San Felipe 2000
The Fun Chronicles
copyright 2000, all rights reserved
Sitting here in my new office, with the breeze from the air conditioner rustling the papers on my desk, it’s time to quit dancing around the issue, and answer the question that’s been tormenting me for weeks – Do I or do I not make the annual trek to San Felipe this year, for a week of much needed debauchery.
For only the second time in more than 20 years, I missed last year’s trip (I had just bought the house in La Ribera), and don’t want to be absent again. This year the cast is going to include many of the wives and girlfriends, so there should be an abundance of story material for me to document.
It’s now Friday, April 7th, and if I’m going to go, I’ll need to leave next Wednesday morning, the 12th, in order to get there in time for the festivities. I called my buddy Al last night, and he’s all excited about the trip (he missed last year’s adventure too). I’ve tried to get a commitment from our Tijuana CPA, Andres, on when he’s going to get here, but as of today he’s still noncommittal. We’ve decided that if I go I’ll leave all the materials he’ll need with my secretary.
It’s now Sunday, and Andres finally gave me his schedule – he’s coming in today, so that gives me a couple of days to review things with him before I go. During the 1998 Isis storm, I lost everything, including all my camping gear. About a year ago I replaced everything, and this is the first time all the gear is out of the boxes. Last night I filled the air mattress to make sure it holds air, and today I’ll set up the tent before I find myself on the beach in San Felipe and realize the tent doesn’t work. Changed the oil in the quad, and plan on polishing it up today.
This afternoon a bomb dropped on me. One of our hotel guests operates an off-road adventure company, and I asked if he was familiar with the Gonzaga Bay / Puertocitos road (when traveling to San Felipe from the south, this 70-mile section of dirt road saves a 420-mile trip going around through Ensenada). He was on that stretch about two weeks ago and said the road is in the worst shape he’s ever seen, with about 60 miles of six-inch high volcanic washboard. I encountered similar conditions during my 1994 trip, when I got three flat tires on that infamous road. My Bronco absorbed so much vibration on that trip, when I finally made it to the gas station at Puertocitos, upon attempting to fuel up, I discovered the rubber gas tank filler hose had shredded. This situation alters my preparations – I’ll now take a second spare tire and drop the tire pressure when I hit the dirt road.
It’s now Tuesday afternoon, and today has been a giant B.C.F. – Baja Cluster F#$$%^k. Spent the morning fixing the gas tank cover on the truck, then the afternoon wrapping up Leonero business. While loading up all the stuff in the Ford, I’ve been more than concerned about the state of the Gonzaga road – I’m really thinking hard about taking the long way around. If the going is as bad as they say, it could take longer to get to San Felipe on the shortcut than it will on the 350-mile longer main road. There’s a little rancho and tire shop at the turnoff to Gonzaga Bay, I’ll try checking with them before making a final decision on which way to go.
It’s attention to details that can make the difference between an entertaining story about the trip, or fodder for Stephen King. Little things like extra batteries, small-denomination bills, motor oil, tools, and my best friend on these trips, my satellite phone, are all packed and ready. I’m packing as much gas as I can carry, anticipating fuel shortages on the return trip during Semana Santa, Mexico’s 4-day Easter holiday next week.
It’s now 10pm, and I’m just now wrapping up hotel business. Heading home, I can’t help but feel the gods are all working against me in my efforts to take a few days off. Getting home, I quickly pass out, hoping that tomorrow will go as planned.
Day 1
Unfortunately, today begins where yesterday left off. Waking up an hour later than usual, I discover I left at the office the cable I need to transfer the files I need to the travel computer. I’ve got the beginnings of a monumental headache, forgetting even to make coffee. I just jump in the shower, pack the last few things up, and head to Leonero, hoping things will get back to an even keel after coffee and breakfast – wrong! The transfer cable was at the house the whole time; now I have to go back to La Ribera before heading out. At least the kitchen girls got my instructions right and had the cold chicken I asked for yesterday ready. Having briefed my secretary, Marilu, and having expressed my undying love for Angelica in the kitchen, I think I’m finally ready to get on the road.
About mid-morning I discover how much I really needed a vacation – I’ve been listening to Mexican rock n’ roll on the CD player, and find myself enjoying it!
Things go pretty much as expected, munching on cold chicken, listening to NEK and Jose Jose on the stereo, until early afternoon, when I get to the military checkpoint between Loreto and Mulege. While the soldiers are inspecting, neglecting, detecting, infecting, selecting and whatever else they’re doing to my truck, I strike up a conversation with the Comandante. He asks where I’m going, and when I respond San Felipe, he quickly asks which road I plan to take. I told him I normally took the Gonzaga Bay road, but heard it was in bad shape. He reassured me that information was correct, and the road was nearly impassable, highly suggesting I take the long way around. With this final nail in the Gonzaga coffin, I revise my travel plans, and now plan on pushing through to Catavina today, so I can still get to San Felipe by tomorrow afternoon.
Rolling into Santa Rosalia, I stop and change shoes, as my boots are killing me. Resuming the northward trek, I stop again at the next military checkpoint at San Ignacio, and make further inquiries about the Gonzaga road ahead. The dropping of their eyes and the slow shake of their heads tell me more than I needed to know.
Bypassing Guerrero Negro, I gas up at Jesus de Maria, since the next gas is at El Rosario, a run of more than 250 miles. While there, I figure I might as well gas up myself, so I grab some java from the mobile 7-11 parked nearby. The wind is blowing so hard, I’m having trouble spooning the Nescafe into the cup.
Continuing on, as I pass the village of Nuevo Rosarito, I think about the time in 1994, when I spent 2 nights sleeping in my truck there. I had hit at pothole pretty hard while carrying a full load, and snapped all the lug nuts off one of the hubs. It’s always the things you can’t prepare for that gets you. I’m now nearing the point of no return, and feel the tug of desire as I get closer and closer to the proverbial fork in the road.
As the evening sun marches onward towards its daily rendezvous with darkness, I’m in the shadow of the western foothills, and all that’s lit is the peaks to the east – they’re calling to me "Roy, Roy, come this way, it’s faster and shorter, you’ve done it before, come on, come on!" Pulling up to the turnoff, I jump out of the truck to get photographic evidence of my decision, and just as quickly jump back in and stomp on the gas, leaving a cloud of smoke and dust in response to the call of the east. Today, I’m Sr. Divertido, not Sr. Stupid, and my truck breathes out an audible sigh of relief as we continue north on the pavement. Looking in my rearview mirror, I watch the fading sunlight disappear from the eastern peaks, heralding their disappointment in not being able to entice me.
Continuing on, I pull into the La Pinta at Catavina for the evening. Things are starting to look up – Tomorrow should bring new adventures, as this is the first time in the eight years I’ve been at Leonero that I’ll take the long way around.
Day 2
The day starts out worse than yesterday. First, I wake up about an hour later than I wanted, then when I get out to the truck someone has stolen a 5-gallon tank of gas. Something else seems wrong, but I can’t quite put my finger on it. I decide to get out of Catavina as fast as I can, and head towards San Quintin for breakfast.
Just before getting to El Rosario I hit some heavy fog – I sure hope it’s not going to be like this for the next 200 miles. After gassing up, I break through the haze on the grade out of town, and blast for San Quintin. There’s a little restaurant there where I had some great food several years ago, and I’m hoping it’s still there. Dodging the morning commute through the valley, I’m rewarded with the restaurant still there and the front door is open.
After a great machaca breakfast, I give the truck the once over, and finally figure out what’s wrong – the bag containing all my clothes is gone! Dejectedly continuing on I debate my options. I could just continue to San Diego and buy some new clothes – I’m not too confident of finding extra-gordo shorts in Mexico. Or, I could check to see if anyone I know is driving down from San Diego who could bring me some new threads. Getting on the cell phone, I try calling Al to see if he’s left yet, but apparently I’ve missed him. I try calling the Powell’s, but Bobbie says they’re not coming down until next Thursday. I finally decide that this episode is just part of the adventure and plan on stopping in Ensenada to look for a big men’s store.
Rolling into Ensenada, I stop for gas and ask about a gordo clothes store. The attendant sadly shakes his head, and then asks the boss if he can help. After some headed discussion, they suggest a store next to Hussong’s Cantina. Knowing the location well from the days of my wayward youth, I weave my way through the midday traffic, getting frustrated with the reality of city life. There’s no place to park for blocks in any direction, and the last thing I want now is to have any more of my stuff ripped off. I figure I’ll pick up some t-shirts in San Felipe and just live in my one pair of shorts for the duration.
It’s been a dozen years since I’ve been on the Ensenada-San Felipe road, and never from this direction. I spend the next 45 minutes trying to find it, but in typical Mexican fashion, none of the roads are marked. Feeling that the dreaded Sr. Coraje (my evil alter-ego) might come out of his domain in the recesses of my soul, I do the one thing no self-respecting guy would do – I stop at a Pemex station and ask for directions. They quickly put me on the right path, probably saving the town in the process.
The road is curvier than Marilyn Monroe, and the going is slower than expected. About halfway to Felipe I swear to myself I’ll never go this way again. Dropping down towards El Chileno, the desert heat climbs up the foothills to greet me, as if to say "Stupid gringo!"
Pulling into Pete’s Camp about 3:30, I’m greeted by the gang, they’re all sitting at the bar, almost as if the last two years were on a pause switch, and someone just hit the play button. Al, Jodi, Robert, Scott, and Tammi are all in various stages of inebriation, and we resume the partying as if it had never stopped. Scott can barely stand, and we all watch him walk right into a sign while trying to get to his truck.
After a couple of beers, I get my camp set up, and in the meanwhile, Scott has passed out sitting in his Bronco, Ryan is blowing up trash cans, and Tammi has turned her ankle while attempting the difficult task of stepping down a stairway. It’s nice to know things never change.
Scott makes a recovery, and we all decide to cruise into town for tacos. In an act of sheer insanity, Robert and I let Scott drive. A video of the drive into town would have made a great commercial for MADD. Arriving at Taco-Central reasonably unscathed, we kill a few tacos, drink a few beers, and head on over to the Miramar for the obligatory cocktail there. The drive back to camp is punctuated by numerous screams from the helpless passengers, and by some miracle we make it back alive.
Dozing off, I remark to myself what a great life I have – I’ve driven 1100 miles of bad 2-lane road, had all my clothes stolen, been nearly killed twice in the Bronco rides from hell, just to find myself sleeping on a half-inflated air mattress, with the king of all snorers residing in the next tent, about 10 feet away!
Day 3
The day starts in typical Felipe fashion, with Paul coming on over early to
collect camp fees, then early showers and machaca breakfasts at Pete’s
restaurant. Everybody’s in cruise mode, except for Ryan, Al’s kid (and our
resident pyrotechnic). Two years ago he blew up one of the camp toilets, and he’s
eager to go to town to get more fireworks. I want to get gas and have the car
washed, so I draw Ryan duty, and we merrily head on into town in search of big
boom.
Fueling up at the local Pemex (premium at $2.20/gallon), I start looking for a car wash, but they’re all too busy. We stop at the malecon and start our search for fireworks. Stopping at one shop, when asked if they have fireworks, the clerk points towards an unmarked doorway. As we pass through, I’m wondering if we’re about to be mugged, when we turn the corner and are greeted with wall-to-wall pyrotechnics – Ryan’s eyes light up with eager anticipation. After the obligatory haggling over price, we depart with enough goodies to keep him entertained, if only for one night. After stopping for a couple of tacos, we head on back to camp, listening to Mexican rock on the way (Ryan must think I’m nuts).
Around noontime, most of the group decides to head on into town for cocktails, while I decide to run down to Laguna Percebu to visit with Jorge. We’ve been camping there for over 20 years, and I’m the godfather to his son. It’s been two years since I’ve seen him, and I’m anxious to renew the friendship. Getting there, it’s evident that the place is no longer party central. It’s nearly deserted, with all new faces in the restaurant. I ask if Jorge is around, and they call for him, turning the corner, we hug and talk about old times. He tells us everybody will be there tomorrow, and we arrange to bring the group back then.
Stopping in town on the way back, I hookup with Al & Doug at the Beachcomber. Cruising through town, I pick up a couple more t-shirts to augment my meager clothing inventory. Back at camp, the perennial ultra-lite pays us a visit and we strap Ryan in for a 12-minute ride through the heavens.
Later in the afternoon we all jump on the quads and zip on over to another camp, Playa Del Sol, where a couple of our buddies have vacation homes there. Cruising over to the bar for cocktails, the owner starts hawking his breakfast buffet for the next morning, and we all agree to return then. Pretty soon our friend, Rick, shows up, with new young girlfriend in tow. He just got divorced in January, and plans on getting hitched again next month – Buena suerte, amigo!
A bunch of the group want Pete’s Friday night spaghetti dinner, but by the time we get there, they’re all sold out. Settling on Mexican combos, we notice the wind building up to an incessant howl. Returning to camp, everyone buttons down for the night. Robert’s tent is nearly horizontal, he re-stakes it down, and moves his truck as a windbreak – all to no avail.
Day 4
The day starts off fairly routinely, with showers and breakfast, and we’re soon lulled into a false sense of security. About 10am my stomach starts doing acrobatics, soon followed by frequent toilet visits to stress test the plumbing. About an hour later the same fate befalls Robert. Taking some Imodium with a Pepto-Bismol chaser, I’m hoping to regain my Mr. Fun status by the time we’re supposed to venture to Percebu, but it’s just not to be. I get worse, so we call off the planned run there. Spending the rest of the day in bed, I can’t help but consider what a fun vacation this is. With the planned excursion called off, the group spends most of the afternoon relaxing at Pete’s bar.
Later in the evening I recover sufficiently enough to join the group around the campfire, and we’re all entertained and amazed by Scott’s proficiency at projectile vomiting – the more things change, the more they stay the same!
Day 5
Success! – I made it all night without having any encounters with my new best friend, the toilet. All cylinders are working (although idle is a bit rough). About 6:30 I make my first pass at the bathrooms, and find Dave on his way back – he’s got it so bad he had to take a bucket with him in case he couldn’t make it to the toilets in time. Seeing someone else worse than me brightens my day.
Robert soon emerges from his tent and he’s also feeling better. We cruise on up for early showers and I’m soon feeling good enough to attempt some breakfast. Soon everyone drags their butts on up and a couple of bloody mary’s later everything seems ok.
Back at camp Doug organizes an early side trip north to do some shelling, and most of the camp jumps in his truck and off they go. Al and I hang at camp so I can do some work on this journal, and we soon decide to pull a classic Al & Roy scheme and leave a note and head in down to Percebu. We figure unless we go now, we’ll have a hard time getting the group motivated later.
It’s obvious that the party heydays of Percebu are over. Once we get there we’re just about the only people there, but the cazuelas still taste just as good! I take the opportunity to say hi to Mama, Gaby, and Paty. While we’re waiting for the rest of the group to show up, a car pulls up and hollers at me "Hey Roy, you gonna be here awhile?". It’s about 5 minutes later that I figure out who it was, Scott Bradley, who I spend a lot of time with during my ’97 trip. That mystery resolved, soon the stragglers show up and we down a few more cazuelas, eat a few tacos, and reminisce about the golden days here when we were gods. During spring breaks long past, the average college guys would show up in dad’s car, with a few buck, a Frisbee, and a golf club; while we’d arrive with jet skis, quads, dirt bikes, generators, blenders – we were truly their heroes.
There’s a live band at Pete’s this afternoon, and everyone soon takes off to
get there in time. Ryan is in pyrotechnic shock, his supply having been depleted
during the last couple of evenings. Feeling the need to contribute to his
delinquency, I tell him to ride back with us, and we stop in town and I pick up
another $100 worth of sky rockets, waterproof M-200’s (I wonder what he’s
going to use those for), roman candles and butterflies. Anticipating the pungent
smell of burnt gunpowder, Ryan’s a happy camper on the ride back to camp, with
his brain churning in overdrive figuring out new things to blow up.
We get back just in time to catch the start of the show, and the band, the Rockfish, give a good performance of classic surf tunes. After awhile our youngest member of the group, 3-year old Gage, gets into the mood and joins the band.
As the day winds down, and the Rockfish get ready for their next gig at the Miramar Bar later in the evening, we drift on back to camp, checking out some of the unique San Felipe vehicles.
Day 6
Waking up with no more than a few sore joints, as usual I’m the first one up
for a shower and breakfast. As more of the group starts straggling in, we
discuss the day’s agenda over java and machaca. I’ve wanted to have a steak
dinner all week at El Nido, the local steakhouse, and garner lots of support for
this. Cruising back to camp, we find the rest of the group has gone into town
for breakfast – we’ll catch up with them later. Meanwhile, Ryan is
continuing his Master Terrorist training, and we watch him repeatedly send a
55-gallon steel drum into orbit.
I start bitching about the fact we hardly ever ride the quads anymore, and organize an excursion to town. Trying to get the "trailer trash", Doug and Heather, to leave their home on wheels has been like pulling teeth – they spend the whole day sitting inside watching motorcycle videos, but eventually enough cajoling brings them out for a ride to town.
We stop first at Ruben’s for a Coco Loco, but the action looks pretty slow here and we decide to move on over to the Miramar. Pulling up, we catch Rick and his new soon-to-be wife on the patio. A few drinks and a couple of tacos later, we make the obligatory ride through town, first stopping to make sure El Nido would be open that evening. On the ride back, Doug entertains us with cliff climbing.
Getting back to camp, it seems we missed all the action – Scott was arrested in town for mouthing off to the cops, although they did eventually let him go (they probably didn’t want to do the paperwork). Shaun has dislocated his shoulder – they popped it back in. The beach is a scene of utter carnage, with self-inflicted alcohol poisoning evident everywhere. The rest of the afternoon is kick-back time.
Organizing the trip to town is a logistical nightmare. Doug & Heather go back into hibernation in their trailer and won’t come out. Ryan gets attitude and is out. It looks like it’s down to Robert, Al & Jodi, the now liberated Scott & Tammi, and me. Taking three trucks so we can gas up for our expected departure tomorrow, I follow Scott as he merrily drives right past the only Pemex station that sells Premium fuel. Regrouping at El Nido, we grab a big table and wait to see who else will show up. After about 30 minutes we decide that nobody else is going to make it, and go ahead and order. About halfway through dinner an apparition appear at the doorway – Tom (who was passed out on the beach two hours ago), his nubile daughter and her friend, and the guys who are scamming on them, walk in, apparently unscathed from their afternoon activities.
The plan was to go bar-hopping after dinner, but with Robert not hitting on all cylinders, and Al needing a TV fix (he spends most nights watching movies in his tent), our half of the group decides to head on back to camp. On the way home, I decide it’s high time Ryan gets a dose of his own medicine, and pick up some M-500’s to blow him up in the morning. Back at camp I spend the rest of the evening watching kung-fu movies through the window of Al’s tent.
Day 7
About midnight the wind starts shrieking through camp, liberating anything that’s not tied down. This continues throughout the night, interrupting all thoughts of a peaceful night’s sleep. About 4:30, my old friend, Montezuma, comes back for a return engagement. On the way to the bathroom, it looks like the wind has crushed all the dome tents, as if Godzilla had been rampaging through camp.
Now wide-awake, I return to my still-erect tent, wondering which will happen first, sunrise or the next call of nature. It’s a tie, with the sun peeking over the horizon while I’m in my now-familiar pose on the ceramic throne. Al soon gets up, and decides that maybe it’s not quite a good idea to get Ryan up with a boom (it sure sounded good last night when we were drinking). While they start to pack, I spend most of the next hour up top, arranging some fund transfers at work (and staying close to the bathroom in the process).
All week I’ve been debating on the merits of a detour through San Diego on the trip home, to pick up some now much needed clothes and other goodies, and the moment of truth is upon me. Calculating that it will only add about an extra 100 miles to my travels, it’s pretty clear that a day north will be a good investment. Al says he’ll put me up, and that seals the deal. We decide to caravan home and continue our packing.
Out of the corner of my eye, I spot a nail embedded in one of my tires. Checking to see if anyone has a plug kit, it soon becomes evident I’ll need to put a plug in it before heading out. I had anticipated this possibility and had tried to buy a kit before starting the trip, but amazingly enough; I couldn’t find one in the East Cape. Doug and Heather have been bailing me out all week; figuring he must have a kit in his trailer (he has everything else), I’m surprised when he comes up empty. Resigned to a side trip to town, I tell Al to head on home without me and I’ll either catch him on the road or meet him in San Diego.
Al pulls out and heads for the border while I turn left and aim for the nearest
llantera. At the first shop I get to, the owner pulls on the nail and the
corresponding hiss of escaping air confirms the nail did indeed penetrate the
casing. He wants to pull the wheel and patch it from the inside, but I only want
a plug, I’m worried his equipment will scratch my aluminum wheel. He doesn’t
use plugs, and points me down the street to the next shop. Pulling in there, the
proprietor gladly indicates he can plug the tire, and the next 20 minutes is
like a Laurel & Hardy movie, watching him try to get a plug through the
radial casing. Finally, in a desire to get going, I concede to reality and tell
him to go ahead and pull the wheel and patch it. With a renewed smile now that
he can abandon this act of futility, he quickly and efficiently removes the
tire, applies the patch, and gets me back on the road.
The next contest pits the border against my bowels, and I’m apprehensive about who is going to prevail. Trying to give the edge to the border, I mash on the gas pedal and am eventually rewarded when I find myself at the gas station in Calexico before the next call of nature. Rewarding myself with a stop for some chicken, I munch my way towards San Diego, getting into town about 3:30. Before heading home to Al’s, I stop and pick up something new to wear.
With our well-deserved reputation for causing trouble on the line, Al & I call up my old flame, Jeane’, who’s in the middle of a divorce, and try to talk her into going with me to see Jimmy Buffett on Thursday. I arrange to meet her at Outback, and head on over to meet her. After spending about 30 seconds with her, I was reminded why I don’t see her anymore, and beat a hasty exit. Returning to Al’s, it’s almost like I never left eight years ago, with Jodi busy working on a project, while Al has fallen asleep watching TV. Reassured by these familiar images, I turn my switch to off.
Day 8
The last vestiges of my visit from Montezuma pass during the night, and I wake up hungry – a good omen. Heading on down to the Broken Yolk for one of their famous omelets, I start planning out my day. I’m leaning more towards leaving early tomorrow, but the lure of Buffett keeps me unfocused. If I stay for the Thursday night concert, I’d have to leave early Friday on only a few hours sleep. I go ahead and call up Premier Tickets, and they’ve got 5th row center seats for $225 – a bargain compared to what I’ve paid in previous years. However, eight years in Mexico has emptied my "little black book", and without anyone fun to join me, my fate is sealed – it’s time for this one to go home.
Making the best use of the situation, I spend the day picking up parts for my truck, getting the patched tire replaced, getting a tire plug kit and new compressor, and repacking the gear.
Getting home about 4, Al’s neighbor comes over, looking for Al, and he’s not happy. Apparently Ryan has been practicing his pyrotechnic technique in the neighborhood, and the neighbor threatens to call the police. When Al gets here he sends Ryan over to apologize, but the neighbor isn’t satisfied and calls the police anyway. Reminiscent of the time (about a dozen years ago) I answered the door and it was the FBI looking for Al, the doorbell soon rings and I get the duty again, letting in the nice policeman. After Al explains his side of things, and admitting Ryan did set off a couple of skyrockets yesterday, as well as indicate he did send Ryan over to the neighbor’s to apologize, the cop takes off, dutifully noting Al’s and Ryan’s names for inclusion in their respective ever-growing official police files. The afternoon’s excitement having been concluded, we settle in to watch the Padre game on the big screen and turn in early.
Day 9
It’s up at 4:30 to grab a bite at Denny’s on the way to the border. I always try to cross before 6am, as I usually get a green light at that hour and don’t have to hassle with secondary inspection. As this is a holiday weekend, I want to get south of Ensenada as early as possible.
The normally packed border crossing is virtually deserted, and with nary an inspector in sight I blast on through and prepare myself for the gauntlet ahead – I’ve got to traverse 1000 miles of 2-lane road, sharing it with every vacationing Mexican family from here to Cabo. Back in January I drove straight through in 15 hours, but with all the obstacles I expect to face today, I think I’ll just try to make it to Conception Bay, then get home by midday tomorrow.
The road has much less traffic than I expected, probably everyone is hung over from last night. Getting to Ensenada by 7, the going is still easy. The very last traffic signal seems stuck, and after a couple of minutes of waiting, I pull a typical Mexican maneuver and blow on through. As I get across I spot a Federal Highway Police car parked about a block ahead. Thinking quickly, I pull over on the shoulder, jump out and act like I’m checking the load. Getting back in, I continue on, and as I pass the cop, he gives me a "I-know-what-you-just-did" smile and waves me on.
Traffic through San Quintin is rough, as it seems every car is loaded to the hilt with beach balls, coolers, camping gear and smiling kids. On the grade south of El Rosario I come across an 18-wheeler that didn’t make a sharp corner and went over the side, with the wheels still spinning and the dust still in the air. I take this as an omen and proceed a bit more carefully, at least for now.
Dodging vacationers and wayward trucks, I get down to Mulege about 5pm, and start looking for a place to stay – not a chance in hell! Everyplace is packed with rowdy vacationers bent on having as much fun as possible before returning to reality on Sunday. Passing the beaches on Conception Bay, the transformation is astounding – the pristine beaches that were empty and inviting on the way north last week are now blanketed with a human carpet, undulating to the oomm-pahh beat emanating from a million ghetto blasters.
I don’t want to stay in Loreto, as I would like to avoid a repeat on the Catavina debacle and not have anything else stolen. I decide to make a run for home, and concentrate on getting as far as possible before the waning sunset shrouds everything in darkness. Getting into Constitution just as the sun disappears, I make my last gas stop and prepare for the final assault on home in La Ribera. Getting to El Cien at 9pm (8pm San Diego time) I stop for a cup of coffee and insert my latest Jimmy Buffett CD in the player – the concert is just starting in San Diego, and if I can’t be there in person, I’ll at least try to be there in spirit (Al & Jodi – thanks for everything, have a boat drink for me). Pulling into home about midnight, another trip comes to a successful conclusion (I now consider any trip during which I don’t lose any more body parts successful).
Sr. Divertido - April 20, 2000