Our entourage included four teenagers, three shortboards, two longboards, two bodyboards, and a large box of assorted breads, condiments, soups, snacks and water. There was $200 for gas, one eight-person tent, one-half ounce of dank, 24 rolls of toilet paper, 100 compact discs, a bag of assorted sponsor-supplied T-shirts, hats, and stickers (these were key if we wanted to get in good with the locals). We also had two spare tires and a glove box full of Mexican maps. We gassed up at the local 76 Station and aimed the 1996 Chevy Suburban toward Baja.

In a mere 20 hours, we would be in paradise -- a warm-water sanctuary where the salty, seafood-saturated Sea of Cortez meets a shark-infested Pacific Ocean. I filled myself with the knowledge that I'd soon be surfing the same waters that Cortez's galleons sailed during the 16th century Spanish conquests.

Baja California is approximately 1,600 kilometers (1,000 miles) of rugged, desert terrain. This is Banditos country. It is also the home of La Eme-the Mexican Mafia. If you are unlucky enough to encounter them or disrupt them, they will leave your bones to be sorted through by the scorpions and vultures.

Highway 1, a two-lane Mexican superhighway, takes you from Baja's northernmost city, Tijuana, to its southern tip, San Jose del Cabo and Cabo San Lucas, known as "the capes."

The drive to San Jose is excruciatingly long and in the summer it's muy caliente. At 7 a.m. the temperature is in the 80s. By noon, it is well over 100 degrees. The mixture of intense heat and dark pavement creates dangerous road conditions. On our entire trip, all the way down and back up Baja, we blew out seven tires. The low point came when we had back-to-back blowouts within a three-mile stretch and were stranded in the desert without a passerby for nearly four hours.

On the way to San Jose, the first major town you pass through is Ensenada. The place is a plethora of pinata shops and taco stands. Drivers must be wary and watch out for speed bumps protruding anonymously from the highway. Next is San Felipe, an essential Spring Break party destination located on the Gulf of California.

Halfway through Baja, about 10 hours down, you arrive in Guerrero Negro. There is a checkpoint there so if you choose not to stop, the machine-gun-toting federales will have a lot of fun with you. While you're there, have an ice-cold 32-ounce cerveza. It will only cost you about 75 cents or eight pesos. Guerrero Negro and Tecate are the drinks of choice.

After straightaways in the heart of Baja that seem to go on for decades, you return to the coast at a place called Santa Rosalia. It's a good idea to stock up on tires there because Highway 1 soon returns you to the desert for the final grueling push.

You can do nearly 180 kmp (90 mph) as you floor it through Loreto and La Paz. Then, finally, when it seems like you can take it no longer, you'll see a sign pointing to an old, weather-tested dirt road. The sign, rusted and dangling off its left hinge, reads: "San Jose 30 kilometers." Pure ecstasy.

Ripping off my shorts and sandals, tearing my board down from the surf racks, I floated, feet never touching the sand, as I approached the largest gathering of bath water I'd ever encountered.

The surf was small, but fun. Luckily, we'd snuck in a quick session before sunset to get the jitters out. Next we set up camp.

Our accommodations were, to say the least, humbling. There were four of us in one tent, along with our food and personal belongings. As the trip progressed, we learned to keep our food inside to prevent the local goat population from helping themselves to our supply.

We didn't care about the fancy restaurants or big Cabo clubs. We were here to surf, and surf we did. To us, location was the key to a successful time, so we set up shop right on the beach in a petite, secluded cove on the East Cape of San Jose. Through rain and fights, beer and bowls, we kept our spot on that beach like Spanish conquistadors guarding treasure chests from Viking ships.

After awhile, the days all seemed to mesh together. Every day we did the same routine. Wake up at the crack of dawn, check the surf, surf, eat, load up the car and look for more surf, surf, go back to the tent and smoke or drink a beer, get some rest, surf again, eat, drink, sleep. It was a simple way to live.

To that point, I had only one regret. On the seventh day in San Jose, we traveled to surf a spot called Punta Perfecta. The surf was decent with some ripable rights wrapping around a prevailing lava point. A local kid was surfing the same spot and told us if we stayed the night there, we'd score "muy bueno waves, amigos." We turned down his wisdom and paid the price.

The following afternoon we saw the same young man and he told us that he "spent the entire morning in the barrel, didn't even bash the lip once." Basically, what he was saying was that the waves were ideal and no fancy maneuvers were needed, just paddle, stand up and pull in. This was disappointing news. We had scored too, but not that good. Suffice it to say a valuable lesson was learned that day.

Finally, our time in this Mexican dreamland drew to an end. It was time to pack up and head back home. After 10 days of camping in 110-plus-degree heat we were extremely spent and at our wits' end with one another. Besides, our funds were running low and at least two of the guys had to get back to their wives. I mean girlfriends.

I decided to take the first driving shift.

Heading north on Highway 1, sunburned and subdued, willing the Chevy through the middle of the desert on that sticky August night, everything was in control. I had the windows down, wind in my face keeping me alert, and was listening to Too Short's "Album Number Ten." Eventually, around 2 a.m., the road climbed gradually uphill, just enough to slightly impair my vision.

Then, it happened.

"Oh shit!" I yelled, hastily probing for a place to maneuver.

There were cows everywhere. The highway was littered with them and the steep sloping roads made it impossible to avoid the herd. I swallowed hard.

BANG!

I ripped through the cow's mid-section, making brief eye contact with the beast shortly before impact.

"What the fuck!" screamed the car's owner.

I was stunned, as if I had just taken a right hook from Tommy "Hitman" Hearns.

"What the fuck!" he belted again.

"I just ruined that cow!" I shrieked, now noticing a hefty collection of cow blood and guts on my face and shirt.

"We're not pulling over here," I mumbled. "They'll make us pay for that beast, and if we don't have the cash they'll have the banditos take care of us."

We kept driving, only stopping to assess the damage once we were safely separated from the crime scene.

The car was ruined and we still had 16 hours to go. That 16-hour trip turned into a 25-hour battle for sanity. The bickering increased as night turned to day. We had reached the end of the line. Baja had taken us for all we were worth, chewing us up and spitting us out like those epic barrels in Punta Perfecta.

"Oh, what I wouldn't give to be back in that superlative water," I thought to myself. But I wasn't. I was stuck in a car that I had ruined, with people who were mad at me for it. The situation sucked, big time, but I said, "Fuck it," and just sat there in that beat-up truck, cutting through the Baja heat, bloodied and bruised but not broken, my mind soaking up the entire escapade, like a rug in a rainstorm.

We lumbered toward the U.S.- Mexican border and the Border Patrol officer stepped out of his booth to inspect the Chevy. It was very late.

"Citizenship?" asked the officer, curiously reviewing the one-lighted, bent-hooded, grill-ruptured train wreck that now sat a mere six inches from his freshly polished Doc Martins.

"U.S.!" we responded in unison.

"Where you boys coming from?" he questioned.

Being the driver, I felt it my duty to assure this man that we were good people who wanted no harm.

"We just got back from San Jose del Cabo," I said. "We've been surfing down there for the last two weeks."

"What happened to your car?" he asked.

"Um, well, I kind of hit a cow about, oh, 25 hours back," I said.

"Secondary inspection," said the officer, unconvinced of our story.

He placed a slip of paper on the window and instructed me to pull forward toward an area where his fellow officers were eagerly waiting to tear the Chevy apart.

But a funny thing happened on the way to secondary. I missed the turn.

The next thing I knew we were on Interstate 5 without a cop in sight, headed home, finally. Still shook, I belted aloud for all of Mexico to hear, "Hasta luego, mis amigos. Muchas gracias."