Polite, friendly nineteen year olds with submachine guns slung casually over their shoulders are bored in the middle of the desert and are eager for us to entertain them. Mostly they are interested in checking out our camping gear and chatting. Light offshore breeze combs lines in golden, late afternoon sunlight. We camp after dark rather close to the road under a giant cardon cactus and crazy looking boojum trees. Shoulder to head high, glassy, blue, immaculate rights peel for close to 100 yards.
Gentle peaks lead into bowly sections, with a racetrack wall inside to finish it off.
Waves like I used to draw on my High School notebook. Waves like in a Wilbur Kookmeyer cartoon. Waves like the ones in my dreams. The washboard road vibrates the cap off a big bottle of beer in an overhead cupboard and one of my stereo speakers fills up with brown ale. A third of our precious stock of toilet paper is also ruined.