M
Nomad
Posts: 392
Registered: 8-30-2002
Location: Laguna Niguel, CA.
Member Is Offline
Mood: looking for joy...
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M's WORST Baja trip, (part 1)
In the springtime of 1995, I was floored by a nasty case of Pneumonia. Holed up in my Laguna Beach Cottage, I listened to the waves and gulls while
feeling pretty sorry for myself. Worse, my mother who lived less than 10 miles away was being a little aggressive with her nursing skills. God love
her, but her fussing and food forcing was exhausting, and I really just needed to climb in a hole for awhile. After one particularly obnoxious visit,
where my lifestyle was cursed, my diet was damned, and my constant 'gallivanting' was going to be the death of me yet, I figured she was probably
right, and I might as well do my dying in Baja.
'Grunt' my one-ton Chevy van was always packed to go. I had a dresser in there that held clothes, food, tackle, poles hung from the ceiling, firewood
in the back, machete, anything and everything I had needed and refined from the ages going down there. I could, and often did just jump in and go.
I had not been fishing for 3 weeks, springtime was impossibly gorgeous and I could see in my minds eye that the flowers in Baja would be busting out
everywhere. I needed my boat. The only bother I had was getting my 79lb. Porta Bote up to the top of my jacked up van, also the little Tohatsu 5HP
motor. Lord I was weak, but mom said she would be back that evening with split pea soup, and I NEEDED to GO!
What normally was an easy task for me took 2 hours but I did it, and cats fed and note on the door, I was heading South.
On my way down, I felt woozy from my efforts and wondered if maybe I had blown it. I pictured mom's wrath on my return, and even entertained fantasies
of authorities finding my lifeless body in the bottom of my drifting boat pole in hand. I was feeling pitifully sorry for myself.
I crossed the border and cheered up immensely when I saw the Pacific and Cliffs and flowers from the toll road right before Ensenada. I needed no
supplies so I drove to Punta Banda, stopped in at Fred Hoctors and told him I would be camping down at the ramp and check in if he didn't see me in
two days.
I'm really taking liberties when I call this place a boat ramp. It serves the locals OK, and little toy boats like mine, but at low tide it is
full-blown boulders and breakers. First thing, I needed was a graham cracker and a nappy. I dove to the back of Grunt, snuggled into my eggcrate and
drifted off. I woke to near darkness and the sounds of children. Pulling myself up to the window to peek out, I came face to face with a curious
fellow who was straining for a peek through my limo tinted windows. When he focused on my face not 2 inches from his, he fell back in surprise, and I
fell back laughing so hard my lungs went into hacking spasms. I grabbed the side door handle to get out and sort of rolled out of Grunt still hacking
like a 90 year old 3 pack a day smoker. I must have looked lovely. The children took off running down the beach, and the father wasn't looking so good
himself. He looked TOTALLY worried. #1 He was caught snooping. #2 He was pretty sure I was going to die right on the spot leaving him with a gringa
body to explain. Once we both recovered a little I found out that he and his family collect snails at low tide. I tried eating one once and despite
considerable chewing, I never made a dent. I was told that his brother had Lobster traps not far off shore, but I couldn't see the floats. He said
that because of thieves, he leaves off the floats, and when it is time to check the traps he or other friends or family go to the top of the cliffs
and spot the traps for the Pangas.
We talked for awhile and the kids finally returned with a full sack of snails, but I still looked suspect and they never gave me a chance to meet
them. Ah well.
After they left, I realized I was starving. I rummaged through Grunt and came up with Canned Spaghetti and a mystery can with no label. I opened the
mystery can first. Kidney beans. I learned that what usually looks yucky in my pantry at home, is usually good tucker in Baja, and this was a good
example of that. They were delicious, and I also finished half a can of cold spaghetti, saving the rest for breakfast.
I closed Grunt up for the night, rigged a couple poles, settled down with a Dean Koontz novel and soon drifted off to sleep. The next day, I would
later learn would be the worst day ever of my Baja adventures.
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