On the search for a more secluded beach, I drive north on a
hot and sunny Sunday. This state’s coastline consists mostly of remote barrier
islands backed by inaccessible lagunas,
but there are a few places near river outlets where the land is suitable for
placement of villages. In the dusty town of Aldama, I turn east on a spur
highway headed for the coast. At a three-way circle with no signs, I take the
wrong turn, heading south back to the city. My truck compass reads South; and
as I debate turning around, the road rises to cross a four-lane expressway,
utterly deserted and without signage or markers. Here goes, I thought as I
bumped down an unpaved ramp onto the new Aldama bypass.
Pedal to the metal on the silk-smooth pavement, driving a
non-existent road, rock music blaring over the wind through the open windows.
Adrenaline high. An overpass flies by, I keep going. But suddenly there is only
a rough grade in front of me. Rapid stop, going back, more slowly this time. I
approach the overpass; the entrance ramps are completely overgrown, but a few fellow
outlaws have created a rut up the steep embankment. Dropping it into 4x4 HIGH,
I reach the top, a paved highway running east to the sea. The land is green,
scrubby, golden under the setting sun. Low hills silhouetted to the west, but a
spirit-level horizon north, south, east. On through a small ejido, slowing for the handmade
speedbumps, then more miles of lovely emptiness through the brush country. The
sea is a presence in the air, a cool and fresh feeling. Following signs for the
beach, I turn onto a spur road that ends in the sand behind a row of dunes. A
few shacks, a seafood stand, sandy tracks heading north and south. Turning
north, the light becomes magical, coloring the dunes golden and glinting off
the mangrove-lined estuary behind them. Pulling off the path, I drift off to
the gentle murmur of the Gulf, a steady breeze keeping the mosquitoes in the
swamp.
Here begins an epic daydream, the details of which have been
lost to memory, like all great dreams. This is it, the last act of an epic odyssey.
The sea is soft, warm, and inviting; gentle swells beckon me in over the lovely
sand. An empty beach, lighthouse guarding the river mouth a mile to the north.
Day and night come but the warm breeze blows constantly, cooling me as I
lounged in my truck, smoke wafting out the open windows, the music never
stopping, an endless circular journey of sound, old favorites played with a
concentrated attention, exclusion of all else. And then the long walks, warm
purple haze in the air now sheltering and nourishing, a benign and benevolent
place, clouds moderating the sun, feet never quite touching the ground, head
floating weightless in space. Daytime naps in the shade, rocketing off to
heights of euphoria never experienced before, followed by a narcotic stupor, no
thought, no movement, only the pulse of systole-diastole marking the passage of
time. Three days I was swept along by this flood of feeling, and then I woke up
high and dry on the shore, and it was time to go home.