VACATION ON THE BAJA COAST Day 1: We crossed the border and I quickly got us lost but not for long. Tijuana went by and after a while Rosarita Beach. I kept the pedal to the metal along the coast and down through Ensenada. The destination I had found in the guidebook was a long way off, considering we would only be gone for a few days. But I was insistent on getting us farther south. I wanted to camp on the Sea of Cortez. I was already so familiar with the Pacific Ocean. In the car you were mostly quiet and, when we began to drive inland, complained of a headache. I was tempted to say, “It figures.” Instead, I suggested that perhaps you simply needed some coffee. A half hour later I pulled over and made a cloud of dust in front of a cinder block cafe with a big Starbucks logo hand-painted on its exterior. Inside they served Nescafe and after a couple sips you said that I could have the rest. Outside I took a picture of you near the road with your hands on your hips and your head cocked to the side, indulging me. Back in the car you put your bare feet up on the dash and closed your eyes. “Hey,” I said, “don’t forget we’re going to have an entire beach to ourselves.” Day 2: You had not said much all morning. The air was hot but this was okay because we were walking in the baby blue water of the Sea of Cortez. We were heading towards a small and isolated bay, hidden around a rocky point. I was in front of you, maybe fifteen feet, when I stepped on a broken shell that was partly submerged in the sand. The porcelain-like shard punctured my soft skin and I bent awkwardly before losing my balance and falling into the knee-deep ocean. I spent a moment flailing around in the water and then watched as three drops of my own blood floated by. When I got up and kept walking you said, “That was dumb.” That’s all you said to me. I turned around and wiped the salt water out of my eyes. I could see how you were trying to hold back a smile. You looked dirty and nervous. Your hair was blowing around your face. I wondered if you could see how I was trying to hold back my anger and how I could actually feel the anger inside of my mouth, like it was pushing up against my teeth, wanting very badly to come out. That was a specific kind of pressure. Right then I felt so goddamn fragile, generally speaking, that I was amazed I had managed to live successfully for 21 whole years. Day 3: You were lying on your towel near the campsite and the tiny waves kept pushing up against the beach like, “Shhhhh, Shhhhh.” The wind had died down and it was even hotter than yesterday. I didn’t know what you looked like, maybe a corpse or something. You had been on your towel the entire morning, occasionally drinking a beer but barely moving. I was bored but - even worse - anxious so I put on my shoes, grabbed my canteen, and swung my backpack over my shoulder. Quietly, I set off into the desert. Behind the beach I walked over a bunch of dunes. Hot sand fell into my shoes. I wandered through an old forest of Cardon Cacti; their big green arms were bending and flexing in the air, like bodybuilders. At one point I crossed a dirt road, only lightly suggested. I took a long drink of water. There was no one around so I felt like this was all for me. When I later came upon a pile of trash I said, “Fuck.” The brittle plastic bags and rusty cans of beer were slowly blowing away. I kept walking and found a sprawling Prickly Pear Cactus, totally alone and heavy with fruit. I felt self-reliant and purposeful as I picked the red fruit from the spiky green pads of the cactus. When I returned to the campsite in the afternoon you were sitting up and looking scared. In the sparse and neutral landscape your big, bewildered eyes stood out. “Where were you?” I pointed vaguely behind me, then opened my backpack. I took off my shoes and grabbed two beers. We sat close on our towels and slowly peeled the skin from the fruit. Night: There was no one around us for miles and the wind was blowing hard. We were having sex in the tent. It was the first time we had slept together on the trip and I was eager even though I was pretty sure we were now broken up. Maybe that’s why you felt kind of new. Your eyes were closed but I could see you just fine in the moonlight. I thought you looked peaceful on top of me, moving with precision, your hands firmly planted on my chest. I felt happy to be deliberately and successfully causing you pleasure. The end of a relationship is mostly so sad and stressful. For a brief time this trip became what I had hoped it would be; I was connected to you in a simple way that I had not felt for over a month. Day 4: When I came out of the ocean I heard music. I took my snorkel mask off and saw you in the car, dressed only in your bikini, feet up on the dash, and the windows down. The car was parked so that you were looking out towards the Sea of Cortez. You were listening to the iPod hooked up through the car stereo. I dug my feet into the sand for a moment, then walked towards you. When I was a little closer I could tell that you were listening to good old Jao Gilberto. He was quietly strumming his guitar and singing softly in Portuguese. I touched the hot steel of my car roof and leaned down. “You probably shouldn’t listen for too long. If you kill the battery we’ll be stuck here.” You turned your head to the side and said, “OK.” Two syllables, not bad. I stood outside the car and listened for a while with you. I even put my hand on your very smooth arm and you didn’t move. There was a chance that I would hate you when we returned home but for now I felt all right. A pelican flew gracefully over the water, then shit into it. I walked towards the campsite, in order to dismantle it. |