In the winter of 1975 I rode a train south from Mexcali. The journey was slow on the sun-warped rails. Our stops included towns without names as well as bigger cities.
Hermosillo-Guaymas-Los Mochis.
I got off in Culiacan at dawn.
The coastal city lay on the Gulf of Cortez. The temperature rose with each hour. I had not come to Mexico to be here and took a bus a short distance to Teacupan, a small village on mangrove estuary. I traverse the town and bought three tacos and six beers. I found an abandoned hotel on the beach. The sheltered ruins echoed the waves crashing on the sand. I pulled out my transistor radio and listened to Mexican rock, watching the stars cross the evening sky to a destination before the dawn. After the fourth beer my eyes closed for the night and the universe tugged my soul not to the cosmos, but oblivion. It does give a good sleep.
The next day was Sunday. Families came for a break from the heat. The women cooked food, the men drank beer, the children played in the waves. They paid no mind to a lone gringo.
I went for a swim. The water was rough. I was a good swimmer. A young child was caught in a riptide. His mother screamed from shore. I was chest deep and snatched the boy from Neptune‘s grasp.
Ashore the locals toasted my heroics.
“It was nada.” Only stepped a few feet.
Not to them. I had saved a life. They invited me to eat and drink with them. I played soccer and fucked up my knee. They left at sunset. I drank my last beer and watched the sun drop into the Pacific.
Never lonely just alone.
Foto by Jocko Weyland
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