Culiacan, Mexico 1975

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 and hitchhiked to Matzatlan. Route 15 ran through the Sonoran Desert. The temperature rose with each hour. Winter was very hot in Mexico.

Matzatlan lay on the Pacific. After a few days of hanging on the beach, I took a bus a short distance to Teacupan, a small village on mangrove estuary. I traversed 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. Later 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