This is a True Story. ..Continued.
Part II of III (2 of 3)
So I hear this thunderous “clip, clop, clap” and a “whoosh” and I’m waking up face first in the sand and a man is running right at me and leaping OVER me. WTF! Seriously, what just happened? Why did he do that? Did he not see me? Was it a jailbreak? Was he being pursued by an ex-wife or possibly training for the Warrior Dash? Anyway, it startled me awake and after spitting tiny rocks and what appeared to be hermit crab afterbirth out of my mouth, I looked around and was thinking, “Where the HOLY HELL am I?” I collected myself and quickly assessed that I was on a beach. Genius. But there were no signs of life, other than the escapee jogger and something that looked eerily like a UFO on the cliff behind me.
As I roused Coolio-G it started to come back to me. We had traveled several miles, on foot, up the beach, around pointy pieces of land, in the twilight and once we were a safe distance from the local authorities, we passed out. It sounded totally plausible in my head…but two things remained unclear…where was the beer and why was there a flying saucer hovering above me?
It’s an understatement to say that things weren’t going as planned. But we were young and brave and stupid and just knew that better days laid ahead for us. And then Coolio-G realized we weren’t crazy for being optimistic. He remembered why our lives were about to become super awesome again! Why? We were at “Black’s Beach” is why, the world renowned gathering spot for clothing optional, buck naked sun worshippers and a few hippies. That’s right…fantastic and freaky, let it fly, fabric-free frolicking for all! We had front row seats to a daily carnivale of bare boobs, butts and bush. How sweeeeeet is that? Free porn for FOUR DAYS! Four days later, we packed up our stuff and walked back down the beach to La Jolla. Black’s wasn’t a nude beach, it wasn’t even popular. There were no breasts, no bums, no beavers and no aliens. A total rip-off! Honestly, after Day 3, I was praying that a prison fugitive would leap over me again. But I got NOTHING! And you know what; I don’t think we were at Black’s Beach.
Upon returning to Oasis-Oasis, I was determined to jump into the public fountain/shower but the beach park was filled with a bunch of mouth breathing non extraterrestrial nose blowers. And it totally registered in my head that what I wanted to do would draw considerable attention and not the good kind. But it was so tempting. I mean really, I figured so long as I could resist my stomach’s constant cry to “eat the koi, “eat the koi”, I would be in and out in a few seconds. I was really hungry, so I didn’t risk it.
So we got in the car and got the hell out of there. Wait a second…where did the fucking car go? Oh, sorry…correction, we hitched a ride and picked up Coolio-G’s car at the shop. Needless to say, we were stoked! Who the shit did we think we were, not needing a car? Cars are what give you real freedom, not anal probes, congress, city buses or…feet. So as we sat in the newly repaired, totally badass Coolio-G mobile, it was immediately apparent what we had to do next. Take a bath. I kid; we were so ripe I think we had come full circle to freshly scented again. But you could almost smell what we were thinking and Coolio-G had this look on his face that I had seen before. As I glanced in the rear view mirror and saw myself (or the homeless, street dweller version of myself) staring back at me, I had the same look on my face too.
Forget the past, live for the future; we were born to be wild! We still had five fucking days left in California and it was time to party like a runaway jackhammer…in TIJUANA! (it’s in Mexico).
What could possibly go wrong?
To be continued…(Part III)
This is a True Story.
I was greatly saddened the other day when I found out that the infamous Tijuana Jail, “La Ocho”, was being closed down. How could they do that? There were hit songs written about it, including Adele’s latest release, I think. It’s mere existence supported an entire industry of T-shirts, bumper stickers, beer bongs, vomit bags and other typical tourist crap. Couldn’t the Mexican Government designate it as a historical landmark or at least a coffee shop? But alas no, according to my crack research team (me), it’s gone. Regardless, I’m confident that it forever holds a special place in the clouded memories of its former guests, the mass of intoxicated civil dissidents who celebrated its sanctuary…and me, the terrorist.
But I get ahead of myself.
It all began when two law abiding, young men decided to travel to California, cruise up and down the coast and surf. We had recently graduated from high school and felt infused with maturity, adventure and freedom. So we packed our surfboards, board shorts, a t-shirt, an ice chest, jam box and a tent and headed West. And if my parents end up reading this I just want to emphasize that the cooler was filled with milk and lemonade and we definitely didn’t have any illegal substances because that would be, well, illegal. So this buddy of mine, we’ll call him “Coolio-G”, and I drove 26 straight (“consecutive” might be a better choice of words) hours from Houston to San Diego. We didn’t want to waste a minute on the road that we could otherwise spend on the beach. As we passed the “You are now entering the city of San Diego” sign, our pulses quickened, we cranked “the Doors” and our engine caught on fire.
OK, I never actually saw any flames but there was lots of smoke. So we raced to the nearest gas station and a few hours later were unloading the car and looking to hitch a ride to the ocean. We found a dude from La Jolla who offered to drop us off in that area. PERFECT! La Jolla was radical awesome. We were surf bums who wanted nothing but to taste the salt and sand and live among the waves. So fuck the car, it was just holding us back!
We arrived in La Jolla, thanked the driver dude, collected our stuff and headed to the water. On the way, we passed by a motel with its “vacancy” sign on. After traveling across the country non-stop we needed a shower and a good night’s rest. We checked the place out, but the rates were ridiculous. California was fucking expensive and we only brought Texas money. So we kept on walking and passed through a nice beachside park with soft, green grass, swaying palm trees and a fountain. A virtual oasis within an oasis. Coolio-G enthusiastically exclaimed “Let’s sleep here…under those palm trees!” “Brilliant” I thought. “Let’s get drunk on the beach first!”
We got a buzz and hung out at the beach. It started getting dark so we headed back to the oasis to crash for the night. We were just about to clean up and zonk out on the grass, when a police officer walked up and sternly said, “You know you’re not allowed in the park after dark. It’s against the law. Same goes for the beach.” We must have looked like vagrants (OK, we were vagrants) but at the time I was just thinking, “Officer, can I at least take a bath in the fountain before the sun sets?” I was about to get more stupid, when he kicked us to the curb. CRAP, CRAP, CRAP…now what?
The fun was just beginning.
To be continued…(Part II)