The three of us talked some more about Yorks point break and decided to give it a go Monday morning-tomorrow-after changing some American dollars at "El Banco." The night was already taken care of-We had plenty of cold ones and this was the first night in four we had our choice of meals: 1)Beans and Rice or 2)Rice and Beans.

The swell held through the night. The next morning we cashed in our American coin, after standing in the street out front of the bank for 2 and 1/2 scorching hours, behind a line of thirty plus, wretched European Hippies who smelled like they had been rolling in Tuna Chum the night before.

At half past noon, we left on a wing and a prayer. Sparks were flying from the Gray Mutt (My tired,old,'67 Ford Econoline Van-but hell, it'd gotten us this far), as bare metal rubbed against crippled wheel Cylinders every time I applied what was left of the brakes. Oh Well, too late to worry about it now, we were already having fun.

Three hours later we swung a left, heading north down a dirt road marked only by the skeletal remains of a John Deere tractor with no wheels. The road seemed to end just up the way, but by now I had learned my lesson about judging distances in Mexico. Sure enough,after the first turn the road immediately appeared endless.

After three more hours of full-tilt land roving through three-foot-deep mudholes, fallen trees and some of the densest jungle I'd ever encountered, we rolled into a clearing, on a patch of sand that overlooked the point- a place that, until now I'd only dreamed about: a right handed point, with a natural, arena-type layout, perfect for hanging out after five hours of non-stop surf til you drop wave action. And the waves...doudle-overhead, peel out screamers, almost exactly like the waves I used to draw on the shopping bag covers I had back in High School.

I'll allways remember my first wave at the point. I was purely exhausted when I finally kicked out, as I'd never ridden such a fast wave- one that peeled so perfectly, and for so long, skipped down the line like a flat bottomed stone across a lake...amazing.

Returning to the lineup was a rush within itself- Watching York go screaming by, effortlessly floating on the face of a 15ft, high wall of silky blue, glassy perfection. I finally got around to screaming, but for several moments, I was totally speechless.

The following morning, anticipation got the better of my hangover and I was in the water a solid hour before anyone else had even awakened. My greed cost me dearly later that morning, however, when the tide dropped, the waves got even smaller and I was too tired to surf. York and Scram had it to themselves. There wasn't a human being anywhere in sight, and I could hear my friends hoots and hollers as I dozed beneathe a tree near the Mutt,

By the Early afternoon, two things were troubling us-1.) The surf was still outrageous,but it was dropping pretty quickly, and 2.) All we had left to eat was a pineapple.

After one last go out, We decided to head back to civilization.Or back to town, anyway.

We arrived at our original camp around nine that night, and found some new digs-a place called "Cabinas de Cortez," Where the rats outweigh the cats. We were more than exhausted from our adventure, but decided to have a night out anyway. And weren't York and Scram slit eyed with envy when your's truly exited stage left with a big breasted woman from Australia. (Honest pup that I am, I had to clue them in the next morning...I'd passed out on top of her after the first kiss. Anyway, it turned out that Scram had taken off with her friend Theresa-and I'll always remember that name, because she puked up beer and watermelon seeds all over the greymutts dashboard.

The beachbreak never got under 6ft. for the next six days. It was really quite unbelievable, but maybe not Quite as unbelievable as the huge rat that continuously raided our fruit basket. That big basterd eluded every trap we set and. one night, sent us screaming and Yelling for the door when he dropped in from the overhead rafters, right onto Scrams chest. We finally figured it out. If we couldn't beat him...Feed him-and the filthy beast soon became our household pet. We called him Benji and he had his own personal food bowl and everything.

We woke up one Sunday morning and the surf was out of control- the sea snakes were the only ones out in the lineup. hundreds at a time would try to swim up the 20ft. high, vertical faces, only to meet their maker as they were pitched into oblivion.

It stayed big that day and the next. On the third day, it got more reasonable (If double overhead, grinding tubes can be considered reasonable), and we all surfed at our very best: Drop in, Hold an edge,aim toward the shoulder,and wait for the translucent blue water to pitch over your head, Thats about it. No frills, but tons of thrills.

After five consecutive days of mindless Tuborama, York, Scram and I finally took stock of the situation. We were burned up by the sun and burned out on the food. Scram and York were getting low on cash, and I was completely broke. We'd had more good waves in the last 3 weeks than most surfers had the last three years. We even admitted that we might be a little bit homesick.

It was time to leave, We began to plan.

First, I sold the greymutt to a drunken local for $300.00. He turned it into a living room addition at his house.I knew it was against the law to sell your vehicle in Mexico and that it was going to make getting back across the dorder a bit tricky, but there really wasn't any other choice. (basically, the law said that I now owed the Mexican government about $150.00 in sales tax, which was about $125.00 more than I figured I'd have by the time I got to the border.)

Anyway, my two cohorts(not being common criminals) would be flying home and stepping into the Miami airport in about six measely hours, Meanwhile, El Doctor would be spending 2 days on a bus to the Mexican Border, then trying to leave the country unnoticed, like an illegal alien.

One last, warm, cerveza-filled evening: one last surf, one last meal of burnt papas fritas and soggy heuvos-and we were gone. I said goodbye to Scram and York, and lit off on my own.

After 52 hours of sweat,dust,road grime, pushing, shoving, standing and fading in and out of roadside taco stands on every corner, in every town, the five star bus I was on was finally cruising the last ten mile strip of pot hole-laced Mexican road that I would see for a long time. Unless of course, the paddy wagon they used to haul me off to prison had a window in it. Oh Greymutt, What have I done?

I got off the bus and implemented phase two of the escape plan, Searching around for the right Taxi driver. I didn't exactly know what I was looking for, but I knew my life would be in his hands-he'd be the one to drive me accross the border-so I took my time. I finally found one with a semi-friendly face who spoke English, and perfectly understood my situation. And as he held his open palm in my direction, he assured me that there was "No Problema".The price of freedom was high today-my last $10.00 and some souvenier Peso coins.

With a tilt of his Dodger baseball cap and a flick of his cigar ash, He blasted through the streets of Nuevo Laredo without stopping once, fast approaching the Rio Grande and the border patrol guards: The last thing between me and cheeseburgers, motel rooms with A/C, and Rock and Roll Radio. The driver appeared to me now as a crazed Zombie who was going to hit a huge ramp and fly over the river. I was officially scared now, trying mightiliy to block out all possible consequences if I were to be caught.

To this day I have no idea what the taxi driver told those guards. I guess it doesn't matter. Whatever it was, it worked- they hardly even looked at me. No baggage check, no papers, no bribes, nothing.