We made it! Two nights and one full day on the Tres Estrellas de Oro bus from Tijuana to Mazatlán.

From the bus station, we walked to the sea wall at Cannon’s Point and watched one surfer in the water catching one perfectly formed left wave after another.

We were anxious to get in the water ourselves, but we didn’t have any boards because the bus wouldn’t take them, so we shipped them by truck.

We all graduated from high school in Chula Vista in 1964.

We spent about a year trying out college, but mostly surfing, and it is fair to say we were having a tough time growing up.

We learned to surf at Imperial Beach, so we were weaned on challenging top-to-bottom breaking waves with plenty of riptides.

We thought we were all good surfers, but that was somewhat of a personal opinion.

All of us had surfed big waves at the Tijuana Sloughs and K38½ in Baja, but when it was over 10 feet, we were all pretty good at making excuses.

We often took surf trips up the coast as far as Rincon, and Northern Baja was like a second home for us.

We surfed a few breaks as far down as San Quintín in Baja, but never any waves on the mainland coast of Mexico.

We also liked to surf in North County at Swami’s, which in 1965 was never crowded, as well as Doheny and Dana Point.

I found out about surfing in Mazatlán from my good friend Jan-Michael Vincent, with whom I went to grammar school as a young boy in Hanford, California, before moving to Chula Vista.

Yes, that is the Jan-Michael Vincent of the “Big Wednesday” surf flick of 1978. Jan and I kept in contact as we got older, and he would occasionally visit me in Chula Vista for short surf trips to Northern Baja.

I would always see him when I visited my grandparents in Hanford.

Sometimes, we would drive from Hanford to surf at California Street, Ventura, where his parents had a boat at the Ventura Marina.

His couple of years younger sister would always go with us. I was madly in love with her, but that’s another story.

Jan had told me he surfed in Mazatlán and that not only were the waves great, but the water was warm.

He also said it was unbelievably cheap for everything.

He further told me where he stayed and said all you need is a hammock, which you could buy for a few pesos.

Surfer’s Knots to the Vietnam Draft

In 1965, we were aware of the Vietnam conflict and that there was a possibility of a draft coming up soon, so we were anxious to catch as many waves as possible while we still had time.

However, we thought our big surf knots from knee paddling on our knees and feet would make us 4-F, unfit for military service.

That proved not to be the case.

I recruited a couple of my good surf friends, Danny and Larry.

Danny spoke fluent Spanish, so he could help if we got into trouble, and Larry was a big guy and brave, too, so he could save me and Danny if we lost our boards.

There were no leashes in those days, and those big boards could ride waves by themselves all the way to shore.

It was a long bus ride from Tijuana, which seemed to stop everywhere.

But we didn’t mind because that gave us a chance to stock up on cerveza, tequila, and tortas. Our trip was in August and September, which we knew meant south storms with big swells.

Jan had told me that Cannon’s Point was a left break with several reefs, with the second and third reefs getting as big as 20 feet.

Another left break Jan told me about was called Lupe (referred to as Lupe’s Left), which was a bit north of central Mazatlán.

We figured out why Cannon’s Point was called that because there was an old fort there with a cannon on the point, but we never found out why Lupe was called Lupe.

When we would talk to locals around there, we would ask, “Where’s Lupe?” to which they always responded, “No sé” (I don’t know).

Later, I figured out that Lupe might be short for Guadalupe.

We settled in quickly at the place Jan had recommended.

An American guy, Roy, his Mexican wife, Maria, and their two kids rented out a room in the back of their two-story house.

Roy helped us purchase hammocks to hang from big hooks on the wall in the room for sleeping, and he gave us a quick lesson on getting in and out of a hammock.

There is a certain way you do that to avoid falling on the floor and breaking your arm.

Getting in was easy enough – you stand in the length-wise center of where the hammock is hung, then with one hand, reach back and open the netting up a little and sit straight down.

Then slowly turn length-wise and lie flat, not flat actually, but curved.

Getting out of the hammock was a little trickier and dangerous. You first sit up, turn 90 degrees, lean forward, put your feet firmly on the floor, and stand.

In a little outside hall area, Roy also set up a little gas burner stove right next to a small ice box for us to use, which was replenished with a big square block of ice every few days.

There was an outside sink and shower with limited water pressure.

No warm water, but who needs warm water when the temperature is around 100 degrees Fahrenheit and the humidity is near 100 percent?

There was also a small closet-size toilet room with a toilet that semi-flushed using a pull cord.

The American Host Who Couldn’t Go Back to the US

This place was perfect for us, especially because, for one thing, it was about 100 yards from Cannon’s Point.

Roy and Maria were really nice, and their two young kids were a lot of fun too. Roy spoke English, of course, but his wife and kids only spoke Spanish.

One night, after several cervezas and tequilas, Roy told us he couldn’t go back to the US because he had gotten into some sort of trouble.

We joked among ourselves that he was probably wanted for murder, but he didn’t seem like a killer, always friendly to everyone.

Larry said he never slept well because he had a bad feeling about Roy.

I told Larry he didn’t sleep well because sleeping in a banana position in a hammock was not easy to get used to. Plus, if he drank more cerveza and tequila like Danny and I, he would sleep better.

It turned out the lone surfer, Jeff, was from, of all places, Texas.

He was a gringo that lived in Mazatlán and learned to surf there. He had lived there for quite a while and didn’t talk much about Texas or the US.

We began to think he might be like Roy, a fugitive of sorts. He was a great guy who showed us the ropes around Mazatlán.

Also, until our boards showed up, about five days after we arrived, we all shared his board.

I was the first one to paddle out at Cannon’s Point and the first one to experience what was referred to by other Mazatlán surfers as the Mazatlán baptism, sea urchins in my feet, both feet.

Jeff failed to mention never to touch the bottom, never, because if you do, you will remember it for a long time. Danny and Larry also got sea urchins on their feet, but not as many as I got.

The surf was a consistently perfect shape with three- to four-foot lefts that broke right off the point.

We were all regular foot surfers, but because the waves had such good shape with nice corners, it was back and forth with multiple bottom turns and long rides that ended in a deep water bay area, so it was an easy paddle back out around the break.

In addition to the urchins, there was another problem we soon learned about: the wax on our boards would melt because the water was so warm.

This meant once you popped up, don’t try too many footwork maneuvers. 

Every day, we surfed at Cannon’s Point, but occasionally, we would take the local bus out to Lupe’s Left, which, like Cannon’s Point, was a left wave off of a point but with a much shorter ride.

The surf was good most days, so sometimes we would stay in the water for hours.

Because we had all spent so much time in Baja, including Tijuana, we felt at home in Mazatlán, and with Danny’s fluent Spanish, we got everything wired in a few days.

After we got settled, I was off to see a doctor about the urchin spines in my feet. Roy recommended his family doctor and went with me for my first visit.

After a few visits to the doctor, digging spines out of my feet with no anesthesia, I was on the road to recovery.

However, I did walk with a cane for the rest of the trip, but I continued to surf every day.

To this day, I still have urchin spines in my feet from that trip.

When we got our hammocks, we all bought some huaraches (leather sandals with rubber tire soles), and it wasn’t long before we got those worked in.

The idea here was you walked in the surf for a few days and then always kept them on your feet, like the locals, including when you slept and showered.

I tried wearing them to surf, but that didn’t work well; the rubber soles against the wax were really, really slippery.

Eating, Drinking and Surfing at Mazatlán in 1965

Mazatlán was a little like Tijuana but much more primitive. First, everything was unbelievably cheap, like Jan said. I mean everything.

Each of us had a little over a hundred dollars for the entire trip, so even with it being super inexpensive, we needed to budget our pesos.

Rent, food, and bottled water were top priorities, followed by beer and tequila.

We paid Roy in advance for one month with no breakage deposit, actually there was nothing to break.

If I remember correctly, that worked out to about $10 each, and I recall Roy saying if we got in a bind money-wise, he would help.

Cleaning was simply a little sweeping every other day, which Danny thought we should hire someone to do, which he said would help the local economy.

He said they could also do our laundry, but we really didn’t have any laundry. Our dress code every day was a baggy swimsuit, a t-shirt, and huaraches, and we all slept in our swimsuits.

For food, first, we often ate and drank with Roy and his family, and he never charged us.

We quickly discovered Mercado Central, which was well-stocked with food.

The tropical fruits were fabulous, many of which we had not eaten before. The papayas and guavas were our favorites. We also loved the giant, thick-skinned avocados.

Of course, we always stocked up on the limes to chase down our tequila.

These were so, so juicy. Freshly made white crumbly white queso cotija (cow’s cheese) and brown eggs were also a staple.

Next to the Mercado Central was a fresh tortilla maker, so we would pick up a tall stack of fresh corn tortillas daily.

To this day, I have never tasted such good tortillas. They tasted like freshly roasted corn on the cob. Often, we would down a few walking back to our casa.

Very seldom did we eat out, but we frequently enjoyed freshly made fruit drinks made by street vendors.

We got to know these guys well, so they would normally squeeze a bit more for us, including a good helping of coconut pulp and milk.

If we had some tequila with us, we would often pour a little of that into the fruit drink to sweeten it up, so to speak.

We liked the street vendors who would come by our casa every day.

Mostly, they were fruit and vegetable sellers, but one guy sold what Danny called Mexican potato chips, which were not potato chips at all.

They were called chicharrones, which were pork belly skins deep-fried in lard oil. They were crunchy, real greasy, and with the addition of a little salt, went perfect with cerveza and tequila.

I can still hear that guy hollering out, chicharrones and see him with a big sack over his back full of chicharrones.

This guy had one leg shorter than the other, so when he walked, he dipped way down with every step, but that didn’t slow him down at all. I would see him all over town.

There were several people selling things who had some sort of disability.

One guy I remember sold Chiclets (chewing gum) that had no legs and walked with his hands everywhere.

I thought this guy could do with some sort of scooter, but maybe not because of the cobblestone streets, numerous potholes, and muddy areas from the rain.

There were blind people selling things on the streets, too, and there was one blind guy by the Mercado Central that we always saw playing his guitar.

We did see some of this in Tijuana, but there was much more of it in Mazatlán. We all felt fortunate that we were in good health, except for some urchin spines.

There was a small Chinese restaurant that we did eat at occasionally.

Here, it was a big plate of fried rice with a thousand different kinds of vegetables, including some extremely hot peppers.

The people who ran this restaurant spoke English and Chinese. They were as nice as could be and appreciated our business.

We liked to stay on after lunch or dinner and play poker and drink beer, then paddle out for a late afternoon or evening corner or two with usually a breathtaking sunset.

But while sitting on the sea wall watching the sunset, you needed to constantly watch out for scorpions; they owned the sea walls.

It was the iguanas that owned most of the walls around town.

They would just bask in the sun all day with their friends. It was best to stay clear of these guys because they can bite, but occasionally.

Sometimes during the day we would walk a little ways north towards Lupe’s Left to a sandy beach area where we would body surf.

This was right in front of one of the few tourist hotels, the Hotel de Cima.

We would often strike up a conversation with tourists and sit under the cabanas, which was a good place to get out of the rain, which it did most afternoons.

Often, tourists would buy us beers, but there were very few tourists in Mazatlán during late summer – it was too hot and humid. 

Another hang-out for us, usually at night, was on the sea wall across the street from the Copa de Leche Restaurant and Bar, which was south of our casa.

This was a kind of large cove area with a long sea wall along a street with a lot of restaurants and bars.

One restaurant I do remember here was the Shrimp Bucket. It was beyond our budget to eat there. However, a couple of times, we did splurge.

Running Away from Marijuana

A lot of locals hung out on the sea wall at night across from the Copa de Leche, with whom we became friends thanks to Danny’s fluent Spanish.

It was here that we met up with a Canadian woman who was supporting her boyfriend, who was in the local penitentiary just a little south of town.

We went with her a couple of times to visit him and took some clothes, food, and medicine.

We discovered that there were several Americans in that penitentiary. They were all in for the same thing: drugs of some sort.

Having spent a lot of time in Baja, we knew that you stayed away from any form of drugs in Mexico and anyone who had drugs on them, and if we even smelled marijuana, we would head in the opposite direction.

We would often be approached by Mexicans trying to sell us drugs or some sort of pills, but we promptly told them to leave us alone in an angry voice so they wouldn’t approach us again.

We were in Mexico to surf; that was our passion, every day, all day, unless it was too small, which rarely occurred in August and September with all the south swells.

That penitentiary was one sad place.

One big splurge place we went to occasionally at night was a dance bar near the Hotel de Cima. This place was a blast with live rock ‘n’ roll music that reminded us of Mike’s Bar in Tijuana.

The only problem was that you could drop a lot of pesos there, so we would try to sneak by the guy at the door so we wouldn’t have to pay the peso cover charge, then quickly go for the dance floor and start dancing.

After that, we would find a booth with some other people, sit with them, and strike up a conversation, in my case, in real broken Spanish.

We were always way out of place in our baggy swimsuits, t-shirts, and huaraches, but that didn’t slow us down. 

I did have one mishap at this bar one night.

Although we always drank quite a bit before going into the bar, occasionally we were forced to buy some drinks, and usually, we didn’t have enough money on us to pay for them.

Late one night, I found myself sitting in a booth by myself.

We all smoked, so I thought maybe Danny and Larry had gone for a smoke outside. Although you could smoke inside, we mostly didn’t smoke at all because it was so hot and humid.

After about 30 minutes with no Danny and Larry in sight, the waiter showed up and wanted me to pay the bill, which wasn’t much, but I didn’t have enough.

I tried to bargain, but he wasn’t going for it.

Next thing I saw was two blue-shirted policía standing at the table, and they looked mad. I knew these two guys from around town and always said hi and smiled.

I told them as best I could that I would come back tomorrow, pay the bill, and also find them and pay them for their troubles, but they said “no.”

They promptly, more or less, lifted me out of my seat, and out the door we went. About then, I spotted Danny and Larry sitting on the sea wall laughing.

As it turned out, Danny and Larry had already paid the bill, and Danny talked the two cops into pulling off a bit of a joke on me.

Every time I saw those two cops around town after that, they would always point at me and laugh.

Beers, Uncrowded Waves, and San Blas Perfection

To keep ourselves well stocked in beer, we would go directly to the Pacifico Brewery, which was on the outskirts of town, so we would take a local bus.

It seemed like we would do that daily. Each of us would buy a case that would come in a cardboard box.

This was a fun experience because, for one thing, the guy who sat in the big ice cooler room had the same last surname as me, and I think he thought we were related, which was fine with me.

We would often sit with him to cool off from the heat and down a couple of beers.

The bus ride was always a kick, too, because the floorboards had all kinds of holes, and as the bus would hit a pothole in the mostly dirt roads, a large gush of muddy water would shoot up and give us a mud bath.

But no problem with that; we would just run out into the surf near our casa and rinse off.

Occasionally, other surfers would show up in Mazatlán, mostly from Southern California, but there were never more than a half dozen people in the water at once at Cannon’s Point.

Most of these surfers were just passing through Mazatlán on their way further south.

When we planned the Mazatlán trip, we weren’t really sure how much surf we would find there, and we didn’t have any ideas about other places to surf south of Mazatlán.

Several of the surfers we encountered mentioned a place called San Blas, about four hours south of Mazatlán near Tepic, and that there were great right waves there that broke off a point and that the rides were long, as long as several minutes.

We were about a month into our surf trip, and our money was starting to run low.

I had a little more money at that time than Danny and Larry because occasionally, we would play poker when the surf was small, and one day, I was a big winner.

This was highly unusual because Danny and Larry would almost always win, but somehow, I got really lucky.

I recall we did something like an all-in pot, with each of us putting in around 50 pesos each, and somehow, I won. This totally made them angry, but I couldn’t stop laughing.

About this point in the trip, we knew that we had about two weeks left before it was adios to Mazatlán. With Danny and Larry’s poker losses, maybe only one week for them.

Late that afternoon, I was sitting on the sea wall at Cannon’s Point when two surfers drove up in a Volkswagen Beetle with boards on top.

They were from Newport Beach, so we compared notes on the local Orange County surf spots.

They talked, looked, and acted just like us, so it was easy to get to know them. They said they were on their way to San Blas, where they had heard there were perfect right waves.

I jumped on the chance to go with them and asked them if I could ride along and that I would share in the expenses.

They said, “Yes”.

They stayed with us that night, and the next day, my two new surf buddies and I took off for San Blas while Danny and Larry held down the casa.

These guys were super nice, and after driving for about four hours, we were at the turn-off for San Blas.

We had already gotten the heads up on what to expect on the dirt road driving into San Blas, and sure enough, after about a mile, two Mexican guys flagged us down.

They told us they were policía but didn’t wear blue or brown shirts, just normally dressed. They wanted to search our car for drugs, which we were expecting.

We said fine and watched them closely to make sure they didn’t plant any drugs in the process. After about 30 minutes, they said, “Okay, you can go,” but then they offered to sell us some marijuana.

We said, “No way. We are surfers and don’t smoke marijuana or have anything to do with drugs.”

We knew what the drill was, and sure enough, after about an hour’s drive into the small village of San Blas, we were stopped and searched again by two more guys who said they were policía.

They searched the car and us again and didn’t find anything, which made them kind of mad, so we quickly asked them if they wanted to have lunch with us and a couple of beers.

After a few days in San Blas, we became pretty good friends with these two guys.

They never wore any policía uniforms or had badges or guns, so it was clear they were just hustling us, but it was best not to take any chances because they could probably find the policía, and the thought of being sent to a Mexican penitentiary was really frightening.

We didn’t see any waves when we first pulled into San Blas, just a beach area near the small town’s zócalo (town square).

We thought something was wrong; where’s the great right point break?

But it wasn’t long before we found the break slightly south of the village, and it was exactly what we had heard: a perfectly formed right wave that broke off a point.

After making some arrangements with a guy to hang our hammocks up on a patio covered with palm branches area, we were in the water. 

The rides were so long that we would get out of the water after each wave and walk back to the point, and with just a short paddle, we were in the lineup and dropping in on perfectly formed rights that slowly peeled off along the shore.

These were the best waves I’ve ever ridden in my life.

One, it was totally consistent with one right wave after another, and if you fell, you just caught the next one behind it.

They weren’t particularly fast rides but more bottom-turn, cutback, then another bottom-turn, cutback again, over and over again.

I recall my legs getting tired from the back and forth, as well as the length of the rides.

It wasn’t like Cannon’s Point because, for one thing, all the rides were rights, and that was perfect for us because we were all regular foot surfers.

Also, the waves at San Blas seemed slower than at Cannon’s Point, but the rides were a lot longer.

And instead of paddling or walking back out to the point on the second day of surfing, we hired a guy with a cart and donkey to give us a ride back out to the point.

And unbelievably, the whole time we surfed San Blas, we were the only surfers there.

Yes, a surfer’s dream: a perfect break, consistent, easy paddle out (actually, no paddle out – just a donkey cart ride), warm water, and no crowds.

Tequila Kills Bugs

I was really happy that I went with these guys to San Blas. But trouble did arise late on the second day.

Both of my new surf buddies got really sick with very bad intestinal distress, so they were down for the count.

Why I didn’t get it too, I am not sure, but I may have been a little more careful with consuming water and food. Maybe I drank more tequila, which killed those bugs.

This meant that I surfed by myself, which seemed a little lonely, but I did continue to use the donkey cart ride back out to the point.

After about five days surfing San Blas, mostly by myself, my new surf buddies decided to head back to Mazatlán.

We got back to Mazatlán late in the day, and the first thing we noticed was that all the small fishing boats had been pulled off the beach and were on the sidewalk next to the sea wall.

Also, the ocean looked rough.

As we pulled up to the casa where Danny, Larry, and I had been staying, Roy and his kids ran out front and hollered,” A chubasco [severe storm] is coming.”

Next, Larry and Danny showed up and said that some big waves and all of the reefs at Cannon’s Point were going to break with the waves, probably big enough to continue into the deeper bay area.

We all headed over to Cannon’s Point, and sure enough, we could see the large swells forming, with the closest reef in, the one we surfed, with about ten-foot faces.

This was about twice the size we had surfed there.

As we stood there watching, we kidded around some, saying, well, this is our Hawaii and comparing the waves to what we had tried to ride at the Tijuana Soughs and K38½.

We were all afraid, but we were surfers, and surfers ride waves, all waves.

That night, we rewaxed our boards in anticipation of the next day, when the decision would be made: who goes out and who fakes being sick.

I think we were all hoping that the chubasco would be too windy, creating a massive, choppy sea.

We drank less that night and stayed close.

The Big Day: 20-Foot Surf

That evening, my two new surf buddies from Newport Beach headed north for the border, which wasn’t a good idea because driving at night could be a bit dangerous, but they weren’t feeling too well.

None of us slept very soundly that night, wondering what tomorrow would bring.

It was just getting light when Larry whispered, “Can you feel that?” I said, “What?” and he said, “The ground is shaking.”

Not only was the ground shaking, but you could also hear the sound of waves breaking.

Danny was awake by then, and we all dismounted from our hammocks. We rushed over to Cannon’s Point.

Yep, the big surf had arrived, and it was giant.

The furthest out reef was too far to see, but the second reef had about 20-foot faces that pushed right through the first reef into the bay. 

Without saying much or thinking either, we rushed back to get our boards.

I am sure Danny and I were thinking about falling down or playing sick, but not Larry. He was a few steps ahead of us, and I could feel his determination.

One thing is for sure: no one was joking around.

The scary thing was we had never ridden waves that big, which needed some trial and error and possible rescue, just in case.

We decided we would walk south a little along the sea wall to more of a bay area, push through the shore break, and paddle out near the second reef. 

After taking a beating getting through the shore break, we got out to an area that was too deep to break.

The surprising thing was that we all seemed to be gaining some courage as we sat there watching the huge waves break.

Someone had to make the move, and sure enough, Larry said, “I’m going for it,” and paddled over into where the waves were breaking.

As Danny and I watched, Larry dropped into a monster left way over his head. He made a turn, and then we lost sight of him as the wave broke by us.

Next thing we noticed, he was paddling back out from near the shore. When he got to us, he just said something like, “I can’t believe it.”

Yes, Larry had gotten the wave of his life. He then proceeded to catch another one while Danny and I watched.

It was now Danny’s and my turn, so we both paddled over into the break area. I went first and fell. I didn’t realize the drop would be so steep.

Fortunately, my board popped out of the whitewater, and I was able to swim to get it.

Danny also fell on his first wave, but his board got pushed in further, so he had further to swim.

Larry’s courage had gotten Danny and me fired up, and before long, we both caught a couple of nice rides, admittedly staying pretty close to the shoulder.

It did resemble the Tijuana Sloughs in that it seemed like we were surfing in the middle of the ocean, combined with the constant loud crashing sound of big waves breaking. 

Larry probably got the best rides that day, but Danny and I did good, too.

We stayed in the water for quite a while, mostly watching these huge monster waves break.

A few times, the third reef broke, and the waves pushed through the second and close-in reefs right into the middle of the bay area. 

After we got out of the water, we were so proud of ourselves it was ridiculous.

Of course, we all bragged about who rode the biggest wave. Larry’s wave could have been 20 feet. Maybe Danny and I got a couple of 12-footers.

Extending the Mexican Surf Trip

We partied like crazy that night, secretly hoping the surf would calm down the next day, and it did.

Actually, the chubasco got pretty nasty with a lot of wind, rain, and a real choppy ocean.

The main area of Mazatlán got cut off from the mainland for a couple of days because a storm surge flooded the main road.

For a few days, the surf stayed pretty messed up, so we just hung out, mostly exploring every nick and cranny of Mazatlán.

In a way, it was fun walking all the little streets and taking in the colonial architecture.

Our money was running out, and we knew we would be leaving soon.

We were communicating with our friends and family using mail, and Danny got a letter saying he needed to come home immediately because someone in his family had died.

Larry and I thought it was probably time for all of us to head home, so we all went to the bus station to buy our tickets for the next day.

This time, we were going to take our boards with us, even if we had to put them in the aisle of the bus. 

We had a lot of bragging to do with our home surf buddies in Imperial Beach and Coronado.

Surfers are notorious for bolstering about the waves they rode, and that big day at Cannon’s Point was going to be a great story.

In my mind, I had already had us catching several waves from the third reef and riding them all the way to the bay area in front of the Hotel de Cima.

That night, we had a farewell dinner with Roy and his family. I recall we owed him some money, but he wouldn’t take it. What a great guy he was.

We were going to leave on a late afternoon bus to Tijuana that would get there the next day in the evening.

The next morning, we packed up what little we had and got ready to head to the bus station, but I had second thoughts about leaving.

I may have been driven a little more than Danny and Larry for a few more days of great left waves at Cannon’s Point.

Also, what was the rush? I had squirreled away some of my previous “win-fall” poker winnings, so I had at least two more weeks of resources. 

I told Danny and Larry I was not going to go with them and that I would stay another week or two.

I asked them to check in with my family and tell them I was fine and would be home soon.

I had thought about maybe having them ask my parents to send me some money, but by now, my parents were probably a bit upset with me, thinking maybe I could just stay in Mexico.

I did have a Spanish surname and at least one relative in Mazatlán, maybe, who worked in the ice room at Pacifico Brewery.

That night, I stayed around the casa drinking beer, kicking the ball around in the street in front with Roy’s kids. It seemed kind of lonely sleeping all by myself in our little room in the back.

The next morning, it was pretty quiet except for a couple of roosters, but no sound of big waves breaking.

As I was lying in my hammock, I began to stare at the wall by the door entrance, which was getting good light at the time.

Something was painted on that wall, which I never noticed before. It was pretty faded, but I could tell it was a large mural of a face.

I got up and studied it some, and sure enough, it was a painting that took up most of the wall, maybe 10 feet by 10 feet.

I guess we had always been in such a rush to get in the surf that none of us noticed it. I asked Roy about it, and he said a surfer painted it a while back and stayed there.

I knew instantly that Jan had painted it because I remember that he was an amateur artist, which made sense because he told me once that he had a job doing sign painting around Hanford.

I took this painting as a good omen to my time in Mazatlán and the waves Jan had led us to.

Without Danny and Larry around and hardly any tourists in town, it was really quiet.

Roy sent his wife and kids off to Guadalajara to visit some relatives. He asked me if I wanted to go with them, which I considered, but my budget was tight.

I tried to find Jeff, but he had disappeared. But I did see a Mexican guy surfing on his board after the surf had calmed down at Cannon’s Point.

I paddled out next to him and asked him where Jeff was, but he didn’t seem to understand anything I was saying.

The Mysterious Three

It was mid-September, and it seemed hotter and more humid, and it began to rain more.

Danny and Larry had been gone about a week, and I thought it was time to head home, too, but there were a few more interesting twists to come for me.

As I was sitting on the sea wall in front of the Copa de Leche one evening, a young woman walked by me and smiled, and I immediately said, “Hi.”

She told me she was in Mazatlán with her mother and sister on vacation, which didn’t seem right because vacationing in Summer in Mazatlán was unusual because of the intense heat and humidity.

I found out later that the mother was in some sort of trouble in the US, and she took off for Mexico to get away.

The mother and two sisters were a total blast. For about four days, we all hung out, and they always picked up the tab.

I showed them everything in Mazatlán, and even when the surf was good, I chose to hang out with them.

I recall they really liked visiting where the sport fishing boats would dock and seeing what the big catch of the day was, usually some big marlin and sailfish.

They didn’t like the long and steep hike up to the El Faro Lighthouse, but once we got there, they couldn’t believe the spectacular view.

Every morning, I would rush right to their hotel to take them out to town.

But then, on about the fourth day, they all vanished. When I got to their hotel one morning, they had checked out.

I asked the clerk if they had moved to another hotel, but he didn’t even acknowledge that they had ever been there.

I took this as a signal that it was now time for me to get back to my home waves in Baja and around San Diego.

I told Roy I would be leaving the next day and thanked him for everything.

I said something like, “If you are ever in the San Diego area, it would be good to see you and your family,” but I was pretty sure Roy was on a one-way trip to Mexico for the rest of his life, which looked like a good life to me.

The Ride Back with the Sick

I put together a little food and water package for my next day’s trip.

I really didn’t have much else, just my cane, what I was wearing, and my board.

I took one last stroll around town, ending up back in front of the Copa de Leche. I was hoping that maybe my new girlfriends might have come back, but no luck.

As I sat on the sea wall, a four-wheel drive jeep truck drove up and parked right in front of where I was sitting.

Two older guys got out, who looked like gringos to me, so I said “Hi.” They came right over to me and told me they were sick and needed help.

I knew instantly what was wrong: the intestinal bug.

I told them there was no instant cure, just keep drinking water, bottled water only, eat something, preferably corn tortillas, and rest.

One of the guys was so sick he could hardly stand, but neither guy was well at all.

They kept saying, “We need to see a doctor,” but I knew a doctor was going to tell them exactly what I told them, and there wasn’t much that would help them at the pharmacy. 

I said, “Where are you staying?” and they said, “Nowhere, we are on our way back to the border.” Instantly, I said, “Can I go with you? I will ride in the back, and I can drive.”

They had driven down the Baja Peninsula, which had taken them over two weeks, then crossed on the ferry from La Paz to Mazatlán.

It apparently was a tough trip, but they didn’t get sick until a couple of days ago in La Paz.

They said, “Let’s go,” and I hopped in the back bed. After a short stop to get my board, pick up tortillas, and plenty of bottled water, we were off.

I didn’t see Roy when we picked up my board, so my earlier thank you was going to have to suffice. 

As we left town, we filled up with gas, including all the jerrycans, and soon we were on the main highway 15 straight north to the border.

Within 30 minutes, we stopped along the side of the road, and the really sick guy got in the back and laid down, and I took his place on the passenger side.

Thirty minutes later, we stopped again, and the other guy who was driving asked me if I could drive for a while. I said sure, and we changed places.

I checked on the guy in the back, and he looked dead, but I could tell he was breathing.

I tried to get him to drink some water, and he did take a couple of sips, but he wasn’t going for the corn tortillas.

The other guy sat on the passenger side with his head leaning against the window, moaning in pain. 

There I was with two really sick guys who were nearly incoherent, driving at night in Mexico.

The scariest thing was dodging big trucks that always seemed to be coming right down the center of the road at you.

Soon, we were in Culiacán, where I suggested we get a hotel, which we did. My job was to sleep in the truck cab to watch out for thieves, but no need, really.

After the guys got into their room, I got them some food and cold refrescos (soft drinks) and retired to the cab.

I couldn’t sleep much, so I wandered around the neighborhood, ending up at a small cantina where I downed several beers with rice, beans, and tortillas.

As I was sitting on the patio of the cantina by myself, it started to rain like crazy, and I couldn’t believe the amount of bugs everywhere.

As I was sitting there, I watched all the night dogs on turf patrol.

Occasionally, a dog would stop and look at me for a few seconds, but like Mazatlán, they were too busy following each other to care about what humans were up to.

Watching these dogs got me thinking about my own dog and how I missed him. This was maybe the only time during the entire trip that I got a little homesick.

Anyway, I just kept drinking until I could barely walk, then bedded down in the cab.

The next morning, it was hot, humid, and sunny, and we were off for the border. I did most of the driving, with a stop in Los Mochis ending up in Obregon that evening.

The guys were feeling slightly better but still pretty sick. They wanted to keep driving, so we made it all the way to Guaymas.

We went through several checkpoint inspections along the way, which meant getting searched for something we were not supposed to have.

I knew how these went, so I would just step back and let the guys handle the officials, which meant paying them a fee of some sort.

This was serious business because these officials always had guns and seemed mad. They always asked for our papers, which was some sort of a joke because we had no papers, but we did have pesos.

Guaymas was the same drill as Culiacán; the guys got a hotel while I guarded the jeep.

But there was one difference: I knew Guaymas was famous for its shrimp, so I suggested that we all go for a shrimp dinner.

They agreed, so we went for a big meal of huge grilled shrimp, rice, beans, and tortillas, which they paid for. That may have been the best meal of my entire trip.

But there was one big problem: they consumed everything, including peppers and massive amounts of salsa, as well as several beers.

I knew this was not going to digest well, and it didn’t. The next morning, I had two extremely sick guys on my hands.

I had to pound really hard on the door to their room, and when they finally opened it, it was bad – really bad.

Let’s just say it was coming out both ends, and it was everywhere.

They both crawled into the back and after getting some fuel and buying a case of Orange Fanta, it was time for the hot Sonora Desert.

In a couple of hours, we arrived in Hermosillo.

The guys were too sick to go any further, so I suggested we check into an air-conditioned hotel, and I would find them a doctor, and that’s exactly what we did right off the main road going through the town north.

I found a doctor, and he came right over to see them. I didn’t need to say much to the doctor because he knew exactly what the problem was.

He gave them some anti-diarrhea medicine and told them to drink a lot of water, bottled water.

What Are You Doing Here?

Probably the strangest thing during my entire trip occurred after I got the guys taken care of.

As I was sitting outside the door to their room, consuming one refresco (soft drink) after another, thinking, “I have to ditch these guys before I die from the heat in Hermosillo,” who pulls into the gas station right next to the hotel?

My two surf buddies from San Blas. It had been about two weeks since I saw them leaving Mazatlán for the US.

I hopped up and rushed over to where they were and greeted them with “What are you doing here?”

They told me that after they let me off in Mazatlán, they started heading north, but for some unknown reason, they started to physically feel much better, as well as feeling bad about not getting too many waves in San Blas.

They then turned around and went back to San Blas.

They had been there for the last two weeks, catching one right after another, plus they got some overhead waves from the chubasco, too.

Then they asked me, “What are you doing here?” I told them about my couple of days of craziness and asked them if I could somehow fit in the back of their bug again and strap my board on top.

They said, “Sure.”

I quickly grabbed my board out of the bed of the jeep truck, gave the keys to the jeep to the guy at the front desk of the hotel, and told him to tell the two guys I found a ride back to the US.

Best not to take a chance on a Guaymas room repeat experience, so I did not disturb my sick friends. Also, I knew the doctor would look in on them and get them back to near normal soon.

All fueled up and stocked up with bottled water, we were off.

If we kept on the move, we could be in the US late that night, and with that bug’s air-cooled engine, there would be no overheating problems.

Except for a gas and food stop, we made it all the way to San Luis Rio, which was the border crossing in Arizona near Yuma.

My two surf buddies had heard that if you crossed into Arizona, you could bring back a larger quantity of booze than if you crossed into California.

But my Mexico travels had taught me that if you were not of legal drinking age, you couldn’t bring any alcohol into the US.

We stopped at a liquor store in San Luis Rio, and my surf buddies bought four big bottles of tequila as gifts for their friends in Newport Beach.

Then we rolled up to the border where the customs and immigration officer asked us first, “Where were you born?”, then “Do you have anything to declare?”.

We all said, “USA,” then my buddies said yes, “some tequila,” which the officer asked, “Are you of legal drinking age?” The answer was “No.”

He said, “Sorry, you can’t bring the tequila into the US, but I will let you try to return it to where you bought it.”

We backed up and went directly to the liquor store where we bought it, but the same guy we bought them from first didn’t want to give us our money back, then bought three of the four bottles back for about half the price he sold them to us 30 minutes earlier.

And what do three Southern California surfers do with one big bottle of tequila around 10:00 PM in what seemed like 100 degrees? We drank it.

We found a little park with benches, bought some street food, and downed that bottle with no limes or salt.

We then laid down in the park and slept until it got light, crawled back into the bug, and headed to the border.

It was a different customs officer, and when he asked, “Do we have anything to declare?” I popped off, saying, “Just my cane.”

He said, “Welcome back home,” and gave us a small hand gesture to proceed on.

I recall looking directly into the eyes of the officer through the back window of the Beetle as we crossed into the US, and it was clear to me what he was thinking: “Looks like these young guys have made it back to the US safe and sound, many don’t.”

This was a familiar look that my buddies and I had seen several times crossing the border into the US at Tijuana.

Learning About Ourselves, Forever

We all cheered a little as we entered the US, as if we had conquered something, which, in a way, we had.

My surf friends were nice enough to deliver me right to my house in Chula Vista, which took about four hours from San Luis Rio.

It must have been a Sunday because my dad was working in the front yard when we drove up.

He just stood there staring at me as I offloaded my board, thanked my friends, and told them I would see them around Newport Beach in the lineup.

My older brothers had already left the nest, so it was only my dad, mom, and me at home.

Dad came over and said something like, “You need to get cleaned up before you come in the house,” and I was a mess.

It had been days since I had a normal shower and changed clothes. I probably hadn’t had a good shower in about six weeks.

I went around the side of the house to the backyard to hose off, where I found my one-eyed, black and white, part bull, part terrier dog. He was very happy to see me, and I was equally happy to see him.

It did feel good to be home, and it wasn’t long before my dad and mom warmed up a little. I think they were most upset because they knew Danny and Larry were home, but why didn’t Jerry come back with them?

This was a surf trip that became a discovery of the real world.

Danny, Larry, and I got a lot of great waves, the best we ever had, including our own “Big Wednesday,” but more importantly, we learned a lot about ourselves and being on our own.

In our short time away, we gained a great appreciation for where and how we lived, as well as how similar we were to the people of Mazatlán and the other Americans we encountered.

Words by Jerry Olivas | Surfer and Computer Education Specialist