Sitting in a decrepit folding chair, with a cigarette in hand and blown out surf out front, he reminisced on the trip so far. They had begun the trip from Oregon around new years, before exploring Southern California, and preparing for what was to come. Their goal was Todos Santos, the far end of Baja. Having never driven south of San Diego before, they were overly cautious. In an effort to feel prepared he researched border crossings, permits, insurance, packed a Spanish-English dictionary, and even a couple of guidebooks. But that was, what felt like, forever ago.

           A few days into Baja, they knew they wouldn’t make it that far South, so they decided to take the time to slow down and explore the rugged empty coastline. Enticed by the raw land and thriving oceans, they wanted to experience all of what was offered south of the border. What was originally planned to be a yogic journey, soon turned into a cervesa-fueled surf fest.

          Mile after mile they endured the potholed-filled highway, military searches, uncomfortably close truckers, and desolate desert scenery. A few weeks were spent winding down the rough excuse of a highway and branching out on what could only be considered a road south of the border. All of this was in the hope of finding waves. Each dirt road ended in disappointment. The farther south they went, the more people they found, and the less swell there was.

          There came a point where they were running low on fuel and high on anticipation. Hours were spent trying to navigate a labyrinth of barely discernable sandy roads to a supposedly world-class wave. By now they figured they must be getting close, and as they made a final turn, they could see it. From a distance, they slowed down to figure out how to get there. But when they tried to continue, they realized they were stuck. With their destination in view, they spun deeper into a soft pile of sand. With their tails between their legs, they walked over to the point, hoping for a helping hand. A bittersweet scene greeted them. He found himself disgusted by the lack of waves, overpriced camping rate, and a crowd reminiscent of those in Southern California. To his delight, a few folks helped pull them out of the sand, and they shortly arrived at the point.

          With the sun setting in a couple of hours, no sign of anything remotely surfable, an empty cooler, and a crowd of more gringos than they had seen the whole trip so far, they quickly came to a decision. It was agreed to flip around and book it north again. After a few days they ended at the spot they had originally stumbled upon. A new plan was formed; save pesos by staying in place, get more waves without a crowd, enjoy fish and beer every night, and hope for swell. For a while, that plan served them well.

          They had been at the spot for weeks now. It had been nearly a month since either of them had seen a shower, and even longer since they had spent a night sober. As the self-appointed caretakers of the spot, the disheveled pair kept a close eye on swell direction and wind as they barely noticed surfers come and go. Those who passed through seemed to be unimpressed with the wave selection and opted to venture south. The empty line-ups seemed to feed a salty self-righteous attitude, neither of them faired well with.

          The south of the border stoke seemed to be fading. There was so much to be grateful and excited for. Empty waves, solid swell, plenty of fish, great weather, the list went on. For some reason, contentment seemed to escape them. The feeling of ‘one more wave’ continued to grow, and could never be satiated. Perhaps it was this, or perhaps it was the month and a half of living in a van with someone over 3000 miles, that fueled the bitterness.

         These are the thoughts he mulled over as he sat back in the chair and lit another cigarette. He found himself feeling selfish. He felt selfish for several reasons. At the top of the list, and most apparent was the surf craft selection of the trip and the complete priority of board selection. Hadn’t he gotten enough waves on that board? Couldn’t he let his friend or someone else try it for a change? What was he afraid of? He cringed at himself and the lack of generosity he had shown.

          Farther down the internal list, and deeper within, he noticed an emptiness. This void, he reasoned, was left vacant from a lack of purpose. They had no real reason to be down there other than hedonistic self-interest. Their binge drinking and wave hoarding served no moral value to themselves. Locals had no interest in their stay, and society, in general, had lost track of them weeks ago. The only thing that was better because of these tendencies was their surfing. Upon noticing this, he knew the trip would be over soon. Not because of lack of swell, or because of being physically exhausted. But because he yearned for something more.

          North of the border, he had dreamed he could live off of empty waves and cold beer. There are those who do. He had met several on this trip. But after living off that for almost a month now, he realized none of them represented a future he wanted. Between salty sun-baked dispositions, lack of immediate friends and family, and self-damaging habits he saw a darker side. He had fallen in love with that spot and found it offered so much of what he craved but little of what he needed. It lacked a few major elements for, what he considered, a fulfilling existence. Realizing where his values lie, and the importance of balance, he reckoned it was time to move on.

          Regardless of the lessons learned, this trip was an experience engrained in his memory. The next day, without much discussion they decided they would leave. The morning was spent stocking up on fish and other more affordable goods. Eventually, they crossed the border back into California. The sun was setting as they weaved through the hills of the California desert, and an uncomfortable sense of peace settled over him.

          He did not know when he would make it down there again. Furthermore, he was not entirely ready to confront modern society again. His phone was back in service, and cars were no longer caked in dust and dirt. The shallow calmness he had grown fond of was now replaced with an unnaturally sterile bustling atmosphere unique to Southern California. He already knew that he could not stay there long, and would keep searching for what could fill that space within. He would just keep on heading north, as he knew that staying south was not for him.