Baja Or Bust: Youth vs. Reason

Baja or Bust
As recalled by Ken Lewis.

Modern Day, September 2024

This week, I called my old friend Travis Molina. He’s been a friend since childhood and is an awesome mechanic. I give him a call every few years to help me get one of my cars back on the road. As we were catching up, we reminisced about an epic Baja run we took a few decades earlier. It’s a story so ridiculous that not many will believe it, so I got fired up to write it down before I forget. Here’s the tale of three dumb teens charging into Baja on a whim and a prayer.

Late Summer, 1992
Way before the advent of the internet or Surfline’s global fleet of surf cams and live forecasting, fax machines were how we got our daily updates. Faxes were lighting up with maps showing what could be the biggest Southern Hemisphere swell in decades. Skip Frye was our resident surf forecaster, and his wave fax showed a New Zealand bomb that indicated a week’s worth of massive energy was approaching the West Coast.

This news got everyone fired up and had me thinking about beelining it south into Baja. I had a little four-banger Toyota truck with a shell, a questionable AC, and a carpet lining in the back. I had been to Scorpion Bay the year prior, and this swell could mean the Bay would be as big as it could hold, with the fabled mile-long wave possibly connecting from Fourth Point to town. I did my due diligence and asked Bird Huffman, who worked for Sean Collins and Surfline, if he could call Sean to verify the angle and how the swell would be filling in. Word came back from Sean via phone call, saying, "Swell of the decade."

I had a new 6'6" John Carper round-pin that had just been dropped off by his rep and San O' style king, Don Craig. He, too, had seen the fax and approved of a Baja road trip to chase this swell. With not much more than a 24-hour heads-up, I secured a tarp for shade from a local beach bro named Jimbo, who said he would leave the tarp out for me to pick up the next morning at 3:30 AM, which was going to be our departure time. When going into Baja, I always wanted to be out of Ensenada by sunrise to avoid the cops and the certain shakedown that they bring.

I mentioned the swell to my surf buddies Jason Weatherley and Travis Molina, both of whom volunteered to be my co-pilots. They were two of the best surfers from our hometown and had never been to Scorpion Bay. I told them about the epic sand bottom and warm water that was just the sub-story; the star was the multiple points that offered insanely long waves and rippable sections.

They both wanted in.

The only bummer was that I had that small two-door truck and could only take one other guy with me. Jason had asked first, so he was in, but Travis was the coolest and said he didn't care what it would take—he was going. He said he would lay in the back of the truck the whole way down if he had to. That statement alone should have been grounds for an intervention, but I was the oldest at 20, with no developed frontal lobe to help talk him out of that nonsense. If anything, it would just add to the awesomeness of this trip.

First of all, for those of you who have never made the drive down the Baja Peninsula: in the early 1990s, it was two lanes of potholes, treacherous big rigs hogging all the space on the road, and, of course, hours upon hours of washboard off-roading. Laying in the back of a small truck with nothing but a small open window for 16-18 hours down and back sounds like an absolute torture chamber. Moon dust and potholes were certain. Travis was not going to be denied, and all my reasoning was not to be listened to. Adventures are for doers, not cowards. And Travis was no coward.

So we borrowed some coolers, bought some questionable canned food and bottled water at Vons, and packed up the truck. Total space left for Travis was just on top of the carpet kit—6 feet long by 10 inches wide. I added a soft rack to the roof to fit all our surfboards. With a few hundred bucks between us, a hand-drawn map of how to get to the East road, and a 1988 Toyota SR-20 engine-powered truck, we made plans to leave before dawn the next morning.

My boss wasn't stoked I was leaving with no notice, but it was a surf shop, so he understood. My chick and future ex-wife wasn't stoked either, but that’s how it goes. At zero-dark-thirty, I approached my first stop: Jimbo’s to get the awning. It was there in a pile in the dark, and I scooped up whatever was there and loaded it in the bed of the truck. I didn’t want to impede on Travis's small area any further, so that was a trick unto itself.

Next stop was picking up the bros. Jason, being the tallest, was shotgun, and Travis was resigned to the truck bed but was all smiles and no bad vibes. He was stoked to be going. We filled up the tank ($15 would fill ’er up back then), and we started the long drive south.

THE DRIVE

The drive down the Baja Peninsula is one of my favorites by far. You experience so much as you venture down the road: small towns, rock gardens, salt flats, old mining towns, and oasis towns. You'll see flipped-over big rigs at the bottoms of hills, marked by crosses along the side of the road, signifying the death of a loved one. There are all the stories of banditos, car wrecks, and the staple warning: "Do not drive at night."

The main road is pretty tame for the most part—a two-lane highway that runs from the U.S. border to Cabo San Lucas. Gas is the wildcard on any trip to Baja. It could be bad gas, or there could be no gas at all. The two hundred miles between Pemex stations is when you start to pucker a bit. If all goes well, everyone gets out, grabs a snack, takes a piss, and it’s time to get back on the road. For us, that meant a welfare check on Travis. To our surprise, every time, he was always in good spirits. I still can't believe he raw-dogged that trip with no headphones or music back there.

We were about 14 hours into the trek, approaching the gulf side to stay the night in Mulegé, when my truck started to sputter and lose power. Clunking into Santa Rosalita, an industrial mining town with a church built by Eiffel, I found the closed auto shop. Luckily, a couple of guys were out back and said they would help me get a fuel pump replaced. That sidebar killed the last hour of light, and upon repair, we drove in the dark to Mulegé to sleep on the beach beside Ramón’s restaurant. We were done and dusted, to say the least.

The next morning we were up at dawn, got some gas, and checked my napkin map from a buddy that said, "Take the first dirt road out of Mulegé; that's the East road." What he forgot to tell me is that the East road is the worst possible way to get to Scorpion Bay. It’s a mess. We proceeded to cross the Baja Peninsula going 10-15 miles an hour the whole way, only stopping to make sure Travis was alive and to let my truck cool down from overheating. In the shade of a Boojum, we would wait 15 minutes for the truck to cool down. I'd add some water to the radiator, and we would load poor Travis into the back once again. Eight hours later, we finally dropped into the oasis town of La Purisima and let out a cheer. I thought for sure we were going nowhere. Just seeing some scenery that wasn't dust and rocks made my heart swell with pride. I think we got out to fill the tank with gas from our reserve gas can and bought a couple of mangos. We stood in the shade of the palms, hoping this was all gonna pay off.

The final stretch to Scorpion Bay was all washboard but manageable. With washboard, you have two options: go slow or go very fast to hover above the ruts. Slow was gonna kill Travis, so I opted for the hovercraft mode, which could kill us all if it went bad. Challenge accepted.

As we got closer to the coast, you start to see Osprey nests on the old telephone poles and the far-off haze of a marine layer. I had told the guys to forgo the full suits and booties as the water was warm and the sand-bottom tubes would be insane. Around the next corner, we could finally see the point and some white water. If you've ever been there, you know that’s a great sign. We pulled up and set up camp on Third Point just below Jamie's camp. The cantina was not yet open. Total camps may have been 10-15 when we arrived, and for the week, never got above 20.

Scorpion Bay
Punta Pequena, San Juanico, or Scorpion Bay. Whatever you call it, this epic right-hand point has been visited by surfers since the late '40s, according to a few older residents of the town. There was an old photo in a local restaurant from the late '80s that showed a Ford with two 1930s wooden planks in the back parked at Second Point. The zone had flown under the radar up until the late 1970s, but after Mark Warren came down with a film crew and the first footage was revealed to the world, the legend grew. Since then, the little point has been the focus of land-rights issues, and the exponential growth of ex-pats buying land and tourists camping on the bluffs has been crushing to the little town at times.

But the wave remains, some years better than others depending on the sand. Many say that with all the development of the land, the sand flow into the ocean has been impeded, and the irony of the predicament is indeed a pickle. The people who loved the wave and sold the point to surfers may have inadvertently killed the inside points because those dunes are now hotels and decadent haciendas of wealthy Southern California expats.

As we pulled into our spot between Second and Third Point, we started to unload as clean little 2-3 foot waves fluttered in, a precursor to the macking swell that was about to arrive. The first thing was to get the shade up. As I pulled out the tarp and the cement blocks that hold the frame together, I noticed one thing that was missing: THE FRAME! Jimbo had pulled out the main tarp and thought the legs and crossbars were in there. Fuck. All we could do was stretch the tarp over my truck, leaving us with two feet of shade. That was Failure #1.

After Travis and Jason set up their tents, we decided to get wet. As we walked across the lava rocks into the water, it was very apparent that the water was not the warm 75 degrees I had promised the boys. Apparently, there was an upwelling, and the water flipped over; I would be hard-pressed to say the water was 60 degrees. Good thing I told them not to bring full suits. That was Failure #2.

Those guys must have thought I was so full of shit, lol. So far: the East road, the fuel pump, the lack of sand, and now the cold water. If the waves never showed up, I'm sure I'd have had a full mutiny on my hands. Luckily, that wasn't the case.

The Swell
The swell arrived the first day, 3-4 feet at Third Point with a bit of wind. The water was cold, but fun waves helped ease that pain. Over the course of the next few days, the Southern Hemisphere raged, getting bigger each day until the peak of the swell saw close-out sets shutting down the whole bay at a solid 10-12 feet.

It was too big, especially with the sand gone at Second Point. But Travis and Jason got some insane connectors from Fourth Point into Third, getting insanely barreled into Third and then ripping all the way to Second Point.

One evening, we were tired and cut up and walked over to the camp south of us. Mikko Flemming from La Jolla charged down, as well as Stevie Lis. We all agree, still to this day, that it was the biggest Scorpion Bay we ever heard of.

After five days of multiple cold sessions, reef cuts, and sore muscles, we all agreed we were done. As we made our way to the gas station (a guy and his dad with a 50-gallon drum of gas with a hose), I snapped one last pic of perfect 6-foot Third Point and Stevie Lis ripping his Triple Wing pintail all by himself. (photo above)

We limped home, opting to take the South Road out and giving Travis a reprieve from the washboard of the East Road. We played one of the two tapes in my tape deck. Echo and the Bunnymen's "Blue Moon" blared as we drove home. The entire West Coast was lit up from Peru to Oregon with this swell. As we got into Baja Norte, it was massive, but we were just too beat down to give it a go, opting for tacos and ballenas in Ensenada before crossing the border a few hours later. The follies and mishaps only make the memory better, as the best stories are filled with lessons, mishaps, and mistakes. I'm thankful for the youthful abandon back then, but I sure wouldn't charge it that way these days.