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“Anywhere from here to that bluff would be great” I shouted to R through the open truck window, pointing to a bluff down the rocky sandbar about 100 yards away. We were both pleased that there was still some beautiful somewhat secluded beach to camp after passing our plan A camp, which was occupied by three vehichles. I was already walking barefoot on the firm sand with my delighted romping dog.
He stepped on the gas and the engine went from a gentle idle to a rising roar that seemed disproportianate to the effort that would seem to be required on this flat drive. Melodramatic truck, I thought as I glanced over my shoulder again.
Uh-oh.
The rear wheels were down in the sand a good few inches further than the front. He tried to accelerate again, but it was no good and he got out and Moxy and I joined him to evaluate the situation, and it WAS a situation.
We were a good 100 ft from the water, but the tide WOULD be coming back in, and it seemed we were quite Entrenched. No triple A in Mexico, heck, no cell service here in San Rosalillita!
We were just putting rocks and boards under the tires, R had his shovel out and we were arguing about whether or not to let air out of the tires, when a filthy car full of long haired youth drove by, ogling. But wait. they backed up, bless them, extricated their gangly bare legs from their car and offered help!
A tow strap was fastened. another shovel appeared, three tan lads in their twenties, put their backs to it along with R and I as we commenced to get unpickled.
They were joined by two more friends in another 4 wheel drive with matching layers of sand, dust and mud.
Another attempt was made. No good. They were in it with us now, not quite as deep but definitely in. They had been in before, they assured us, several times in the past week, often necessitating a good nights rest (read:beer) before getting out again.
I walked the bluff, hoping to see a better
road back around the dry lagoon, but that was no good either.
tires were deflated, more digging, more rock gathering. Motorbikes and heavy tools were removed from the cargo trailer. Still no good.
The trailer was unhitched. The pulling vehicle got free and moved ahead, a new, longer line was added- r’s heavy tow chain, more digging, more boards and rocks. Even our dirty large mats were employed. Sodas and beers were snapped open. The afternoon was wearing on. The tide was stalking us like a wolf. Regrets for involving them and gratitude for their samaritan spirits were expressed. One of the fellows, an identical twin, played project manager. They were building good karma he explained, easing my conscience graciously.
They had been down farther north at the seven sisters points, surfing, but were headed back to san diego. They came down here annually to escape the crowds and explore.
Okay, another try. Our expert gave the one, two, three to synchronize the effort and this time we were out! Whew and hooray and another round.
Then, of course, we had to pull the lightened trailer out.
Now, however, a troubling problem. We had to go back accross the same truck sucking sandbar to solid ground.
There was a pow-wow. The generous lads were determined to be sure we were in good shape before leaving us, and r had the brilliant idea to chain up for another tow just in case.
I had to close my eyes as he drove the motorcycles rooster-tailing precariously back and forth through the deep dry sand to reload. I though “faster! no! Slower! no! faster!”.
He managed somehow to stay upright on our bikes that were clearly intended strictly for paved roads.
The salty fellows threw our heavy tools and weight belts into their cars like they were sacks of hay and R reloaded and fastened down the bikes.
I walked hopefully with moxy back down the beach like an aging majorette and the parade came behind me. and the band played on!
The instant they passed the dark cobbled site of our sinkhole there was whooping and yelling with arms raised, hats flying in the air and a posse of revelers flew by me, standing on the open back of one of their cars.
They seemed as happy to have freed us as we were to be freed, and fairly glowed with goodwill, sharing maps and fishing holes and book titles like “The Blue Mind” for those who are drawn to the sea.
They insisted they really were happy to have something to do while they waited for some waves to pick up.
R may feel a bit differently as he was actively engaged in the more harrowing and strenuous activities, biking on soft sand, racing the rising tide and sinking sun, reinflating tires, while I made refrigerator stew in the camper, but it was really one of the loveliest afternoons on our southward slide.

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