That Wicked Country

"When are you going to that wicked country?  Your father tells me you are heading down soon.  How do you pronounce it? Ba JA?"  my 86 year old grandmother inquired from my cousin's couch in San Diego.

"Dan and I are leaving tomorrow morning."

"But it's Christmas.  You're not going to stay?  You just got here?"

"I know, Oma, but the highways in Baja will be empty."

"Isn't it dangerous?  I hear all these stories of people being found with their heads off."

"It sure can be.  The border areas around Texas and incredibly dangerous,  but the place where I go is empty.  It's just fishermen and a handful of surfers," I explained.

"What do you do for food and water?  Isn't it incredible arid?"

"Well we bring food and water in jugs, and we spear fish.  Depending on our luck, we buy fish from fisherman"

"So there aren't restaurants or towns?"

"Think of it like Nevada with waves.  You drive 10 hours on a beat up, two lane road and then turn off and drive a few hours on dirt roads and then you park on the beach."

"...And then you surf all day?  Sounds wonderful."

"It sure is Oma.  Especially if you're into surfing."

My cousin Becca sat down on the other side of my grandmother, and the conversation shifted away from my upcoming trip.  It was already 9:30, and my jet-lagged relatives from the east coast were starting to wind down.  The fireplace popped away on wood trucked in from the Sierras and the smell of a Christmas tree overpowered the scraps of dinner still lying on the dinning room table.  I was full, too full, and I laid my head back against the wall.  I could fall asleep right now, I thought to myself.   Across the room, Dan talked with my aunt.  Over the chatter, it sounded like he was having a similar conversation with my aunt about the tenets and risks of driving to Baja.

Sunset at low tide in Central Baja.

Para Gringos!

A Taco stand in Guerrero Negro.

Two 10 footers.

Naranjas for sale on the side of the 1 in Northern Baja.

There is a bad moon on the rise.

Home is where you park it!

Dan after a four hour session.

The refrigerator at a road side Taqueria.

Off my wave cook.

Be prepared.

Foot warmers.

Red, white and blue #vanlife.

A gringo dog watching over a camp in Central Baja.

At 5:32,  the standard IOS allarm went off, waking me from my slumber on the couch.  Rolling over, I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and looked out the window.  It was still pitch black.  The street lamps lit the palm trees and a sixty degree Southern California breeze blew in from the open window.  Nothing felt like Christmas morning.  My cousin Nikko's snore crept under the bedroom door into the living room.  Sunrise wasn't for another two hours, but we still had to park Dan's van at the airport and get gas.  Those two hours would go by fast.  Kicking off the blankets,  I reached for my jeans and pulled them on.  Feeling around in the dark, I grabbed my backpack and made sure my iPhone charger was in it.   Being as quiet as possible,  I locked the door behind me and headed out to my van.

Dan was already waiting right behind my van.

"Merrrry Christmas."

"Happy Kwanzaa to you too."

"You ready to go?"

"Absolutely."

Here are some more links,

Out of Reception (Tumblr).

The Corner

My lips were  burned and my armpits ached from three days of wearing a wet suit more than clothes.  Surfing encourages greed.  Scarcity explains it.  When the waves are good,  life comes to a screeching halt, and you scramble to satisfy your thirst saved up during the long flat periods.  My thirst wasn't satisfied, just dulled to the point where I could comfortably pass up a session.

"Ehhhh,  how is it?"

"Really good,  there are barrels all over the place.  I'm suiting up right now and paddling out. Gotta go." Trevor hung up.

"It's really good," Good,  I said to Dan as I plugged my phone back into the cigarette lighter.  "Trevor is going out right now.  You wanna go?"

Dan was fresh off a cross country road trip, where the closest he got to waves was tanker wake in the Gulf.  "Absolutely. Nice point break. Long, workable rides.  Are You?" Dan said mimick Keanu Reeves in Point Break.

Looking into the rear view mirror, I stared at my chapped lips and sunburnt face.  I was exhausted and, based on the amount of cars in the parking lot,  I knew I wouldn't get many waves.  I didn't feel like scrapping with 300 people for a wave or two.

"Na man.  I'm going to lurk on the beach for this one."

"Are you fucking kidding me?"

"Yah,  the juice won't be  worth the squeeze.  I'm pooped."  I said with hint of conflict.

By the time we made it to the beach,  the sun was flirting with the hills of the Channel Islands.  I walked with Dan along the beach to towards the river mouth.  The crowd was emptying out.  Familiar silhouette and boards took off at the river mouth and pumped into the cove.

"You're blowing it."

"Yah, you're probably right."

Dan strapped on his leash and waded over the rocks.  The current pulled him down towards the flag pole as he started paddling.  Waves kept rolling in with no end in sight. Checking my watch, I looked at the sun.   If I ran, I could get a few.

Here are some more links,

Out of Reception (Tumblr),

@Fosterhunting (Instagram).

BC or Bust Part 2

We were a few hours out of Tofino when the wind picked up.  The mellow waters of the fjord lost their shine, developing half a foot high waves that rattled the small aluminum boat and all of our supplies. Sitting on a cooler with enough food, water and beer for two nights,  I bounced along as Jeremy piloted the seventeen foot aluminum boat towards the mouth of the fjord. The cold air and increasing waves kept small talk to a minimum.

"How long till we get out of here?" I yelled to Jeremy.

"The fjord?"

"Yah,"  I replied nodding towards the mountains on the right.

"15 minutes.  It's going to get rough for an hour or so."

I smiled in acknowledgment.

Twenty minutes later, our boat was cutting through five to eight foot ground swell a mile off the coast of Vancouver Island.  Dressed head to toe in Gortex,  frigid water covered me each time we bounced off the the top of a wave.  Keeping my head down, I avoided the bulk of the spray, but this left me blind from anticipating the jolt of larger waves.  Every few minutes, a wave shook the boat like a screen door, jaring me from my perch on top of a Coleman cooler.  One such wave sent my Wayferes flying, eventually shattering against the gunnel.

After that, I went quite and focused on nothing, the way you do on a long run.  Time stands still and speeds ahead at the same time.

Campvibes.

A trail to hot springs.

Displacement hull.

The BC Ferries.

Jeremy and Trevor kickstarting a fire.

Seasonal housing.

A grey whale off the coast of Vancouver.

Jeremy checking the weather forecast.

Equipped to rip.

Coffee time.

Light house.

Trevor at the Harbor.

Bald eagle.

#vanlife.

Heater.

Hidden Kitchen.

Sea lion Bonanza.

Boatlife!

With a descending whine, Jeremy eased off the throttle and the boat coasted.   Looking up from my stopper,  Jeremy motioned towards a stretch of ocean just off of a point.  Shifting the throttle handel back into reverse, he anounced, "Thats the wave.  The tide is still way to high."

"So we made it?" I asked, signaling my relief.

"Yah we are going to camp over in the bay."

"Awesome.  I want to get the fuck off this boat.  That was brutal."

"Ahh come on" Jeremy said in his Vancouver accent.  "Last winter Pete, (Peter Devries a pro surfer from Tofino) and I made the same trip in three times the swell and howling 30 knots."

"I don't doubt that shit, but I'm a land lover. I feel 3 inches shorter."

"Cry about it pro blogger (Jeremy's nickname for me).  The winds nice,  lets get our camp set up.  We'll be able to surf before sunset."

Standing up, I stretched and looked down at cooler.  One larger circular dent in the green aluminium correlated with the placement and subsequent jarring of my ass during the ride.

Here are some more links,

BC or Bust Part 1 (ART),

BC or Bust (Cleanest Line).

BC or Bust Part 1

Keeping my eyes on the empty 101,  I retrieved my iPhone from my camera bag and tapped the top button, illuminating the screen.  10:13.

"How are you guys doing?" I asked Jeremy Koreski and Trevor Gordon.  "I'm pretty spent."

Waking from a doze,  Trevor spoke over the syncro's highway noise, "How far are we from Crescent City?"

"Hhmm,  maybe four hours?  We just passed Garbville,  the pot capital of the world, and we're still a few hours from the coast."

"Yah, lets call it," Jeremy agreed.

"Cool, I'll look for a place.  We are in National Forrest now, gods country."  I turned down the heater, in attempt to keep me from nodding off at the wheel.

A few miles a head,  I spotted a gravel road heading off the highway on the right.  Down shifting, I breaked and prepared to take the gravel road at speed.

"Shit..Is everything okay?" Startled, Jeremy moaned from the backseat.

"Don't worry,  this is not my first rodeo," I laughed as we bounced up the steep grade, coasting down from 60 to 35mph.

"You sure this is Kosher?  What kind of road is this?"

"Ehh it looks like a logging road.  It's in really good condition," I surmised looking at the well worn tire tracks. For a mile or two, we rumbled up the steep grade in second.  Along the way, we passed a few drive ways with gates and "No trespassing" signs.  This raised some redflags, but I kept my mouth shut.  In northern California,  these signs, when coupled with large gates on dead end access roads, often indicated a thriving local economy.  Marijuana cultivation.  They proprietors are notoriously paranoid and often chase people away from their property with friendly serving of rocksalt courteous a 12 gage shotgun.   I wanted none of this but after a full day of surfing Ocean Beach in San Francisco, I could have fallen asleep at an Insane Clown Possie concert.

Spotting a large shoulder out on the right, I pulled over.

"This should be good," I told Trevor and Jeremy as well as myself.  Rocking between first and reverse, I found a level spot and turned off the van.

Crawling over camer bags,  surfboards and food for three for a week, I cleared space for three on the folding bed.

"It's going to be real cozzie tonight,"  Jeremy laughed.

"Sure is, either that or one of us sets up a tent, and it sure as fuck wont be me."

No one volunteered and within a few moments, the three of us were laying down.  Pillow talk was scarce and in a few minutes all over us were snoring.

Trevor on the six string early one morning.

Equipped to rip!

Trevor and Joe Curren checking waves on the Northern California Coast.

Welcome.

Joe searching for steelhead in Oregon.

Coffee stand.

Kanoa Zimmerman removing a stick from his truck at Ocean Beach.

Laying it out plain and simple.

Howling off shore somewhere on the southern Oregon Coast.

Unmuffled engine breaking started down the logging road before sunrise.  Rapping a fleece around my head like bandana, I prolonged the inevitable  separation from my sleeping bag.

"Rise and shine, its buttwhipping time!"  I announced to Trevor and Jeremy.

 Grumbling, we emerged from our sleeping bags and set t he van up for transport.  Firing up engine, we headed down the gravel road towards the 101.

"We'll be in Arcata by lunch."

Here are some links,

BC or Bust (Cleanest Line).