San Francisquito: A rusted bench and half a palapa

September 11, 2014 ($335 mxn)

Bahia de los Angeles – San Francisquito (140km)

So far, I had enjoyed the calm waters of the Sea of Cortez and our stay at Bahia de los Angeles, but we were ready to continue on South, towards new adventures with limited knowledge of the places to come. That morning, feeling reenergized from an ill prior day, we loaded the bikes, said “goodbye” to our friendly groundskeeper, and restocked on water and food before riding south. There’s only one main road out of Bahia de los Angeles, the one we came in through, but we opted for the more adventurous option: a dirt road out of town, relatively parallel to the coast, that would lead us to San Francisquito, a beach point about 140 km  south on the same gentle warm waters of the Gulf.

This dirt road, partially graded in some sections and wild with loose sand in others, had straight shots in dry riverbeds and curves along cliff sides. Always surrounded by the characteristic beauty of the Valle de los Cirios, the green and twisted boojum trees we had seen on our way into Bahia de los Angeles, and a blue mantle with sparse clouds overhead. We came to a part where the mountain the road was carved into casted a cool shade over us as we looked out to the densely filled Boojum Valley. Post card worthy. Nothing could make that moment a better stopping point to rest and have a snack. There is more to a break stop than this though. One should consider tasks like checking that odd noise coming from your motorcycle you have been hearing for the past 15 minutes, if you did not check it immediately, drinking water, bathroom break, making sure all straps and tie downs are secure, and, if you stopped at a place like this overlook, taking a photo.

 

After a good break we all continued out of the valley and atop the mountain. Riding now in loose sand, I begin to slow down and Dominic, ahead of me, gains more distance between us. Some considerable distance after losing sight of Dominic, I pulled over to wait for Tom. Riding faster to catch up to would be dangerous, so we simply continued at the same steady pace. Tom began leading and I made sure I kept close to him, I’ve seen horror movies and this is how it begins, first you lose one, then another, and finally you’re next! About ten minutes later, out of the corner of my eye, I noticed something slowly creeping up beside me on the trail. It was Dominic full blast riding to catch up to us! Something similar to Buzz Lightyear when Woody lights the rocket on his back.

Dominic signaled us to pull over, confused as to why Tom and I had left him behind. Apparently, Dominic pulled over a long time ago because he saw what would be a great photo, and waved at us as we braapped past him without noticing he had stopped. All things cleared, I have to say the fact that Dominic caught up to Tom and I speaks volumes about his riding skills. 

In time, we reached the San Francisquito beach and rode pass a building with the word “Restaurante” written on the side and an elderly couple sitting in front. We stopped right at the sandy beach, at some palapas with only half the roof and rusted benches, some twenty meters from the water.  After a quick scan of the area, aside from the old couple at the Restaurante, there was no one else around. This was definitely the spot to camp.

With about an hour left of sunlight, Dominic walked north along the beach to a rocky point where he would try to spear a quick catch for dinner. In the meantime, Tom and I kept camp under control… and went for a quick swim. We were no longer at a hotel with a shower and warm water, we were back to rinsing off in the ocean. As I rinsed and swam, with the small amount of daylight left, which was tinting the sky in red and orange tones, I saw fish jumping out of the surface of the water and a couple of sea turtles poking their heads out, all that could be heard was their occasional splash and the gentle waves reaching the shore. It was a soothing sound and a relaxing moment. The type one cannot buy, which was great since I was financially limited. Assuming I had the economic means, and desire, to rent a room at an expensive resort in a popular city, the experience would not have the same weight as the one I was living so serendipitously.

With spear gun in one hand and fish in the other, Dominic came back to camp with that night’s dinner. Neither of us was certain what type of fish that was, but that was what was caught and, therefore, it was dinner. After scavenging around for dry wood and siphoning gas from one of the motorcycles, we lighted a small fire and allowed it to completely burn, cooking the fish on the coals, accompanying it with tortillas, chipotle, and thought-provoking conversations. Why is it that, when one is camping, the conversations that come about are the most fascinating ones, full of meaning that incite one to think beyond the surface of what is being said? There are never dull topics while at camp, one gripping idea leads to a chain of absorbing questions, answers, comments, thoughts and feelings expressed by the campers. Sometimes, it is actually the lack of a conversation that makes the moment meaningful, with peaceful silent surrounding the campground.

 

September 12, 2014 ($0.00)

San Francisquito (0 Km)

Having been in San Diego most of my life, I’ve always preferred the sunset instead of a sunrise, mainly because the sun always sets over the ocean in San Diego, which adds delight to the experience. It turns the sunset into more than a visual pleasure; the sound of one wave after another calms the fast tempo of the city, the occasional chilly breeze makes one appreciate wearing a light sweater while breathing in deeply and smelling the characteristic salty aroma of the beach. All this in addition to the orange and pink hues filling the sky.

When I woke up the following morning at San Francisquito, early with the sunrise, as I naturally do when camping, I could listen to the small and gentle waves the Sea of Cortez brought to shore. I zipped out of my tent to see the rising sun in the distance. Beneath it were not mountains, or any other landmass in sight, as I had been accustomed to all my life back home. Beneath the sun was the Gulf, the sea, a body of water. I had not realized the night before I would be waking up to this view; the sky tinged with a golden color, reflecting on the water and the sporadic cloud here and there. A worthy moment to sit down on an old, rusted bench under a half thatched palapa and admire the occasion, the scene, in silence.

Dominic, not convinced by the rocky point he fished at the evening prior, advised we should try walking south that morning, and fish at a different spot. We walked past the restaurante with the older couple in front, and noticed the place was empty inside and there was nothing indicating it actually served food. Perhaps it did at one point, but now, it probably functioned as the older couple’s cottage. Waking up every day to peace and silence at this beach sounds appealing, for an older couple, I suppose. For myself however, as much as I enjoyed it and was filled with serenity, I fear I would eventually long for a change of scenery. It’s like eating pistachio ice cream, for example, or whatever flavor you prefer; If you were to eat your favorite ice cream all day, every day, it would eventually stop being special and would lose the uniqueness it has to you.

We reached the point and got into the clear water that offered great visibility, even in the deeper sections. I made sure to stay close to and around the rocky point that reached out into the sea. One of the many aspects of spearfishing I needed improvement on was holding my breath for longer when I dove underwater. Several times I found myself diving and holding on to something so as to stay down, and wait for a curious fish that was already nearby, only to run out of breath just before it was in spearing range. After several frustrating attempts, as with anything that is not working, I would lose it and wildly chase and shoot at entire schools of fish. If fish had intelligence and complex thoughts, they would have felt sorry for me and sacrificed their weakest member just to cheer me up.

Needless to say, I walked out of the sea that day with no fish in hand. As usual, though, Tom and Dom had caught enough for us all. On the way back to camp we passed by three men who had gotten there in a big white truck with some government logo on the door. One of them was trying to rod fish off shore, and another kindly asked if he could borrow our diving masks. We stopped to chat for a quick minute and they invited us over to their camp later that afternoon where we could cook our fish along with theirs and have a group lunch over a game of cards.

During lunch, between one fish taco and the next, while playing card games, we found out these men worked for INEGI, which is an agency of the Mexican government that deals with statistics and geography. Their job was to do census on the small settlements around the area, which sounded like a nice temporary job, going around the nice countryside of Baja California, and having down time to fish, hike, and continuously meet new and interesting people. One of the men’s name was Marco, and he shared with us the story of how he had illegally crossed the border into the U.S., lived and started a family in California, and, after many years, been deported back to Mexico while his family stayed in the United States. As he spoke, he seemed convinced he would soon go back to his family, given his current job was only temporary. It was certainly an interesting life story and, like him, are millions others with similar tales.

This particular afternoon has a place in my theoretical treasure chest: meeting new people, sharing lunch, bumping elbows while passing the limes and tortillas back and forth, sharing stories and views on life, all in a remote beach with no worries at all. Moments like these one cannot plan and, therefore, have great value to me.