Ceuta Beach

I have arrived at Ceuta beach, right by La Cruz, about 60 miles south of Culiacan, where I spent a couple of hours this afternoon.

I choose Ceuta for my amiga Yarida in Los Mochis. Turtles are her favorite animals, her sacred animal. And Ceuta is protected beach for the Tortugas who come here every fall by the hundreds or thousands to lay their eggs in the sand.

I won’t see them this year but I will spend time picking up trash from the beach.

Ceuta is only 4 kilometers from the toll road – grrrrr, still burning about that $167 fuckin’ pesos to drive thru fields of mega farms with all their fuckin “pesticides, fungicides, fertilizers, agroseed” signs that are in Spanish but so close to english any estadounidense can read them all.

And there are bus stops at every field, or bus stops in the making. I wondered how the workers would get to the fields as there is little sign of human habitation, not even a mega farm house anywhere – but mega-farm processing centers!

Bus stops every 50 feet. Imagine that in the city! Gotta get those farmer workers into the fields in time!

Ceuta beach is beautiful and I think this is finally the Pacific Ocean or so close it doesn’t matter.

The minute I get here, I park at what I think is the fartherest away from everyone that I can be & still be on pavement – right where the u turn for returning in the other direction, is half off the pavement and half in the sand!

I heat up soup quickly and head down the 20 feet of sand, over the mound of stones, and sit close enough to the waves to ensure they don’t get me - yet. Jesus comes over to greet me, sits down, and anxious to speak english with me even tho I prefer speaking Spanish.

We have the ‘esposo/esposa’ conversation quickly with a little different tune. His esposa lives in Guasave – they’re separated, most likely getting divorced. I say I’m sorry because he looks forlorn.

I tell him I’m 60 and I have no need and I am not interested in any esposo ever. He thinks I’m 45 and still wants to talk english.

He has lived in the u.s. for 24 years and has returned this past year. He doesn’t tell me if he was deported and I don’t ask. He introduces me to his 8 year old son, also Jesus (imagine that), and says Jesus was born in Iowa, just like me.

Council Bluffs, where I held a demo and no local folks show up except the media! Jesus (sr. that is) was in the 1989 earthquake, in Richmond at the Chevron plant. He has lived in almost as many states as I have – but the quest for work has forced his moves.

He has found work here, not cleaning out toilets or picking vegetables or processing petroleum. Here he is a vendedor and sells vegetables but they are all mass produced. He doesn’t like them. We talk about growing organically and war and violence.

He takes his child home and I wade in the ocean after stuffing my face with the soup I thankfully made yesterday, or the day before. I forget. Tomorrow, I will put on a suit and go swimming.