Nightglow Window

"El Viento Del Diablo"
A tall tale from the files

It wasn't the dirt, heat or dust that almost ruined our trip. It didn't faze me when the last of our ice melted, forcing us to drink luke-warm beer. I guess it wasn't even the wind, howling for days, that frustrated me so badly. No, what really bothered me was that out on the point, there were waves. But, like a dog on a chain too short to reach his food, all I could do was watch.

My brother and I were camped deep in Central Baja and far from the crowds of summertime California. When we arrived, we were ecstactic that the waves were so large, with huge plumes of spray, whipped from the 50 mph offshore winds, rising from the back of each wave. We had struck paydirt and there wasn't a soul to collect on it but us.

Once we paddled out, though, the sad truth was discovered. The same wind that made the surf look so beautiful from shore prevented us from catching a single wave. Under the buffeting winds, surfing was impossible. Dejected, we paddled in.

Things on land weren't much better. Our tents wouldn't stay up in the gusts and dust infiltrated every cranny. We sat in the Landcruiser as set after set rolled down the point.

We waited four days for the wind to die. In our desperate battle against boredom we befriended a local fisherman. A small, wizened man, his face was screwed into a permanent squint from years of fishing in the glare of the sun. We nicknamed him Aqualung. Every day he would hobble past our wind-blown camp, mumble greetings and continue down to his cramped panga. Every night he would return with his burlap bag, still empty, slung over his arm.

On Sunday he invited us up to his trailer for dinner for the small price of my brother's bottle of Jim Beam. Sitting at his wooden table, trading shots, he began to talk. The only light in the small room was from his sputtering Coleman lantern casting strange shadows.

He called the wind "El Viento del Diablo" or the Devil's wind. Far beyond the plain and slickrock desert there was a black mountain, he told us, which no man had ever climbed. When the wind blew that meant the Devil was on that mountain. The air, the dirt -- even the fish -- he said, want to get as far away from the mountain as possible when he was there.

Aqualung leaned closer, whispering that tonight he would pray that Angels would come and drive him back beneath the earth.

My brother speaks better Spainish than I do, but we could both tell that Aqualung was deadly serious. Soon after that we cautiously made our way back to our buffeting truck for the night. Just before drifting off to sleep, I swore I heard voices yelling in the wind.

Early the next morning, we were woken by a sharp rap on the window of the car. It was Aqualung, looking haggard but happy. His prayers had been answered, he said. Leaping out of the car into the strangely quiet landscape, we gazed down the point. Empty, 10-foot waves were wrapping around the headland to fire for a 100 yards. There wasn't a breath of wind.

As my brother and I scrambled for our boards, giggling like children on Christmas morning, Aqualung smiled knowingly, turned, and slowly made his way down to his fishing boat.