ENSENADA III
DATELINE: Somewhere between Hell and a Handbasket.
It’s much much later now. I don’t know how many days we’ve been awake. I don’t know how many cantinas we’ve visited, or how many girls we’ve talked to. I don’t know how many stories we’ve told and how many lies we’ve lied. Who knows what time it is or what day it is for that matter. It’s Mexico and nothing in Mexico is as it seems.
Manana as they like to remind you.
Schultz and I get back to the 240 Z. The blue car is a dusty beige from all the Mexican dust.
As we climb into this poor man’s rocket sled, a refreshed Joe opens his eyes. “How ya doing boys?”
“It is alive!,” Schultz bellows.
“Did ya get some sleep?,” I ask.
“Feel great,” he responds noticing a residual amount of white chalk in our hair and around our eyes.
“What’s with the pancake batter facial?,” he says.
“I’ll explain later,” I say cranking the engine.
Unlike Ensenada, This Rosa Rita Beach bar is right on Mexico 1, the main drag up the coast. Thank God, I think to myself. No signs to decipher. No need to wonder if an arrow is really a lie.
I crank up the motor and let the engine purr. I drop it into gear and we roar out of the dirt parking lot churning up a rooster tail of Mexican soil.
Within a minute, the lights of the small beach town are gone and we are heading into the night.
I put in an AC/DC tape to keep me alert. The guitar riffs of Angus fill the small sports car. Suddenly Bon Scott begins serenading me with “It’s a long way to the top if you wanna rock and roll.”
Schultz looks bleary eyed and crazy. “How fast will this car go?” he says out of the blue.
“I don’t, maybe 125mph”
“OK. Wake me when we get to 125mph”
And like that he closes his eyes and he is asleep. I don’t mean he was attempting to sleep. I mean he was asleep. It’s like unplugging a toaster and the coils suddenly go dark and cold.
Joe laughs out loud from the rear. “How does he do that?”
“He’s a terminator,” I respond.
I get on to the wide beautiful highway and begin to let the car do its thing. The engine purrs at high revs and I feel no reason not to keep the pedal on the floor. The slight g-force is enjoyable as the car seems to lower onto the smooth asphalt. The coast highway winds along the crystal blue waves of the Pacific, but the road is delightful. If you didn’t know any better you would swear that Porsche built this road as a test track for all their new sports cars.
Heading north, back to the USA the ocean is to my left. By the light of a moon so full, you could actually see white caps surfing on the horizon. I can’t stare at the sites too long, because we are over 100mph now. The road is jet black and smooth. The only thing between us and the jagged rocks a hundred feet below is a steel guard rail.
To my right, there is a rock wall so steep, so jagged, you can see where they literally blasted it away from the rest of the hill. There is so much rocky debris and dynamite drill holes you wonder how many road workers died constructing this thoroughfare. The car is starting to labor as we near 115mph. I wonder how this road can be constructed so well in a country where everything seems broken.
Joe is refreshed and begins telling me a story of his roommate who had been to this very beach bar the weekend prior.
“Yeah so he’s coming back and he rounds the corner and there’s a huge pile of dirt in the middle of the highway,” Joe says, shouting over Angus’ guitar licks. “He had to slam on his brakes and he almost wrecked.”
“What’s the dirt about?”
“Banditos!,” Joe Exclaims. “They wait for Americans to wreck then they rush down the hill and rob them.
“That sucks,” I say aloud, tightening my grip on the wheel.
I look down at the speedometer and see the needle approaching 125mph.
The tachometer is dancing into the yellow and I don’t want to flirt with 7,000 plus rpm’s any longer than I have to.
“Hey Schultz, Wake up!
Schultz opens an eye.
“125 mph,” I say proudly.
Schultz smiles.
I enter a slight curve in the road and slow the car to about a 100 mph. As we exit the turn, there it is, like a black hole in space.
My bright lights illuminate the dark mountain stacked in the middle of the two lane road.
“Oh Crap!
I tap the brakes but we’re going too fast. I feel the back end begin to grow unstable. I quickly get off the brakes and think about dropping it down a gear. But at 100 mph dropping it into 3rd will surely blow the engine.
By then we are on top of the mountain of dirt. My options are veer to the left, dance with the guard rail, and risk going into the ocean. Or veer right and risk smashing into the jagged rock wall.
I hear Joe scream from the back.
Oddly, everything seems to slow down. I feel like I have time to decide what to do and weigh my options. I adjust my grip on the wheel and nudge it slightly to the right. The car has beefy suspension and the slightest twist of the wheel is felt immediately in the chassis. I feel the wheels getting into the gravel and dirt beside the rock wall. I nudge the wheel another few inches to the right. The cling clang of rocks and debris becomes more audible and concerning as the car jets along at close to 90 mph.
Suddenly the dirt mound is upon us. The small cockpit of the 240 Z is filled with the sounds of rocks banging the wheel well, AC/DC screaming through the speakers and Joe Hollering from the hatch.
Is this how I exit this world?
Not today boss!
The rest of this moment is brought to you by God himself. There is no other way to explain how we got past that dirt mound. I remember Schultz suddenly above me in the passenger seat. It was as if we were on the steep banked oval of Daytona Speedway. Somehow the right wheels of the Z were driving on a portion of the cliff wall that was gradually sloped. It was just enough of a slope that the car stuck to the Earth, allowing me to speed around the 10 foot high mound.
At 85 mph we reconnect with the smooth asphalt of Mexico 1. The car’s right side came down with a soft thud and we never missed a beat.
I looked at Joe in the rear view mirror. His eyes were wider than saucers. He let out a war whoop that told me everything I needed to know about that moment.
God had picked us up in his caring hand and delivered us from one side of this obstacle to the next. There was no other explanation, because at 100mph we should have been 3 mosquito stains on the side of the hill.
“Nice,” Schultz said in a tone so reserved, so calm, you wondered if he had a pulse.
“Wake me at the border.”
With that El Diablo went back to sleep. Like turning off a light switch he was out.
Joe and I looked at one another and laughed. It was not our day to die.
Let that be a Lesson to those not living life. You never know when your final time clock is punched, so live each day as Van Halen once said “Like there is no tomorrow.”
And that is crazy!