Waypoints

Five thousand dollars. The U.S. Customs inspector seemed to relish the power he wielded—the ability to levy steep fines for the smallest infractions. I wasn’t about to be caught in the Customs web, so I carefully computed our arrival time from Mexico into San Diego, California’s Brown Field. The scheduled arrival: 1:30 p.m. local time. The wheels of the well-worn rented Mooney touched the pavement of Brown Field’s Runway 26L at exactly 1:30 p.m. "We’re set," I thought. "In a few minutes we’ll be on our way to our final stop: Van Nuys."

The trip down and back from Baja California had gone like that—exactly as planned. Three airplanes full of gear and hopeful fishermen had left Van Nuys, California, four days earlier. The destination was Hotel Punta Pescadero ( www.punta-pescadero.com) near the southern tip of the Baja peninsula. The resort boasts its own 3,000-foot paved runway, a fleet of fishing boats, and a bucolic setting on the Sea of Cortez (see " Postcards: Baja Bound," January Pilot).

We had cleared Mexican customs inbound at Loreto, which is located about an hour by Mooney north of Punta Pescadero. The Mexican customs and immigration process is slow but reasonably predictable. Tip everyone a couple of bucks and follow their cryptic directions and hand signals, and you can move through the process, including fueling, in about an hour. We snickered at the amount of paperwork and carbon forms, all processed by manual typewriter. It seems to be a make-work project, but if you go into it with the right attitude, it’s a relatively painless process.

After three days of fishing and enjoying the hotel’s relaxing environment, we piled back into the airplanes for the trip north. We again stopped in Loreto to clear Mexican customs and immigration outbound and for fuel.

Before we had left California, we had filed a round-trip border-crossing flight plan with the Hawthorne (California) Flight Service Station. We included the day of our return and estimated time for crossing the border back into the United States. That satisfies the Customs Service’s one-hour notification before crossing the border.

About 45 minutes south of the border, I raised Hawthorne Radio and—with the help of the GPS—gave them an updated time of arrival at Brown Field, which is within yards of the border. My estimate of a 1:30 p.m. arrival proved to be accurate.

After landing at Brown Field, I taxied to the large blue box painted on the ramp near the Customs building. A Cessna 310 was already in one corner of the box. Just outside the box sat a Beech Baron belonging to one of the other guys on our Baja fishing excursion. The owner and two cohorts waved enthusiastically as we shut down.

At first the three of us in the Mooney didn’t get out because I’d been told you should stay in the airplane until the Customs official arrives. The Baron gang, having already been through the drill, motioned for us to get out. The agent was busy with the 310. We unfolded ourselves from the Mooney, glad to stretch our legs after four hours of flying from Loreto.

After a few minutes, the Cessna left and the agent hurriedly walked by and announced to us that we’d have to wait for the next agent to arrive. His shift was up and he wasn’t allowed to work overtime. He had to leave that very minute, he insisted. Another agent was on the way, he assured us as he went through the fence. Time: 1:40 p.m.

Fortunately, it was a comfortable day in San Diego—bright sun, but cool air with a nice breeze. Our friends in the Baron talked with us across the blue line. We couldn’t go out; they couldn’t come in. After a few more minutes, they decided to head on up to Van Nuys. We would join them later. Before leaving, the trio noted how lucky we were that we hadn’t arrived one minute earlier or more than 15 minutes later than our scheduled arrival. The now-departed agent had been the one to take great pride in how he could levy $5,000 fines for such egregious infractions.

With the Baron gone, the three of us in the Mooney were left to concentrate on more pressing matters, such as where the nearest rest room might be and whether the tower controllers with the binoculars might notice a puddle forming next to the airplane.

Two o’clock came and went on the deserted ramp while we paced inside the blue box. My flying companions, Harold and Mike, began to pitch coins from crack to crack in the pavement while I sprawled on the wing to catch a few rays. Thinking of the television show Survival, I asked the other two to vote me out so I could go to the rest room.

Frustrated with the delay, at 2:10 p.m.—40 minutes after our on-time arrival and 25 minutes after we could have been fined for being late—I called Ground Control on the radio and asked if they could telephone Customs to see what was up. Five minutes later the ground controller reported back that he had talked to someone at Customs and that an agent was en route—from where we did not know. Seattle, Bangor, International Falls? How big a territory do these guys have?

Fifteen minutes later, as I was attempting to contain a serious attitude problem, a nondescript blue sedan pulled up to the fence and a uniformed official emerged—we held out hope…. "Here, sur," I wailed in my best Oliver Twist rendition. But he went inside the building. (Collective sigh.)

A minute later, with hope springing eternal, we saw the agent step from the building. He sauntered through the gate and over to the airplane—one hour after we had arrived. I so much wanted to ask him how many Cessna or Mooney drivers he’d shot with the gun in his holster.

He asked the passengers a couple of questions and sent them on their way—directly to the rest room. He asked me a few more questions and glanced at the paperwork detailing our foreign itinerary and information about the crew and passengers, which I had dutifully filled out in advance. He then asked me if I had a Customs sticker, which I didn’t.

So then we went inside the building to fill out the detailed carbon form that would allow him to sell me a decal for $25, purportedly to help fund the less-than-excellent service we had received so far. I could only think of how we had made fun of the Mexicans for the manual paperwork. To his credit, the agent did ask how long we had been waiting and apologized for the delay. It seems that the full-time agent at Brown Field had been ill and eventually retired, but he had not been replaced. As a result, agents from the Port of San Diego now also do duty at Brown Field. It still didn’t explain why the world would have come to an end if the first agent had spent 10 minutes clearing us before bailing. No other airplanes had arrived in the interim, so the second agent could have taken his time getting to Brown if we hadn’t been waiting—and apparently he did nonetheless.

And what’s the big deal about demanding an absolute on-time arrival—plus 15 minutes, minus zero—if there’s no one there to process you anyway? Presumably the arrival time is so you don’t keep the agent waiting. Apparently the government thinks his time is much more valuable than yours.

Don’t let my diatribe keep you from traveling internationally by general aviation. I’ve traveled quite literally all over the Northern Hemisphere by general aviation airplane and have never experienced any serious problems. Overall it’s a terrific way to explore the nooks and crannies of the planet. Just remember that upon returning to the United States, you shouldn’t expect any better service than you do in many Third World countries, despite the taxes we all pay.

Links to additional information about international flying may be found on AOPA Online ( www.aopa.org/pilot/links/links0008.shtml). E-mail the author at [email protected].