It a short drive there from the village, depending on your vehicle and
habits. For Wild Bill in a rush it'd be just a moment. It's maybe 10
miles of dirt, depending on the status of the tides and the shallow
lagoon that lives there only at the highest tides. It usually takes me
about 20 minutes from town, but I drive half-fast as some and faster
The road swings south out of the village and then back toward the shore
where it passes a number of tourist homes, some fine and expensive, some
just simple cottages, thrown along a beach of dark sand. Then it winds
away from the beach, behind an old mine at Cerro los Angelitos, after
which it drops back to the sea and continues several miles, south along
the water. We lived here in the '70's, my new wife and I, in a simple
hut of cactus and thorns and thatch, all from local plants, disrupted by
the construction of the transpeninsular highway.
The road continues edging south and east along the side of the bay.
Eventually there is a fork in the road. If you take the western branch,
you'll visit Las Flores and then some. But for this moment, take the
There are several routes through the desert there, working toward
Rincon. Most of these pass close to the sad and lonely cattle ranch in
the middle of nowhere with sagging ocotillo fences and bent walls of the
aging sunstruck wood, grayed and worn by the ages and winds. A few
scrawny cattle munch parched brush here.
All the roads work through a usually drying desert lagoon, scrubbrush,
jackrabbits and cactus, the carcass of a steer alongside the road, dried
and leathery, picked by coyotes. There are two dusty and unused dirt
airstrips there too. As you near the south end of the bay and turn more
toward the east, the Diaz cabin and a number of other vacation houses
fall into view. You're in a lowland between the Sierra Las Animas to the
east and the Sierra de Libertad to the west. If it's summer you'll be
hot; there is little movement of stifling air.
The road parallels the beach, although somewhat inland, to avoid the
lagoon. Eventually you approach the beach and can stop the engine and
walk the golden sands of Rincon. There are a number of houses here but
they're mostly vacant, summer homes, protected by the few in attendance.
At this extreme southern end of the bay the water is quiet. There is
likely a good-sized sailboat anchored offshore in the quiet water. The
breakers are exhausted by the time they fight against the logistics of
this place and are spent, worn down to tiny crests that silently lap the
shore. Rays work the shallows. Gulls and pelicans face into the light
breeze to avoid bad hair days. A split-tailed Magnificant Frigatbird
idles high in the sky, looking for a meal in the dispassionate
death-on-the-surface of the water.
In a place like this, you could possibly pull your life back together,
you could re-fashion the dreams you had as a child, a younger person, a
freshout, and divorcee, a cancer-ridden short-term personality. At
Rincon, on a steamy summer afternoon, with just you, alone, you might
re-focus on the thoughts and aspirations of a previous time in your life
where you were less cluttered with the daily marches to and from the
It's a place for the mind to wander and wonder.
It's twelve hours from the teeming streets of downtown Los Angeles