The line of truckers now stretched for about a mile, or as far as our dusty eyes could see. The time was about 10:00 PM and we were now lining up to take the ferry from Topolobampo to La Paz, Baja.
In the distance, blue lights pulsed like a heartbeat, cutting through the haze. Our pack of motorcycle riders—sunburned, wind-worn, and grinning—threaded our way to the front, engines rumbling low. We were redirected twice, weaving through the chaos like kids playing tag, until we rolled up to an official-looking entry point. The first guy, all business, demanded to see each rider’s motorcycle insurance papers.
Behind him stood a Marine in camouflage, cradling an M16 rifle, his gaze steady but unbothered. No problema, I thought, handing over my papers with a nod. Routine’s routine. This was obviously the first part of the paperwork cha cha.
Next came the weigh-in. We rode over to a second guy who insisted on weighing our bikes—not us, thankfully, though I’d had my share of tacos that week.
Sixty pesos later for the privilege, we each clutched a slip of paper proclaiming our motorcycles’ heft, a small price to pay for the privilege of knowing. I tucked mine into my BMW jacket, wondering if it’d make a good souvenir.
At the Venta De Boletos ticket counter, three young Sinaloa women awaited—beautiful, bored, and ready to process the whole enchilada.
I handed my prepaid voucher, weight ticket, and ID to the youngest one, who flashed a quick smile before getting to work. The other two twirled their hair, eyes glued to a television novella flickering overhead on a large television screen, or they simply stared into space, perfecting the art of looking effortlessly stunning at near midnight.
We then needed to loop back to a different pop-up tent, where yet another attendant collected our grocery-store-style weight receipts and waved us toward the main ferry building.
Inside, for the second time another young clerk processed our paperwork, the room suddenly lit up—figuratively and otherwise. A drop-dead gorgeous blonde supervisor strode in, holding in her hand an open sample of lip gloss like it was a holy relic.
She raved about its color, its texture, the way it felt on her flawless lips. The three attendants froze, mesmerized, as the entire paperwork cha cha operation screeched to a halt. It took a minute for them to remember they had jobs to do, their giggles echoing softly over the hum of the air conditioning.
Then came the supervisor’s command decision: no check-in until our entire party was accounted for. “That’s the way it’s done here,” she said, her smile dazzling and unapologetic.
No one minded—except maybe the Canadian in our group, who muttered something about efficiency under his breath. Smiles all around otherwise. This was Mexico, after all; time bends a little here.
Speaking of Canadians, we had two in our crew. Larry, the elder at 70, was a wiry legend among us. The young clerk, still chuckling from the lip gloss interlude, suddenly got serious. She needed proof Larry could handle climbing seven decks of the ferry.
We burst out laughing. She laughed too but insisted she meant it. Quick as a flash, I whipped out my iPhone and pulled up a photo of Larry rappelling down a sheer cliff in Copper Canyon, his grin wide as the horizon. That settled it. She waved us through, and we figured we’d earned a break—or at least a cold beer.
We all ambled back to Roberto’s support truck, popped open a few, and toasted the absurdity of it all.
Standing there, beer in hand, I felt something unexpected wash over me: gratitude. The past two weeks had been a wild ride—literally and figuratively—with this ragtag bunch of guys. We’d bonded over dusty trails and shared meals, explored corners of Mexico most never see, and leaned on each other in ways that didn’t need explaining.
My first ride with some of these guys was back in 2016, and I’d lost count of the adventures since. But this one? This one stood apart, thanks to Roberto and Luis, the masterminds behind it all.
We’d ridden through jaw-dropping landscapes, feasted on the finest foods, zip-lined and rappelled in the Barranca de Cobra—Copper Canyon to the uninitiated—and even hiked into an old mine, its shadows whispering stories of the past.
As the ferry loomed ahead, ready to carry us to the next leg of our journey, I thought of a Mexican proverb I’d heard somewhere: A ver a un velorio y a divertirse a un fandango—there’s a time for mourning and a time for dancing.
This, right here, was our fandango. And damn if it didn’t feel good to be alive for it.
—Trawlercat
Trawlercat Chronicles 