Everything's Swell

In the mid to late afternoon we go out and surf until sunset. When we come out we put a big pot of water on to boil for massive plates of spaghetti. It gets dark out fast here, and somewhere a beach fire will start flickering, and the campers gather to talk shit until the Moon goes down. Troy was up until sunrise drinking and playing guitar with some girl.
We take the mornings easy, drinking coffee and watching the sets roll in, spending two hours or more talking surfing and picking at food. I eat Peanut butter and Banana sandwiches, V-8 vegetable juice, bacon and eggs, cereal, and milk with Nestle quick during the day while drawing, reading, or writing, and maintaining the campsite. Our setup is now refined, elaborate, efficient and practical. The Coleman Camping kitchenette we got from the hippies in Ensenada is perfect for keeping everything organized and uncluttered. Every three days or so we go into town for groceries, ice, and roasted chickens.
At the surf hostel up the hill in El Pescadero we found a good deal, and Jay shelled out for my second board. The Blue Canoe is officially retired. The New board is a 7’6” funboard hand crafted by the legendary board shaper Velzy. When Jay learned to shape boards in Hawaii his teacher would rant about the virtues of Velzy, who died six months ago. The Board was first purchased by Jack O’Neil, founder of the O’Neil surf brand, for his son, who surfed the beaches in these parts before the Gringo’s began buying up property.
We’re camping out in a place that has yet to be too well known, but will be soon. Camping on the beach is free, and there are about twenty others, mostly young travelers in their twenties from various commonwealth countries, staying on the beach with us. A restauraunt up the beach from our jumble of sites is popular with day trippers from Cabo San Lucas, the resort town an hours drive south of us. We have two girls, one from New Zealand, and one from Wales, who wash dishes and collect firewood for us in exchange for beer and surf instruction. Beer and food are our only real expenses.
We’re supplied better than most of the people here, so we make the best hosts. We have extra surfboards, vehicle access to town, coolers capable of holding a case of beer, and secret access to a special grocery store in Todos Santos that sells hard to find foods that are a luxury item here in Mexico. Blueberry bagels and cream cheese, Bacon that hasn’t been salted to death, sharp cheddar, Quaker peaches and cream instant oatmeal- all rare items in Mexico.
Above the Rocky point to the north of us there is a massive hotel under construction, and about a mile down the beach to the south there is another big one being built. I’m hoping to try some spear fishing over the next few days, there’s a guy here from Oregon with the skills and the knowledge, and he’s been feeding himself and his girlfriend with what he kills while hunting in a little cove along the rocks.
We’ve been warned to watch out for Bull sharks, Stingrays, Black widows, scorpions, rattle snakes, packs of wild dogs, killer bees, and Bulls. So far I haven’t had any trouble.

Before Arriving in El Pescadero, we went looking for Punta Conejo, a remote beach with an excellent point break about forty kilometers off of the highway in a sparsely populated region of south central Baja.
It was getting late in the day when we found the turnoff that led us into the desert through to the beach. We drove 16 kilometres down a gravel road to Santa Fe. It’s marked of the map, but contains only a few trailers, some rusted out engine blocks, and an old church with no roof. After Sana Fe the road got worse: it became twisty, narrow, and rough with many sandy patches, but we had plenty of food and water and enough gas, so we continued further, driving directly into the setting sun through a forest of Cactus, yucca, and scrub oak, with hidden cows peering at us through the dust.
Just as the sun was going down the road began to split apart into a labyrinth of trails and paths winding around criss crossing one another. We did a rough crossing of a dry river bed and after a few more bends we entered what I think was Guadalupe, the next town on the map. We drove slowly past a thatch roof cinderblock shack, with smoke coming out of a tin chimney. Through the doorless entrance I could see the shape of a woman preparing food. The Sun was below the horizon, but the sky was still glowing. There was an oil drum with flames belching out next to three penned horses. An old Lincoln up on blocks was sunken half into a dune.
Amid the clutter of shacks there was a man, with his son, herding cattle into a trailer.
“Hola” Jay called out to him “Donde Esta la Punta Conejo?”
The Man took one look at us, and then began to flail his arms wildly and yelling in Spanish. His kid picked of a stick and gave us the evil eye. His dog started coming at us, and the cattle began to rear their heads and Moo. We didn’t know what to do: Both troy and Jay began backing up the vans to get outta there. The Lady came running out of the shack screaming and pointing at us. We were scared shitless, we turned the vans around and got out of there.
That night we camped near the river bed, collected our wits, and planned to try again tomorrow. We could hear the white sound of waves crashing against the shore off in the distance. We were not far from the ocean. I slept in Jay’s van that night, and we rolled out at sunrise after strong cups of coffee and renewed determination. Two hundred feet later, crossing the river, Troy’s van got bogged down in some deep soft sand. After three hours we were covered head to toe in dust trying to dig Troy’s van out. We jacked the van up and put rocks under the wheels, and let some air out of the tires, but every time troy tried driving out he just spun the back wheels for a couple seconds, again burying the van up to the rear axle. We all got pissed off at one another, and I thought we were gonna be there all day, but a red Jeep grand Cherokee came along.
“Oh shit.” Said Jay. It was the guy who yelled at us the night before. But he got out of his jeep and laughed at us. Then he pulled around in front, got out a rope and dragged troy out. He drew in the sand a map showing how to get to Punta Conejo, and off we went on what we presumed to be the correct road to the elusive and inaccessible point break.
We managed a few more kilometers of slow and treacherous driving, but the sand was getting too deep. We walked about a kilometer through the sand where the cactus forest dwindled out to an expanse of sand. Beyond the crest of some dunes lay the ocean, but the path to it was impenetrable for us, so we drove out, following a herd of cattle through to Santa Fe and the Main highway. By early afternoon we were in the water surfing in beautiful El Pescadero. I think that was four days ago now, but I’m not keeping close count.