It was always risky, but we never saw it that way. We were surfers and there was good surf in Baja.
I began the journey with my parents in the late ’50s and have photographic proof with myself and my brother Dave in a wooden cart, being pulled by a zebra impersonating a donkey. Beyond my parents’ view, I used my allowance for firecrackers and switchblades and various trinkets to decorate my bedroom walls.
Larger adventures awaited in 1967 when my best friend, David Zerr, and I took off for parts unknown in his ever-dependable 1954 Ford station wagon. We had no idea where any of the surf spots were. We simply filled the tank with 25 cent-a-gallon gas and pointed south, realizing that Mexico was somewhere in that general direction.
The idea was that we would travel until the gas gauge registered half a tank. Then, we would park on the side of the road and wait for morning.
The toll road was as yet incomplete, and once out of Tijuana we rolled through dark hills littered by roadside grave markers that indicated someone had not been quite as careful as us. We soon dropped down to the coast to see a giant cerveza can with a sign, “K-38 ½,” posted on it.
“Stop the car,” I yelled. Dave pulled over and we camped near the famous surf spot, him sleeping in the back and me in front seat, waking regularly to swat mosquitoes.
That particular morning was like many we would encounter over the years, and we rose to good surf with nobody out. From then on, weekends found us packing the car and discovering various good breaks in Baja.
I surfed Northern Baja quite a lot between 1967 and 1980; it somehow fell off the map after that. Even with hundreds of miles logged searching for waves in the region, I was no expert on the place. My friend Randy Dible was and is.
Dible is among the most adventurous surfers I have ever known, and the results of his risk-taking have paid off in his riding some of the best surf spots ever found beyond our southern border. And it’s not like he’s going down there in a Mercedes-Benz Sprinter, but, more likely, a rust-and-duct tape iron horse rolling on four threadbare tires without a spare.
He is generous with his hard-fought knowledge and, as most of you know by now, he drew a map for some young surfers, two of them brothers from Australia and one from San Diego, who were murdered for the tires on their truck.
But Dible’s willingness to share is no more to blame for this tragedy than someone who prepares a meal for a guest that they choke on. He may have done the last good deed his new friends would ever know. Randy would have been on that trip if work had not called. Like all who know him, I am so glad he didn’t go.
The last great adventurer can be seen surfing or photographing the waves near his home in Ocean Beach. If not there, you can find him on the roadside of his hometown, selling his beautiful prints of the incredible waves he has encountered in San Diego and his beloved Baja.
This story was prompted by a call from a friend, former Encinitas mayor Sheila Cameron.
