It’s hard to pinpoint exactly why, but no seven-day stretch of the calendar rivals spring break in terms of indulgence, conviviality, or sheer debauchery. Maybe it’s the longer, warmer, sunnier days that affect the hormonal balance of everyone 16-22 years old. Perhaps humans have a natural propensity to congregate, frolic, and mate during the spring. Maybe it’s the increased moss and dust counts. Who knows. "Why" isn’t so much the issue. Rather, we just accept that around the time of spring break, young men and women across the country get a little, for lack of a better term, freaky-deaky.

And thus begins the annual March migration south. Like salmon forging their way upstream to spawn, hundreds of thousands of young adults push and shove their way toward the equator. Regardless of race, color, creed, or creatine intake, students attending anywhere from state schools in Wisconsin or poly-tech schools in Pueblo, Colorado, to exclusive liberal arts institutions out East set their sights on the warm bosom of the South. Cities like Daytona Beach, Panama City, and South Padre Island rise from the ranks of obscure beach destinations to become our country’s elite hot spots. It’s hard to imagine Lake Havasu as a prime locale outside of spring break.

The more adventurous (read: wealthy) of our nation’s young bypass a traditional Floridian or Texan vacation for the Caribbean. The Bahamas and Jamaica lure Americans by offering moped rentals, affordable alcohol and drugs, and smiling men with funny accents.

Though decadent, none of these destinations can compete with the utter intemperance of Mexico. Cancún and Puerto Vallarta make Sodom and Gomorrah look like Salt Lake City. These towns have accepted their fates as drunken American vacation spots, and do all they can to facilitate the idiocy. Countless clubs offer adolescents the chance to consume all the watered-down booze they can for only "20 American dollars!" while others arrange such indulgent activities as the Booze Cruise, a 45-minute boat ride to and from an exclusive "island." Once there, passengers are treated to warm, flat keg beer, cheap tequila, and a stage show that features drunk, often underage girls showing off their tits (side note: my future daughter will never, ever go to Cancún).

These activities, however, aren’t for everyone. There are those within our age group that would rather sit around a campfire than engage in a foam party. One can only attend so many discotheques full of brawny Brooklynites and sexed-out glamour girls before he or she realizes it’s time to move on. Luckily for these people, Mexico offers more than Americanized cities comprised of gypsies and club promoters. In fact, directly south of Pomona lies one of Mexico’s remaining untarnished oases: Baja California.

Between Tijuana and Cabo San Lucas, Baja offers seemingly infinite beaches for the more mellow spring breaker. The drive south alone is worth the trip, as Highway One winds its way along the coast, overlooking the crystal blue waters of the Pacific, and then curves its way inland and through Baja’s mountain range. Along the highway, one can stop in Rosarito or the larger Ensenada and find a good, not overly gringo spring break spot.

But the true beauty of Baja lies farther south, about 45 minutes off the beaten path. Along Highway One there are dozens of roads that lead through small towns towards some of the most scenic beaches North America has to offer.

For example: about six miles north of San Vicente, a moderately paved road veers to the right of the Highway. The route eventually deteriorates into a bumpy dirt thoroughfare that a Honda Accord would have difficulty handling (cars whose commercials feature Lenny Kravitz songs should have no problem). After passing through a town that consists of a market, a school, and a Tecate retailer, the road approaches the coast.

About ten minutes past the town lies a hostel called Coyote Cal’s. Cal seems like a good natured bloke, albeit kind of lonely. He can give you advice on where to surf, offer you a shower for three bucks, and hit on your girlfriend if you bring one along. Just below Cal’s lives perhaps the kindest-natured man to ever grace God’s green earth, the firewood guy. For only five or six bucks he can chop up ample firewood for a night, and give you some soft-spoken Spanish conversation to boot. After firewood guy, the coast is basically up for grabs. Though the road gets pretty rough at times, heading north along the ocean for a bit is worth the effort. There are fire pits scattered along the coast, serving as the only markers of campsites.

Though they are isolated, these beaches have quite the reputation as surf spots, so there are sometimes a few Americans strewn about. It’s a good idea to pick a site away from other cars, or you’ll end up talking to a guy like Don, the retired teacher who’s now the 104th ranked paraglider in the country. Don, who looks like Bob Villa plus 20 pounds, is the type of guy that everybody really hopes they don’t turn out to be, despite his stories of taking Van Halen scuba diving in Hawaii. When asked if he is there to surf, Don inhaled a mellow breath, looked toward the clouds and says, "Only to surf the sky, man." But I digress.

The point is, Baja California offers a cheap alternative to the classic drink ‘til you die spring break. Even if that’s the goal, there are plenty of tequila vendors and Tecate stands to appease even the most Dionysian liver. If you go, remember to take as much water as you can carry. Diarrhea isn’t fun anywhere, but it really sucks when the nearest pooper is a half-hour away. Come to think of it, Immodium AD isn’t a bad idea either.