By telling us your country of residence we are able to provide you with the most relevant travel insurance information.
Please note that not all content is translated or available to residents of all countries. Contact us for full details.
Shares
The Spot The flaming agave bounces down the dark sand dunes toward the water, showers of sparks flying behind and up into the night. They mimic in reverse the many falling stars we have seen that night, and so many other nights over the last thirty years in the clear, cold Baja sky. My nephew, laughing like the little boy he no longer is, runs in circles on the wet sand, holding the agave torch aloft till that crucial time when flower will separate from stem. Chris knows the agave burn, so his parents and I watch from the top of the hill, standing around the warmth of the campfire. This agave burning is a repeat episode of a story acted and reenacted through a couple of generations, now hitting the full cycle. Our kids have reached the age that we all were when we started taking long weekends to camp on the beach in long narrow desert of Baja, Mexico. As Southern California surfers, it is a rite of passage and a birthright. We pack up tents, boards, food and water, lots of beer and ice, several dogs, and drive early. We head through the bottom of Orange County and into the dark expanse of Camp Pendleton, not really fully awake till we hit the lovely lagoons and cliffs of north San Diego County. Topping off the tanks in the vehicles and draining our own just before crossing the border means we can cruise right through ragged TJ, tony Rosarito, even past the salty port of Ensenada, and down into and through the brown scrub of Santo Tomás valley, past the fancy new winery and the meager ruins of the Spanish mission, all without stopping. A long dusty dirt road is the last leg, and as we crest the final hill and head down to our beach, everyone cranes and squints. Is our spot open? Is it crowded? How bad is the wind and what are the waves doing? Burning questions, all answered in short order. Pulling in, we pile out. Beers are cracked, we walk the patch of red dirt and dunes we will call home for the weekend, removing glass, rebuilding the fire pit, and the dogs do their part, marking the perimeter with pee. The spot sits on the bluff between two headlands, sandy to the north and middle and cobblestones to the south. Behind is dry chaparral on smooth hills that harbor cactus, agave, coyotes, snakes and kangaroo rats, sometimes dotted with cattle and, very occasionally, pigs. Only a few structures are visible, one rancho back up the dry river bed, and another compound near the beach. To us, coming from the overbuilt and overcrowded beach cities of Orange County, it is a bounty of coastal open space. While the Baja wind blows relentlessly and the ocean temperature always at least ten degrees colder than our Newport water, and we are satisfied with this deal. The California is overrun and overbuilt. In Baja we recognize our native landscape and surf without all the fast cars and fresh haircuts. Here there is time to ponder and space to wander. Still, it is arid, hot all day and cold at night. The wind blows hard most afternoons and half the night. Grit permeates the campsite within hours of arrival. This is dirt camping -- no water, no amenities, no bathrooms (grab a shovel, kid). If you want it you better bring it with you. If you want to keep it, don’t leave it lying around. There is not even a scrap of physical luxury in Baja, and none of us mind as we settle into a multi-generational acquiescence to the elements. So we will return regularly to revel in the salty, sandy, red-dirt tradition. Our kids and (we hope) theirs, will perform the rituals of The Spot: making breakfast burritos on the camp stove, playing bocce ball in the dunes, surfing the point, sharing a happy hour spread each evening, constructing a proper fire pit. And, of course, running around on the beach at night holding a flaming ball of cactus.