By: Roger Hudritsch Early Friday morning August 31 at 4:00 a.m. myself and two buddies--all of us North County local surfers and kitesurfers that had grown up along the beach--headed down to San Carlos, Baja California for the holiday weekend for a surfing and kitesurfing trip. All three of us--Duke, Walt and I--have been traveling to Baja for over 20 years. Duke and I speak fluent Spanish--I with a Gringo accent and Duke with the native tongue. We had been to San Carlos a number of times and were looking forward to the oncoming south swell and un-crowded surf with the pending protest at the border, which was to close south bound traffic on Friday. Hence we left early.
We drove in two trucks, a Honda Ridgeline loaded down with three surfboards, four kiteboards, six kites, a dirt bike and all the camping gear and food to hold us out through Tuesday--didn't want to get stuck in the returning border traffic on Monday. Myself and Duke were in the Honda. Behind us followed our buddy Walt in a Toyota Tundra loaded down with five surfboards another three kites, two kiteboards and more camping gear. Oh and we had some beer, margarita mix and Hornitos Tequila.
We crossed the border at 4:30 a.m. and proceeded to the toll road, driving along the road that hugs the border and then climbs the steep hill to the coast. As the road turns south and descends, less than a half a mile from the border and a
couple miles from the toll road, we see blue flashing lights in the mirror. We were being pulled over. We knew the drill. Duke gave me all his cash except for $40 for the cop to pay the judge for whatever bullshit reason they said we were being pulled over for."Open the door, " he said to me as I rolled down the window. I look to my right and saw a gun at eye level. "Open the fucking door," he said a second time as he slammed the gun against my right temple and reached in and pulled the door open.
I was being dragged out of the truck by my shirt at gun point by a man wearing a cut-off black wetsuit ski mask. "Here, take my wallet, " I said in a horsed unsteady tone. "Take the car, everything. Let me be."
To my left, I saw Duke had a gun to his head and was being lead out of the car. Walt, behind us, alone in his truck, pulled over--we were in a caravan for safety. He was immediately accosted by two additional gunman, head slammed against the dash and dragged out of the car. He was pushed face down and bent head first over the guard rail, with a gun pressed against the back of his head.
With a gun to my head, he lead me over the guard rail and proceeded to escort me into the darkness--an open lot with a pending cliff 30 to 50 yards out--one hand holding me by my t-shirt collar and the other holding a black semi automatic gun to my head. "Take my money," I said as I handed him the $200 Duke had given me. He yanked my shirt, directing me to follow him further into the darkness. I reached into my second pocket and threw a wad of cash at him--the $240 I had for the trip. It fell to the ground. He looked down, grabbed a wad full and left the stray twenty dollar bills. He looked down at the remaining bills--$60 or $80 dollars--then looked at me, jerked me forward again. He wasn't interested.
"Leave me be. I gave you all my money. GO. GO. Take the car. Let me be. Take my shirt. Look I have no more money," I said as I emptied my pockets.
His dark brown eyes stared at me and then twitched. He was high--coke or something--had kept him awake into the morning. His eyes were twitching. Again, he continued to lead me further away from the others, into the darkness.
What was going on in my head? Can I escape? Will he shoot me? Was my life flashing in front of my eyes. Should I resist? Should I follow. NO. I was living in the moment, what little I feared I had left. Instinct drove me, for the better or for the worse.
30 yards out we stopped. Below us hung darkness--a 100 foot cliff, trash and debris below. I stood facing the street, two feet from the edge, my back against the pending overhang. He stared at me--maybe 10 or 15 seconds transpired. He looked to the street.
"Down," he said.
"No. No. Leave me alone," I pleaded.
"Down," he said again.
I turned, looked down and got on my hands and knees and began to crawl down the cliff. It wasn't a straight drop, but more of a steep incline. I made it to about 5 feet down and stood on a lip or secondary ledge. I looked up. It was dark, but I could see. My eyes had adjusted to the darkness. It would be light in about an hour.
He stood there, with the gun pointed at my chest, both hands on the grip. I was now looking up, maybe two feed below his feet. He looked to his left. He stared at me again and turned again to his left, taking his right hand off the handle and pulled the barrel forward and then back, cocking the gun--inserting the bullet in the barrel. He turned back. The gun was again pointed at me. He looked to this left, turned and shot the gun, just above horizon. He said something--couldn't make it out--and jogged slowly towards the vehicles.
I look to my left. Hunched over twenty yards away is Walt. We saw each other. Said nothing--waited 30 seconds, a minute. They were gone. Was it over?
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