Zach Plopper in Dusty Paradise

A recent journal entry from Matuse family member Zach Plopper.

I’ve spent a lot of the last month in the desert. The dusty, windy, sun scorched desert. I’ve spent a lot of my time lately staring out into a vast expanse of sand and sky and ocean, each disappearing into a misty haze of sea mist and blowing dust. Although not thousands of miles from southern California, it’s an isolated corner of the earth connected to the modern world only through the seafood buyers that fill restaurant menus and Japanese sushi rolls with the small village’s catch and the surfers that go there to ride its waves.

A few miles north of the town, we were even further removed from the grid. The beach stretched into oblivion in both directions. We were beneath a highway network of pelicans, all in triangular squadrons of hundreds on their way to their respective bomb sites. Some sought to destroy the bait-ball that swarmed beneath and all around us. Giant birds dropped from the sky, exploding in cannonball splashes, then guzzling their catch and re-positioning for another attack. A whale-sized sea lion emerged from the oily blue water like the Potemkin. It let out a guttural bark and then dipped back down. I lifted my feet. Another set came. I spun. It ran up the beach like a canyon set. I kicked out on the inside where the steamy waves were swishing up the sloped, grainy-sand beach. I gazed into the void of sand and ocean and sky and watch the waves peel off into the mist.

This is where I found myself every morning for seven days, and then four more a few days later after a brief unpack/repack at home. My first jaunt south was with my good friend Jordan “Redneck” Carter and cinematographer Mike Sander to capture some film for a new Glas movie that’s in the works. We spent two days journeying south along the Baja California peninsula’s Highway 1. We drove slowly, windows down, reggae dub blaring, taking in the rugged desert beauty.

The days ran quite the same so it would be repetitive to go into the activities of each. When someone asked me what we’d be doing there before the trip I told them, “surf, eat, read, sleep, surf, eat, read, sleep.” The course of the trip went as hypothesized. It was early rising with the sun, some cold Nescafe to quench the coffee thirst without overheating in the balmy morning and then straight to the beach break; never a soul in the water or on land. It was a consistent diet of peanut butter and banana sandwiches for pre-surf fuel, tuna sandwiches for lunch and an order of fish tacos from my friend Dario’s restaurant for dinner…and one coke. Only one coke because upon arrival, I realized that we didn’t bring enough money to this sandy, rocky outcrop in Mexico’s least populated state. Dario saved the day when he offered to buy my back-up board. We could drive home with ease and I could splurge for a beer on our last night.

After a quick turn-around I found myself in a tiny 4 seat prop plane bouncing about above the mountains south of Ensenada. I’ve been in a lot of little planes and am pretty comfortable in a single-engine Cessna, 15,000 feet above the hard earth or the deep blue ocean. When I saw the little tin can with wings, and read the back of the shirt worn by el piloto, “what if there is no tomorrow…there wasn’t one today. DIE TRYING,” I laughed at the irony, thought of Buddy Holly and stepped into the aircraft. Three nervous hours later we were touching down on the mud-flat runway that I was driving on a few days prior.

Ben McCue of Wildcoast and I were down there to put on a contest for the surfers of the region. There have been several cruise ship terminal proposals that would decimate the region’s fisheries and waves. Not only does the ocean provide the region’s fundamental economic resource but it delivers amazing surf that is also becoming a major part of local lives. Forty three local kids turned out for the kiddy comp and another forty came for the open division. I helped put on the same event last year and the level of surfing had made a huge jump. Dario’s son was ripping on the board I sold him. Most impressive was this 10 year old kid from a town to the north even smaller than the one we were in who was killing it for So Cal standards. Needless to say there are going to be some really good surfers coming from the dusty tiny coastal villages of the Baja California peninsula.

The journey wrapped up with the annual Grita, Mexico’s celebration of independence. All of the town’s people gathered for the traditional ceremony of folk dancing, flag salutes and a fire work display. Tragically on this same night, some bundejo threw a few bombs into the mix of fireworks in Michoacan, killing several people.

After a fun night of micheladas, burro rides and pellet rifle games. We retired to our quarters to get some rest for an early morning surf before flying home. I got up with the sun as I did the week before and made the quick trip to the beach break. It was rush hour on the avian freeway system. A trio of dolphins dropped into a bomb left and all did a four foot areal kick out after the wave burgered into the channel. I thought I saw a person down the beach. I started walking towards them and then it opened its wings and took flight. I turned back and watched the beach disappear into the salty haze. The sky was nearly blackened by birds. The warm water and course sand massaged my feet as I walked. And all I could do was think of what excuse I could use to come back down here as soon as I got home.