Zach and company somewhere between TJ and Cabo.
It’s always a little sad to wash the thick red dust off the WiLDCOAST Baja mobile after our excursions off the grid, deep into the peninsular heart. Like a knight cleaning his sword clean of the defeated, or a conquistador buffing out helmet scratches from battle, it nearly brings a tear to my eye to wash away the desert’s residue from the nave’s body, engine and undercarriage. The stamp of hours of lurching, searching and blazing through North America’s most isolated coastal stretch rinsed down the car wash drain. Soon the car looks as it did five days prior; gleaming, new, falling right in line with all of the other rigs on the road. But this one is still a little rattled. Somewhere in there the desert remains; much like my head.
After four nights beneath the chilled desert sky, talking to no one but my three compadres (WiLDCOAST’s ED Serge Dedina, his child hood buddy Chris, and SURFER Mag Senior Ed Kimball Taylor), hitting the hay at 7 p.m. after marathon point break sessions and a lack of fire wood, I couldn’t quite get accustomed to my bed, a ceiling, walls or the sounds of urbanity. I became a little bit feral, at least until civilization softens me up once more. The mental simplicity (and stability) brought on by the isolation, the tranquility and multiple barrel rides per wave is partially lost at the border, a little more with one night’s sleep at home, and then completely rinsed away at the car wash.
And as I scream down the 5 for an arvo session at Swami’s no one can tell that I had been completely immersed in nature for the past few days. Except my eyes are still a bit red, my hair a little matted, and a trail of Baja dust turned mud trickles out the tail pipe. I am already craving to be dislodged from the grid once more. Swell on the rise, tides are low and the winds are right. The desert coast calls.
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