Flock of Seagulls

We were jamming our sunburnt bodies into our wetsuits at the Spot we’ve decided to call “Fish Tail’s” after our encounter with a strange man carrying a bag of Fish Tails. We park on a road along that part of the coast between Ensenada and and San Miguel that runs through an industrial corridor bespeckled with various fish processing plants. The reek is atrocious. Often large flatbed trucks filled with fish parts come barreling along this road, chased by flocks of two hundred or more seagulls. The Gulls drop in on the trucks trying to snatch up some meat from the moving trucks. We park right at a bend in this road. A truck, loaded with tanks full of Sardines came around the bend a little too fast, and about two hundred pounds of silver fish came sloshing over the truck’s brim and spilled out as a shimmering, wriggling smear on the road. A frenzy of gulls immediately descended on the dying fish, hundreds of squaking, eager birds. Then another truck came around the bend, and slowly it mashed it’s way through the milieu of flapping wings. Most of the birds got away, but I watched as five of them got caught under the tires. After the second truck rolled off, five or six dying and dead gulls lay on the road. I watched one bird, it’s smeared guts pinning it to the ashphault, as it squawked out in helpless desperation to the other birds. The rest of the flock formed a roiling vortex overhead as a Mexican with a leafblower walked up and casually blasted the dead birds into the gutter. No bird would return to the scene of the crime. They circled over head, and we dodged their falling shit and watched as a van full of old Mexican men pulled up and began gathering the remaining sardines in buckets and little green bags. The fish bait gatherers were about to drive off when a police car showed up, and The Men could be seen sheepishly handing off their gathered sardines before being sent on their way. A pair of Barefoot teenage brothers laughed as they smashed bottles upon the rocks. The traumatized gulls eventually gathered out beyond the break and cleaned their feathers. The three of us paddled out across the bay and caught what waves there were in the weak swell. Such is life on the Baja coast.
We went into town for groceries, and bought some expired eggs and expired carrot sticks. There are men with whistles here, who direct traffic in the busy parking lot with whistles. They handed us little tickets indicating they are part of a volunteer program, and spend the day directing traffic in exchange for tips. I handed one guy the change in pocket, and Jay did the same. Matt Costa’s ‘Hey Mr. Pitiful’ played as I lay in the back of the van wondering how somebody could possibly earn any kind of living off the handouts they get directing traffic in a grocery store parking lot. Starbucks charges the same for a double Americano here as they do in Mexico. The tacos make me bloated and I can’t eat them every day.
We’re blowing about seventy dollars on groceries every two to three days. Jay’s picked up the guitar and hammers at it with an intensity, sincerity, and tactlessness that reminds me of Dean’s guitar during the early days of ‘Put’. Troy’s guitar has flourished, and he’s manufacturing some great riff’s. I’m in the process of resurrecting my Harmonica, but I’ve come down with a chest cold and it’s slowing me down. Troy’s much more difficult to beat than Jay at poker. We’ve set up a green chip economy- every won game of poker or crib earns the victor a green poker chip which can be exchanged for anything illicit, unhealthy, or sinful- thing’s such as prescription drugs from the ‘Happy Pharmacy’, cigarettes, or Lap dances at any of the ten or so strip clubs located in and round the Tourista district of Ensenada.

Cruise ships overrun with American spring break students have been docking every few days- only in the afternoons- and the party is carried off the ship and into town for a few hours of drunken debauchery. In theory this should be a great thing. But these American idiots are not the types we can associate with without stripping down to thongs and board shorts, and, with a bottle of Tecate in each arm attempting to dry hump jiggling asses while pouring beer on their heads. I’m not from America. This does not happen in Canada. Roving bands of milk fed shirtless mooks run around, hurling bottles of beer into the street and clawing at girls clothes, and hollering as they hop over the crippled legs of beggars and shove street urchins aside. Impoverished Mexicans stand with their families on street corners, watching, aghast, and it becomes clear to me where their resentment of white people comes from. Surfing here is fine, but I can’t wait to get clear of the foul stench of American arrogance. Events in Ensenada swing from one unacceptable extreme to the other. There is no middle ground.