Revisiting The Good Old Days of Northern Baja
SANTA BARBARA SURFER feature story
Casa Nueve
Just south of the Mexican border along the coast on the way to Ensenada lies the small hamlet of San Miguel Trailer Park. Steeped in surfing lore, San Miguel is the home of an ’ola mas fina’ that for a long time has been the desire of many a surfer, myself included. But for me there is something ’especial’ about San Miguel, there is a house with an address that still echo’s in my mind like the sound of the pounding waves: Casa Nueve, Casa Nueve. Now long after Casa Nueve has been left behind it still remains a house full of memories and the people who were welcomed there and the waves just outside it’s door. All remembered fondly to this day.
In those early years before Casa Nueve, surfari’s to Baja Norte were only precursors to a future that was coming my way. The first sojourns across the border were truly a surfer’s right of passage in a foreign land. VW Buses packed with camping gear, surfboards that weighted a ton and a wetsuit, if you had one, was only a dive jacket with a beaver tail, yet it was all about the allure of the waves. After all day perusing and bartering in Tijuana, the cervesas y tequilas were emptied and the compass pointed south as we traveled by the Carretera Federal 1 -the old road- over the inland highland plateau to the Ensenada Bay. As the sun sank lower in the western sky, the anticipation of the surf was high because nowhere along the way could you see the ocean. When you finally descended the plateau and wound down the Canon El Carmen that formed the watershed to the Rio San Antonio, there in the glow of sunset at the northern tip of Ensenada Bay was San Miguel in all it‘s glory, the primera ola in all of northern Baja. The reward of the waves not only satisfied that first trip but would keep me longing and coming back for years to come.
In the beginning access to camping in the trailer park was restricted to occupants and a privileged few; we were vanquished to camping on the 3M bluffs just a kilometer south. In the distance we could see the San Miguel wave beckoning us with its perfection and we would not be denied. In the beginning the walk or paddle was the worthwhile price of admission and a common occurrence for hungry souls. But surfers being resourceful it wasn’t long before we learned the secrets to passage by La Guardia de la Puerta de San Miguel. Every guard on duty had his price in this foreign land and it was known as the mordida, the bite. Canned goods, magazines, cervesas, tequila and eventually some dinero would gain us access usually reserved for the privileged few, las fiestas and sport fisherman. The comfort of camping in that dirt lot was solely rewarded by waking up in a sleeping bag to smoldering camp fires, the lingering smell of fireworks from the night before, a landscape of empty tequila y cervesas bottles and the rumble of the waves across ‘el rio’ sculptured boulder field at our feet. Once rousted, trunks donned, board waxed and a chilly paddle out you would find yourself sitting out in the water astride your board and glancing shoreward to a life revealed. An imaginary life where you would be looking out of one of the living room windows or even sitting on one of the makeshift roof decks with such a vista del mar. That mirage went on for over 20 years until the early 80’s when we found an owner selling his modest dwelling in the first row of ‘casitas‘. It was unassuming piece of real estate but from that day forth our destination would be forever affectionately known as Casa Nueve.
Casa Nueve was a meager casita with simple amenities but with a magical charm. Complete with an unobstructed, panoramic view of the surf from the front windows and an outside rickety spiral staircase that led to a patch work, plywood deck attached to the roof, we thought that ‘Nuestra Senora de Guadalupe’ had visited upon us. When a wave or a set was spotted the cry ‘Orale Pues!’ would ring throughout the house, in unison we would rush to the windows or leap from the lawn chairs on the deck above and hoot till the last bubble of white water dissipated. As visits became planned around the swell, wind and tides, the years produced some memorable waves and equally memorable adventurous moments. The first that comes to mind was our inaugural Thanksgiving trip.
The first year we owned Casa Nueve we celebrated Thanksgiving weekend in San Miguel with our families, arriving with both a large surf and turkey appetite. What a sight, eight people in our little casita and it rained all weekend. Cards and board games kept the kids happy indoor’s and, surprisingly, the foul weather kept the trailer park empty leaving me alone in the lineup with just one other Mexican surfer. Geographically Ensenada Bay was open to many swell directions and produced waves year round including during storm and clearing offshore winds conditions which produced waves all weekend. But our Thanksgiving yielded another surprise when I opened the door Thanksgiving morning and there was a local ’pescadero’ hawking burlap bag of caught that morning ‘langostas’. I peered in and was amazed at the cornucopia reward of a dozen fat tails destined to escort our turkey to the table that day. By the time we left Sunday morning, we given the proverbial thanks for our good fortune but I was already dreaming of returning to Casa Nueve.
Another trip that comes to mind was the adventure of my ‘1962, 4 Door Chevy Nova’. A winter’s NNW swell was forecasted to shadow our leeward Santa Barbara Channel and the buoys showed it moving south at a steeper angle, full strength. I loaded up the ‘62 with some friends, boards and fueled up with a San Miguel purpose. Knowing that after the storm passed the northerly clearing winds would blow off shore and manicure a pumping 17 second 6-8ft ground swell. We arrived, by day parking the ’62 and reaping the ‘olas mas’ fina’ and by night cruising the Nova with style into Ensenada for food, drink and adventure. The cart venders with their local cuisine, the rotisserie chickens pin wheeling over open fire in the restaurant windows and the neon bar signs flashing with the colors of enticingly fish lures, all belayed the magic of the evening ahead. After nourishing our famished surf tired bodies it was time to roll over to the infamous Hussong’s Cantina for the evening’s grand finale. Hussong’s had always been the coup de grace for after dinner drinks, lively discussions and meeting all manner of human life in one evening. The walls strewn with artist renderings, photographs and authored statements of many kinds, a testimony of existentialism but this particular night would also include a rare exhibition of ’machismo‘ behavior.
During that era there was a peculiar vendor in Hussong’s, a hombre with an ambulatory disability who sat and scooted by his arms on a small cart around the bar selling his form of machismos‘. Between his legs he kept a small black box only distinguished by a hand crank with two terminals and long wires with handles attached. He would approach a table or the bar and offer drinking companions the chance to settle the age old question, ’whose was the better man’. Neither drinker wanting to show weakness in front of the crowd would boast a wager and gladly accept the hand of faith. The combination of the crowd yelling ’visas’ and the hombre cranking the DC generator faster and faster produced surreal entertainment. The challengers would struggle against the electrical current until the survival reflex caused one or the other to let go first and the other declared ‘machismo’ by chorus of the bar patrons. As the night wore on there were fewer and fewer takers in that evening’s entertainment. When we could no longer laugh or drink our share, we paid our bill and coolly walked passed the federales out front, nodding casually to the satisfactory evening and climbed into my trusty Nova for the long, slow drive back to Casa Nueve, alone in our thoughts of the waves that were surely waiting for us manana.
The Casa Nueve years are filled with many memorable stories and yet it was eventually destined to come to an end. 15 years passed before excuses and responsibilities began to elbow out the desire and the reasons to go. When it came for that last trip to settle affairs, we talked about everything but the surf and it was decided to sell the property. No need to spoil this tale by recounting reasons here but we did decided to meet for one more weekend, performing the last traditional cleaning and sprucing up the Senorita for her new ‘Corazon’. I can say that neither broom or dust pan, wash cloth or mop was raised till the last wave of the swell had been ridden, the refrigerator emptied of cervesas y tequilas and our voices spent from the shouts of “Viva Casa Nueve, Viva Casa Nueve“...
Images of San Miguel
Santa Barbara Surfer would like to thank guest writer Sapo for contributing his work to the local online surfer community!