Pothole Mag #5: La Paz, Baja through Mainland Mexico

After the ridiculous business venture in Ensenada Muertos went sour, I had about 1,000 dollars in my pocket and a torqued out brain in my head.  Losing out on such a big opportunity was very depressing, and I couldn't help but feel partially at fault  At the same time, I kinda hated myself for having gone along with the whole fiasco in the first place.  Also, having had a falling out with my friend Mack, I was now sailing solo and feeling very alone.

I had only been travelling four months and had much further to go, but I needed to rest and resupply before attempting a 350 mile crossing of the Sea of Cortez.  I also needed to scrounge together some money because Mexico wasn't as cheap as expected, and I had 1,400 miles of it's coastline to explore before reaching Central America.

After a crusty old windsurfer spun tales of a remote and ridiculously windy spot in Southern Mexico, I set my sights on it: the Gulf of Tehuantepec.  As a kite-surfer, I hoped to discover an ungringofied paradise in the massive lagoons of this hurricane-spawning geographical anomaly.

Kinda fearing for my life, I headed to La Paz where the yacht community -- especially Trimaran Dan and the young crew of Outkast -- nursed me back to good spirits.  I sold a few kites, taught a few lessons, and fixed a few bikes.  By selling them at the La Paz Yacht Club, I was able to pocket a few more bucks.

A Typical Sunset as Seen Skating Down the Malecon in La Paz.

Lonely and doubting the sanity of my voyage, I dropped $450 to fly in an ex-girlfriend.  This was a painful and costly mistake, but at least it confirmed my will to keep sailing.  A few days later I bid farewell to La Paz, and began my voyage across the Sea of Cortez.

It was hauntingly still my first night out and to make progress I fired up the motor and let it burn all night.  Perfectly still, perfectly clear, no moon and not a light on the horizon, it was just me, the dog, the stars, and a gorgeous streak of phosphorescence in our wake.  I lay dozing off when the dog perked up and started pacing.  Hopping up and scanning the horizon, I sighted nothing but black water save our own glowing wake.  Then, suddenly, there was  burst of colorful light dead ahead, and a gigantic glowing tube with a massive tail slid out of our path.  We'd almost T-boned a whale sleeping at the surface.  Fortunately, the drone of my tiny 6 horse motor awoke it just in time.

Lacking the money to clear customs in the many tourist ports throughout Mainland Mexico, I skipped most of them and, if I absolutely had to stop, pulled in secretively just to resupply and check the weather.  This was fine by me as I was trying to avoid disgustingly gringofied resort towns.  In Mexico many a once pristine beach is backed with high rise condominiums.  From sea it often looks like a dozen Jacos lined up side by side.

After a brief stop in Barra Navidad I continued onward to a remote and pristine paradise named Chacahua.  Home to a perfect Left and epic seaside bouldering, I decided to make it my own.  There I spent a week in the service of a local "lord" named, appropriately enough, "REY!".   Once again, and this time no doubt rightly, I fled fearing for my life.  For the complete story on that one, go to my blog and search for "REY".  It's at www.oilfreefun.com.

After another brief stop in Puerto Escondido (it was fortunately flat) I continued onward to Huatulco and the Gulf of Tehuantepec.  All the nautical charts showed a clear and relatively deep channel into the massive lagoons at Tehuantepec, but reality proved otherwise.  Sailing near shore along the length of the lagoons, even at high tide I never encountered less than a 5 foot tall sandbank separating the Pacific from the lagoon.  As such, there was no place to safely anchor so I had to keep moving on.

After a few expensive days of paperwork in Puerto Chiapas, I was just about broke as I crossed the border into Guatemala.  I couldn't afford to clear customs there (~$150) or in El Salvador (~$200) so I set my sights on the poorest country in Central America: HONDURAS.

Pothole Magazine #4: Baja California

Mack and I expected some sort of military fanfare as we sailed our shitty little boat into Mexico -- a strafing by US fighter jets, getting searched by the Coast Guard, anything to make us feel a little bit outlaw -- but nothing  happened.  It was kinda foggy, and at some point we entered Mexican waters.  I guess you could smuggle just about anything into Mexico: worth knowing!

Mack reaping benefits from a lobster trap we found washed up on a remote and rugged shore in Baja.

This was when the whole Tijuana Border "Drug War" domestic-terror-propaganda was in full swing so we decided to head as far South as possible before checking out the coast.  We kited San Quintin for a few days and then continued onward to Bahia Tortugas -- about halfway down the peninsula -- and the only convenient port to get fuel on the West Coast of Baja.

A better name for this polluted bay would be Bahia Pelicanos.  We didn't see a single turtle but 20,000+ pelicans were shitting all over the place. As retaliation for a business deal gone bad, a big Mexican fishing boat had recently dumped TONS of rotten sardines just off the town of Tortugas.  Little stinkers were washed up all over the place and it seems every pelican within 100 miles had caught wind of the stank.  There were so many  in such a feeding frenzy that Mack caught only pelicans while trying to fish.  We got sick from kiting the poop-flavored waters here.


We also traded a blow up doll and tube of lube for laundry service: double teaming the doll just didn't appeal to us so we pawned her off.

One very stoked resident of Tortugas, Baja.

Huge Gringo sportfishing yachts were taking on barrels of diesel, cases of Pacifico, and, ironically, fresh locally-caught fish.  The Mexicanos at the Muelle laughed at me for needing a mere seven gallons of gas, so I led them in a rousing rendition of Daddy Yankee's "Gasolina" to assure them my manhood was intact despite burning so little.  Me encanta la gasolina!  Sorta.

The first tree we saw in desolate Baja... atop a mountain near Magdalena Bay.

We spent a few weeks around gorgeous Magdalena Bay, snagging some bitchin' waves and occasional kiting.  Running low on supplies and completely out of cash we had to get going. A few days later at sunset, we found ourselves rounding Baja's tip and that long line of lights called Cabo San Lucas.  Apparently about 30 years too late, we didn't even consider stopping.  We'd heard it was too expensive, too hideous: a paradise lost because way too many people found it.

As we entered the Sea of Cortez at the onset of winter, we had to watch out for El Norte, fierce winds from the North that kick up steep seas bad for sailing but great for kitsurfing.  Just after dawn we made it to the remote anchorage at Roca Frailles as a stiff wind built from the North.  Here we spent five days waiting for the wind to subside and had our best kiting since hitting Mexico, made friends with some great yachties, discovered phenomenal bouldering and snorkeling, and had a damn good (though hungry) time.

Our destination, windsurf and kiteboard mecca La Ventana lay a mere 60 miles north -- about a 10 hour sail in ideal conditions.  We were exhausted, starving, and filthy after a month of exploring the remoter stretches of Baja.  All that remained in our pantry were raisins and rice. A dozen friends awaited us in La Ventana, and  we could hardly wait to clean up, drink some beers, catch up with friends, chase tail, sleep on land, and look for winter jobs.

La Ventana is great for kitesurfing in steep wind swell which makes it a horrible place to anchor a boat.  As such, our plan was to anchor at a small bay called Ensenada Muertos and then walk/hitchhike/kiteboard the ~12 miles to La Ventana.  We had no idea what to do with the boat while based in La Ventana and hoped an option would materialize.  The most ridiculous option imaginable materialized.

Running out of food, we made a go despite El Norte, and after a rough night battling upwind we found ourselves anchoring in the pristine waters of Ensenada Muertos.  The Bombay Sapphire blue waters were so clear one could see the anchor 35 feet down and 200 feet away.  A few tasteful mansions were tucked away in the gorgeous mountains rimming the bay, and a huge palapa sat on the hillside over a pefect beach..  We'd heard the palapa housed a restaurant so we quickly got our kitegear together, dinghied to shore, and went in search of breakfast.

El Cardon Tequila Bar and Grill, Ensenada Muertos, Bahia De Los Suenos, Baja

Suprisingly modern, this seemingly-deserted palapa restaurant offered free coffee, WiFi, an ATM, and had a menu you'd expect at a nice sports bar stateside.  A few framed football jerseys alluded to owners who'd come through the NFL.  We pulled our limits from the ATM and ordered a few breakfasts each.  As we were gorging ourselves, a few GIGANTIC Gringos showed up and asked if those were our kiteboards outside  We shot some shit, hit it off, and so began the strangest chapter in El Viaje...

Twenty minutes later we were piling into a pimped out monster truck bound for La Ventana.  Our 6'5", 280 pound, heavily-tattooed driver -- a true renaissance man and the owner of that palapa restaurant -- had recently retired from a nine year career as an all-pro NFL offensive lineman.  Though you've probably never heard of him you are doubtless familiar with his handiwork: for years he bashed exceptionally huge holes in the defense through which star running backs Marshall Faulk and Reggie Bush ran through for record yardages.  I speak of Kyle Turley, one hell of a football player, surfer, artist, musician, businessman, and now activist in the fight to properly treat head injuries in professional sports.

After kiting our faces off for a week in La Ventana, Mack and I headed back to Ensenada Muertos.  Kyle offered us the guest house in his mansion, free food at his restaurant, use of a whole fleet of boats and vehicles, and jobs.  Our goal was to develop watersports in the bay and to help promote the area.  My title?  Director of Fun.

Sunrise as viewed form the balcony at the guest house.

Mack and I went from camping aboard a $5,000 boat to sharing a $500,000 guest house behind a $5,000,000 mansion.  We started eating good again and gained back a lot of the weight we'd lost over the trip.  I realized that my current boat, the 27 foot Sin Fin, wasn't ideal for sailing to Patagonian Chile, so I made it my new goal to work as hard as I could in hopes of earning enough to buy a solid boat within a few years time.
 

Mack and I got the ball rolling on our own kiteboard business, threw some kick ass parties at the restaurant, drove around in the gas-guzzlingest roofless truck imaginable, kited almost ever day, made countless new friends, and gained a very interesting perspective on the lives of the rich and pseudo-famous.

Hypocrisy can be a damn good time!

Like all things too good to be true, it was.  Forty strange and stressful days later I  fell out from that crew and -- even broker than I'd been before, and now at odds with my once friend Mack -- I set sail for La Paz...alone.