El Pingüino

 

Surfing at sunrise

The instructions to the secret beach were simple. Too simple, considering the beach was three thousand miles away in another country. Four brief scribbles with some approximate distances attached. The worrying part was a tiny building and the instructions to ask Raul, the supposed resident of said shack, where to find El Pingüino. These were not exactly details that our parents wanted to hear when they were told that we were going surfing in Baja for a month, so we conveniently didn’t tell them. Anyway, we trusted our surf guru, so with a napkin scribble, we set off from Montana on New Years Day, Baja bound. 

Four days and one international border after leaving home, we were hurtling down Baja’s Highway 1. The lanes were awkwardly narrow and full of truck-eating potholes. The shoulder of the road consisted of about three inches of crumbling asphalt and a steep ditch filled with blooming cacti. Semi trucks rigged up like Mad Max were racing northwards around blind turns, knowing full well that they were bigger and badder than anything meandering southbound through the desert. Each time a semi would appear, I would hear a sharp intake of breath from the passenger seat. I would grab the steering wheel at ten and two, flex my fingers, take a deep breath and watch the front corner of the oncoming truck. A gigantic whoosh would sweep over my Tacoma and then we would be in the clear for another few minutes at least.

Eventually, we came to our second turn denoted by our napkin sketch. It was the only paved road that turned west for at least a hundred miles in any direction. With each successive turn, we found ourselves deeper and deeper in the desert. The road consisted of more potholes than not potholes, so we crawled along in first gear. Every so often, an old Ford Ranger would fly by with about sixteen Mexican locals in the back at about triple our speed. They had let most of the air out of their tires and zoomed across the washboard towards home. Where home was, was a mystery since we hadn’t seen a town or a house for many miles. But after a couple hours of bumping through the desert, a small collection of buildings appeared, huddled in a small arroyo with a ranch gate. I assumed, rightly, that this was the residence of Raul, but it was quite obvious that no one was around. Raul would not be able to point us towards El Pinguino. 

Unfazed, we continued on. The Pacific ocean appeared suddenly around a bend and would be our companion for another twenty miles of washboard. As we edged closer, we could see vehicles parked haphazardly in the desert near the various beaches. It quickly became clear that we had found the surfer herd. Old trucks and vans sat quietly in the cool breeze, makeshift clotheslines flapping and surfboards reclining on the hoods and in the sand. In the distance, small dots bobbed in the froth, the ubiquitous wave chasers themselves. 

After a few attempts to locate the mysterious penguin in a few surfer communities, we climbed to the top of the highest hill around. There, I pulled out my telephoto lens and stood on a rocky outcrop. Like a pirate, I scanned the coastline for a mile in each direction. To the north, a gentle sandy beach curled outward into the Pacific. At its rocky tip, a clear surf break was evident and a small cluster of vehicles had set down roots. On the furthest point, closest to the sea, positioned as their leader, I recognized the outline of a white Chevy from my days in Alaska. El Pinguino, the penguin, my guitar-pickin, whitewater rafting, powder chasing guru friend from the great white north and his steed. 

It took a half dozen false starts to pick which of the faint two-track roads led down to the outcrop. These “roads” criss-cross the desert, weaving this way and that. Often they wash out and a new path is made by the surfers or local ranchers or drug runners through the cacti and century plants. But finally, we emerged into the oasis of sand and water that the locals call El Diablo. The place did not at all fit the devilish nickname. The surf break was gentle, perfect for beginners like us. There was a sandy bottom and a sandy beach to relax in. Dolphins and seals frolicked in the waves. El Pinguino caught a half dozen fish every day and shared them with his fellow surfers, including us. By night, we sat under the full moon and watched the waves glitter beneath the stars. By day, we passed low tide by watching the endless pelicans dive bombing the surf, looking for lunch. At high tide, we would don our wetsuits and plunge into the lukewarm winter water to learn the mysterious ways of the surfer. For weeks, we cycled these activities, surfing, guitar, moon watching, repeat. Finally, as we packed the truck to head home, a mysterious man appeared with a boatload of fresh caught seafood. Raul. Our mission had come full circle. We had accomplished all we set out to do. All we had to do was reverse the napkin sketch and journey a few thousand miles home.