Were we really that naive? Ranger Ricardo, the leader of this high winged caravan, had warned us about Capitan Mordita. Ricardo and Brother Kim, and their Baja Bush Pilot buddy and fellow Tri Pacer owner, Jack, had been through this routine before. But the rest of us were virtual virgins in the province of propina, Baja California. Bohemia Brad, Dauntless Dave and Baja Bob flew one Skyhawk, followed in the Red Baron, by Sauza Steve, Ptomaine Tommy and your humble correspondent, affectionately known among his colleagues as Flipper, for his precision porpoise landing techniques. The four planeloads of us had landed in Ensenada on Mexican Independence Day weekend and were confronted by an openly corrupt official. Evidently, gratuities are the grease that smooths the ways of Gringo pilots looking to penetrate Baja skies. It caught us nuevo guys by surprise - maybe not the thought of graft among government employees, per se, but when the blatant solicitation of it came from one who had the right to refuse, or, at least, delay our flight to the Playa de Oro, it caused concern.Our noon departure had been delayed by committee, but by 13:30 we had launched in sequence, and crossed the border with a "Hasta la bye-bye," from SD Flight Service, then clipped easily
oer'top Tijuana and arrived, safe, if not sound, at Ensenada. Flight plan forms, plane and pilot paperwork, and landing fees were no problemo. Processing our tourist visas, however, proved to be the insect in the unguent. That was where, as Brother Kim called him, 'Capitan Mordita' - the tyrant of tips, the bagwan of baksheesh - applied the speed brakes.
"Senor, donde es mi propina?""Pardon?"
"Where's my tip, Gringo?"
"Tip, Officer? You mean they tip immigration officials in Mexico? Really?"
This bulwark of Mexican customs was convinced that every Gringo pilot had billions stashed in offshore banks and our Capitan Mordita was determined to get his share. He treated the offer we made him with disdain - contempt, even. 
Fortunately, the incident was a mere inconvenience and terminated with the arrival of a Convair 540 which disgorged a gaggle of natives who would occupy El Capitan for the rest of the day. He tried to bluff us into paying more money by hinting at a long delay, but the demands of his job forced him to accept our humble offerings - two bucks a head - and an hour after we landed we were once again southbound to San Quentin.
The flight itself was glorious. With no ATC and virtually no
other aircraft, we were free to follow the coastline, oohing and aahhing over pristine, unpeopled beaches, secluded rocky coves, a dramatic shipwreck, the beautifully uncluttered blue skies. After an hour of follow the leader, Ranger Ricardo announced that San Quentin Bay was in sight and he would overfly Cielito Lindo's dirt strip to insure that no ditches, stray dogs or other hazards lurked. Strip cleared, we landed in dusty sequence, taxied to the tiedowns and trundled the hundred or so yards to the hotel's bar/office. At check-in, a hand-lettered sign informed us that our arrival felicitously coincided with that of Hora Feliz.
Ptomaine Tommy shunned the short walk to our shared room (two Mexican doubles and his roll-away), planting his bags and bottom in chairs on the patio where he learned the local price of poker. Bohemia, one of the world's fine beers, was then selling for 7 pesos - with official Cielito Lindo exchange rate, 8 pesos to the dollar. Surprise became delight as we further learned that Hora Feliz, while not changing the prices, doubled the results - two for one was the law of the land. We ordered them like oysters - by the half dozen - then learned that hefty shots of Herradura Anejo could be procured for only 9 pesos, and, during Hora Feliz, came dos para uno, also. The evening's meal was blurry - the disappointment of no crab, hence, no crab for dinner was a minor one. Mako Shark seemed just fine, the black bean soup delicioso, the camarones, and clams superb - or not. It didn't much matter after our tequila sunset. A picture of the group that squeezed into booth numero tres revealed formless faces of what could have been extras from Night of the Living Dead. The grim visages of Easter Island showed more animation than ours. 
Next morning, breakfast was deemed a mandatory exercise, so, swatting frequently at the morning mosquitos (poor mosquitos - I heard one that had broken his fast on my blood, stagger skyward slurring "Sweet Adoline" in high falsetto), we sped off in a borrowed Volkswagen Thing to the overpriced Hotel La Pinta, a mile south on the Playa de Oro. The walk back was bracing, and far better than the stagnant-aired dining room. Somewhat later, midday siestas seemed far better than another trip to the beach. For those who ventured seaward, the surf was up - a hurricane had sent early warning breakers and provided fun rides to the kayakers, boogie boarders and body surfers who decided exercise was better than a snoozercise. The twelve mile beach was virtually deserted with, perhaps, a couple dozen sun worshippers dotting its length. Saturday afternoon presented a monthly local tradition in which a huge pit-roasted porker provided the entertainment. The locals brought covered dishes; the hotel provided pig and seemingly limitless cases of cold Tecate - all gratis. Gorged, but not-quite over-served again, the group drifted: Baja Bob and Dauntless Dave slipped away roomward with hopes of catching a few 'Z's'; others admired sunset at the beach; still others raised a few more Tecates.
Our late Sunday morning departure was delayed only by concern over Magna Sin, the local avgas preferred by Baja aficionada. (Was it really closer to our O-320's original 80/87?) Departing to the west, we coasted back to Ensenada, where we found that Capitan Mordita was praying for forgiveness, or counting his greenbacks - hence, unavailable to harass us for more baksheesh. In relief, we left the Mexican Army official with our remaining pesos as a tribute to his efficiency.
AWARDS: Baja Bob received the first, "Casper, the Friendly Ghost" Award for his amazing ability to slip off into sandmanland, both nights, early. "I'll be right back," he had said, both evenings - to later be discovered bedbound and comatose. Brother Kim won the "Captain Ahab Memorial" Award for spearing the heart of Ptomaine Tommy's inflatable kayak with a violent thrust of his sharpened paddle. 
Flipper, himself, won the "Now You See It - Now You Don't?" Award for an uncertainly secured fuel cap which took wing somewhere between San Quentin and Ensenada. The unanimous "Blast from the Past" Award belonged to Ptomaine Tommy, which we bestowed upon him, from a safe distance, for his two night bombastic outdoor displays of rolling thunder. "The bean soup - I never should have eaten the bean soup," Tommy was heard to say.
Upon return to the States, US Customs Officials were courteous and helpful, aiding one of the group with the completion of his paperwork, and barely inspecting the returning aircraft. As Brother Kim stated it, "They're happy with folks like us who cross the border within the time filed on their flight plans. The ones they're concerned with are landing on dirt roads in the middle of east county."
As for next ti
me, Ranger Ricardo has proposed a jaunt to San Francisquito, midway down the peninsula on the Gulf of California, a trip which might entail crossing the border at Calexico and clearing Mexican customs in San Felipe. Who knows, we may even find a cousin of Capitan Mordita working there: Colonel Propina.
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copyright 1999 Stephen Glenn Daly All Rights Reserved
