BAJA REFLECTIONS
“Uh oh…”
We’re rounding the last corner in Tijuana before joining the long sweep of road that funnels all north-bound traffic to Mexico’s Baja border with the United States. Greg has seen vehicles are at a standstill in front of us.We come to an abrupt stop.
“The things I do for you, Al.”
Greg’s only half joking. Ordinarily, his ‘Sentri’ (regular, trusted U.S. traveller) pass affords him smooth passage, half hour waits at most. Unfortunately, with this gringo on board he’s forced to join the main line for full passport check. After several decades’ experience of Baja border crossings, seeing the multi lane traffic backed this far up, he knows we’re in for a four hour wait. Minimum.
After an hour or two we can see the heavily fortified structures that herald the USA, the van is swarmed by street vendors, we buy some churros and Greg can’t resist buying the tackiest, life-size, felt-covered clay Rottweiler from a broadly grinning moustachioed man, who’s no doubt delighted he’s finally rid of it.
Oscar, our new best friend, sits between the front seats, staring at us. His cheerful face contrasts with that of his new owner, whose expression after a long drive and a multi hour wait…is now deadpan.
I start to daydream, reflecting upon the path that had led to this hapless Brit riding shotgun with Greg Long. He is of course one of the world’s most celebrated big wave surfers, now focussing on the environment, but, crucially, in Baja terms, he’s arguably the bloke who’s surfed more good waves on the peninsula than anyone.
As teenagers, my brother and I had picked up a copy of SURFER and opened it to see pictures of Greg and his brother Rusty careening down giant blue walls at the aptly named ‘Killers’ off Todos Santos island. We couldn’t stop staring: the Longs were perhaps 15 or 16 at the time, the same ages as us and yet we couldn’t even conceive of paddling out in
