concentration of humanity congregated into a desert metropolis up ahead.

Natasha had drunk too much Vodka to swing out the sun visor side-flap to block the sun.

☼

Two nights ago, they had slept in Hope, Arizona--a good place for aging desert rats.

The night before that, they had laid over in a Yermo trailer park run by a spiky-haired lesbian. Actually, she had moved on, but Edgar felt like kissing the ground she had walked on. After 911 they had elected to layover an extra month in snow country rather than travel through paranoid country. The sultry Mojave air had been a breath of heaven. That morning they had pulled up stakes in Minden, Nevada, sniffling in 18-degree weather. Snow had fallen and still covered the surrounding hills. Coyotes had howled all night long. Edgar had been sick with the flu for a few days and had known he had to reach the desert quickly. One long day’s haul, down 395 to Spike’s, had brought relief.

This morning, they had dropped down to Parker to cross the Colorado. Edgar wanted space between their crossing and Boulder Dam. Who knew what Al Qaeda would blow up next? The feds had even banned motor homes from crossing over Boulder Dam.

☼

A sign came into view--Palo Verde Exit ½ Mile. Edgar peered off to the south, out Natasha’s window. He could not see the largest nuclear reactor in the U.S. Still he knew it was there. Boulder Dam and Palo Verde Power Plant--two prime targets for terrorists--stood out like milestones on their trek.

A sign came into view--85 South Exit to Gila Bend ½ Mile. Edgar pumped off Cruise Control and allowed the behemoth to slow to exit speed. Last year he had gotten lost, pulling through Phoenix out of Wickenburg. He hated Phoenix and had vowed to give it a wide berth by traveling south on paved state highway 85 to I-8.

Less traveled and more remote, State 85 followed a lonely route. Midway across 85, they passed through the Maricopa Mountains. A midday breeze picked up and rocked the vehicle. Something felt strange.

Edgar pulled to the side of the road. The motor home leaned too much for the slope of the dirt.

Natasha woke up. “What’s wrong Daddy?”

Edgar, “Shit! I don’t know! The tires feel funny. I wanta take a look.”

Natasha, “Shit!”

Edgar stepped down off the automatic steps. His driving moccasins scrunched the desert soil. He slammed the door and walked around. Everything looked okay. He hunkered down on his hands and knees between the left rear lights and the left Honda headlight and sighted through the left double tires. Okay! He walked around to the right side.

Natasha slid a bedroom window open. “It’s getting hot in here can we go?”

“I’m almost done! Hold your britches. Better, why don’t you go pee before you wet yourself?”

When Edgar sighted through the right rear tires, he saw the problem. It was the inside tire. “Damn!”

He pulled out on the road. The air conditioner kicked in.

Natasha took a swig of straight vodka. “You look depressed.”

Edgar took a hit of cool Coors. “It’s a tire.”

“Now what are we going to do?”

“It’s the inside right tire--right behind where I loaded the safe. It’s going flat fast. It’s bulging against the outside tire. It has to be fixed.”

“We don’t have any money for a tire.”

“I know! I know! I’m 60 years old. My eyes are failing. Nobody will give me a job. I couldn’t work at MacDonald’s, ‘cause I couldn’t find the key on the cash register with the French fry picture. And besides, my sinuses would drip into their colas. I tried to get a job at the Nevada Department of Transportation.”

“You shoulda kissed more ass at your old job!”

“I got tired of those CIA creeps and they didn’t want me around after I told them about my Mao Tse Tung dream.”

“That was stupid!”

“They had hosed me for seven years.” He crushed the Coors can. “Maybe the stock market will go back up. I think I’ll see if I can find a job when we get settled.”

“Where you gonna find a tire that size out here?”

“I  don’t  know. What’s worse is we have to slow down so the outer tire doesn’t go too!”

“We’re screwed! I should have married a Republican!”

“Maybe we can find a tire shop before the other one goes.”

☼

The last seven months in Minden had given them little solace. They had made friends with a Mexican family who worked as servants in Incline Village. Several people in the campground had worked in Incline Village. Next thing they knew, one of their major credit cards had an Incline Village address and new charges at Harvey’s in Lake Tahoe.

One of the neighbors had tried to recruit Edgar to be responsible for the computer support of a secret redneck invasion of China. “We’ll get our cargo planes landed in China with heavy armaments by bribing the Chinese radar operators.”

The bump on Natasha’s arm had grown as big as a cherry while their health insurance had almost run out.

One morning, as Edgar had watched MSNBC, the market had begun to tumble. Then the television had shown one of World Trade Center towers on fire. Natasha and Edgar had looked on mesmerized, as the second plane had hit. The market had closed before Edgar could find his slippers. He had sent an e-mail to a friend about the symmetry of the buildings collapse, comparing it to a banana being peeled. At the time, his friend had thought the remark to be traitorous. More recently, callers have expressed the same feelings on Coast to Coast radio; using the symmetry as a basis for their conspiracy plot that the government had set off pre-positioned charges in the buildings.

Edgar had predicted such an event, but had hoped it would not happen in his lifetime. Now, he was looking for signs that his second dire prediction might be in the offing--a major epidemic of gargantuan proportions.

They had acquired Blue Cross health insurance at $700 per month.

Things had gone crazy in the camp with pickups carrying banners about killing the f___ing rag heads.

☼

The first thing Natasha saw as they approached I-8 was a giant ‘TIRES’ sign.

The mechanic had to call out to have the tire delivered. He jacked up the rear end and removed the outer tire. Grease streaked the inside tire in a radial pattern. “You’re losing your bearings.”

Edgar, “You can say that again. Can you fix it?”

“$65 for one Michelin radial! Nothing fancy! $85 and leave it overnight for bearings on this end of this axle!”

“We can’t leave it! We can’t afford the bearing.”

“You ain’t gonna go far.”

“Quail Canyon Trailer Trails! Between Phoenix and Casa Grande! Over by Gila Bend Indian Reservation.”

“You got enough bearing for there and back for the bearings. You’re lucky they deliver propane to your motor home in Arizona. Drive Slowly.”

Pets - Leaving Central Park Attitudes in Central Park

This is Mexico! Damn it! Please don't come here for tea parties, shell games, and doormen! Ever since I first came to Mexico, over fifty years ago, I have done so to leave behind Big Brother and his overly sensitive companions.
Dogs shit! It's what they do best! If you're lucky, you can train them to shit in front of a local transferred Manhattanite's gate.

This isn't Congress! I have no intention to accommodate metrosexuals' or prima donna's tyrannical sensitivities. They come down here with their hyper active and hyper sensitive cockapoos that yip and yap incessantly at me at 100 paces. They don't wait to see if my leashed pit bull is present--they just yip at the crunching gravel.
My pit bull only initiates barking when the camp dogs are chasing the cats she loves.

Speaking of cats--PETA is insane! They have actually convinced most people now that it is cruel to de-claw a cat. Let's start a movement to prevent destruction of furnishings--SPFA. I we refused to adopt clawed cats, this insanity would change!


Charlie is mad!

TRIBUTE CONCERT FOR THE PABLOFFS

On Sunday, June 26, at 2 pm, we will pay tribute to the Pabloff family and celebrate the 16th anniversary of the Gertrude Pearlman Theater with a wonderful musical afternoon. The concert performers will be the ANRE Quartet and Ester Gonzalez (Maria Lozano).

You have already heard here the magnificent voice of Ester, but this is the first time the ANRE Quartet will play for us. They are a family group of string musicians who came to Mexico in 2000 from their native Armenia. The parents, Ara Ghukasyan (viola) and Nonna Alakhverdova (violin), are conservatory trained musicians and have won many honors and competitions. They have toured with leading orchestras both in Europe and here in Mexico. Both are full-time lecturers in music at the
Univerity Autonomous of Baja California.

The other two members of the Quartet are their sons, Ruben and Erik. Their musical training began with their parents at an early age, and has extended to other outstanding Mexican music teachers. In addition to the quartet, they participate in various youth orchestras here.

Their program for us will consist of classical pieces in the first half and Mexican numbers in the second half.

During the intermission we will have Anniversary champagne and cheese. And we will honor our patron, Sr. Alejandro Pabloff, with the unveiling of his portrait painted by H. Ward Miller.

Please join us on the 26th at 2 p.m. Tickets are now on sale for $11 at Villarinos and at the Old Mission Brewery. At the door they will cost $12.

You don't want to miss this delightful afternoon event.

Judy Swan

Where I Came From - 08 Virginia

I resolved to go out New Years Eve. Where to go? I have always loved music--'Holiday for Strings', 'Canadian Sunset', 'Great Gate of Kiev', 'Black Coffee', Patti Page, Thelonious Monk, Leadbelly, and much more. My favorite AM stations in 1960 were KFWB and KRLA, but my car radio had more buttons. My favorite morning commutes to Skid Row were sunny mornings when some station played Miss Peggy Lee singing 'Fever'. I could not dance to that. At home I listened to FM--jazz, folk, and Latin jazz. It must have been the Latin jazz station that advertised New Years Eve at the Palladian.
I He knew I owed it to his family to be with them at the Rose Parade. I hated to strike out on my own, after all they had done for me. Still I felt I needed to go.

I climbed into my Ford. The green driver’s door squeaked . . . crawcrunch . . . and I was inside.

Out on the Pasadena Freeway, I flicked an ash from my cigarette out the window. I wondered who I was kidding. How many other guys had expensive dance lessons, support of their fathers, better jobs--how could I leave my family at the parade site so selfishly.

I drove down Hollywood Boulevard and took Vine up to Sunset. I had spent only a small amount of time up here and on the Sunset Strip, as a boy. One night some friends and I had walked down in front of where the shot a famous TV series and hollered at the doorman, “Cookie, Cookie, lend me your comb.”

Tonight was different. I did not want to be a child anymore and I did not know how to be an adult. I had never had the money to frequent the fancy dance halls up here. I would not know anybody here.

The lobby was huge. I tried to find a pillar to hide behind when I saw myself in the mirror. I entered the dance hall and found a seat. I lit up a Winston cigarette and surveyed the floor.

There were so many beautiful women and well-dressed men out there, all more sophisticated than me. When all else failed, I lit another cigarette. It made me think I looked more mature.

Out on the floor I watched the swirling gauzy and satiny dresses that swished around long black pants and spit-shine shoes.

I was ready to go home--ready to go back and spend a cold night at the parade route.

Out there on the floor was a lady who caught my eye. She was not really so beautiful as she was regal. She had a partner and he was so tall he dwarfed her, but he was handsome. Too bad! I would have loved to have a chance to meet her. I watched them dance, wishing it could be me dancing with her. The music stopped and they smiled at each other. It looked as though they planned to see each other again later.

Well Chuck boy, it’s now or never. Go say hello or go home.

The woman found her table and looked out on the floor.

I approached. She did not even notice me. Obviously she was too regal to be bothered with such a child.

My heart soared as I led her out onto the floor. How could such a dignified lady want to dance with such an immature child? I wanted to ask her to think it over, to be sure she knew what she was doing. Surely, it was for just one dance. Still, if I told every lovely lady I danced with to sit down, I would never find a lovely lady.

She did not walk like a high school girl, nor did she walk like a Chicana fish cannery worker. She had a regal gait. Panic overcame me. That last fellow she danced with was sure footed and light on his feet. Maybe she would be put off by my awkwardness.

She wasn’t. She was too busy worrying about what I would think of her height when we got together on the floor.

In high school, I had always danced one dance with a tall Negroid appearing mafioso’s daughter. Wasn’t her name something like Sharon Musalini? I had fantasized about her, but I had never gotten to know her. She had been very tall--maybe six feet. Most, if not all, of Cal’s girlfriends had been short. Virginia’s shoes had high heels, which helped to conceal her stature.

The dance, what was the dance, nobody noticed. It might have been 'Moon Glow', 'Theme from Picnic', or maybe 'Deep Purple'; all that mattered was that we both felt comfortable with it, and we seemed to feel more comfortable than expected with each other.

Suffice it to say I fell hopelessly and desperately in love with Virginia. We seemed made for each other. We read the same books--James Michener. We liked the same music--salsa, rock, and classical. We liked the same movies.

Where I Came From - 07 Skid Row and Pasadena Revisited

Back at work, my bosses leveled with me. I was a scab. I was to attend union meetings and report back to the boss.

I took a liking to VR. I drove V home after work. Pay days we would go to the check cashier, the electric company, the furniture rental store across from Lincoln Park, or wherever they owed money.
We went to visit friends and partied n East LA. V would point out Chicanos--he's shy, he's gay, he's in a gang, he's a loner, he's a lawyer, and so forth, indicating that Chicanos were just like Anglos. We danced at El Monte Legion Stadium, while the Masked Phantom Band saxophone players back-flipped without missing a note and low riders cruised without smiling.
We saw 'South Pacific' at the drive-in on Rosemead.
I love 'Chicago (Transit Authority)'. I've visited my share of parks, from Oregon to Texas; but whenever I hear Chicago play 'Saturday in the Park,' my mind carries me back to Lincoln Park with V and tears  come to my eyes. A slim triangle of grass, trees and footpaths, bordered by barrooms, furniture rentals, and pawn shops--it had everything and nothing. Picnickers and lovers, cotton candy and hot dogs, old people in wheelchairs watching children with balloons. The animals in the 'zoo' and the organ-grinder's monkey frolicked--innocent of Lyndon Johnson, Viet Nam, Watts Riots, and Three Mile Island.
Nevertheless, I began to grow distasteful of the hopelessness of their lives. V and I liked each other well enough, but I felt that when she learned English, and I learned Spanish, we would begin arguing. So I ended the relationship.

I registered to audit two art classes at Pasadena City College. I do things slowly and tediously. Introduction to Oil Painting went well, until I had to paint a live model. It looked like a pretty nun. I ran out of time before doing her hair.
Charcoal and Watercolor went better. Watercolors force you to work fast to capture the sought after effects while the medium is usable. I executed a surprisingly splendid sepia tone sketch of a life model posed as a gold miner panning for gold. The professor asked me to tour the summer art circuit with him. At first I was pleased, but seconds later I took it as a challenge to my manhood and refused.

The cannery hired an Anglo, Jack Pine, to work with me. Jack spouted radical right wing propaganda. I was friends with everyone else. Everyone thought I would welcome Jack--after all, he was 'white.' Jack was more than right wing white. He was stupid. He had met his wife, as a navy man, on shore leave in Long Beach. Jillie was a hefty blonde who had worked the docks and the strand whenever the navy came to town. He would invite me to enjoy his sweetheart's fried chicken. I could only beg off so many times. So, I asked Z, the sexy union rep, if she would go to dinners with me for free fried chicken. It has always intrigued me how a small percentage of complete idiots can discipline themselves to master the game of chess. So Z would chat with Jillie, before dinner in that hot Skid Row flat, while Jack would beat me in three games of chess.
Jack began borrowing money from me.
Z invited me to her Christmas party--but she already had a date. I got drunk on Cuba libres and passed out under her Christmas tree.

Where I Came From - 06 Punta Baja

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.