In the mid sixties, I lived, for a short time, at the end of Palm Street in Ventura. It was an elegant Victorian home, right on the ocean, that had been split up into four apartments. As the government's Urban Renewal program allocated money to Ventura's run down neighborhoods, in one of them, from the foot of California street to the foot of Palm street, rents went down. Little by little, the houses in this area were sold and demolished. I know it's hard to imagine this part of town as being low end but that's how it was.

Steve and Curly, early residents at the elegant Victorian house.

That old Victorian home was a surfers dream. We woke up to the sound of waves at Surfers Point. It was paradise; one couldn't have asked for more. Also, residing at this counter culture enclave, were a few obscure writers, poets and musicians. Many nights, until the wee hours, were spent reading and discussing poetry or listening to Dylan's "The Masters of War" and "The Times They are a Changin". The Honda 250 Scrambler was the new hot Japanese rocket while Red Mountain wine($1.49/gallon) flowed like in Roman times.

So here we sit, the year 2005, in a Kerouacesque apartment in Mazatlan. Rent is $90 dollars a month. We are less than a block from the ocean and a mere 5 minutes from a good left point break similar to Ventura's Surfer's Point. This apartment will eventually be torn down and a ritzy high end home will take it's place.

Until then, I interact with our neighbors, a couple from Hermosa Beach. Greg is an old sixties surfer and his wonderful Mexican wife, Gude, who was born and raised on a rancho in Guanajuato.

When the waves are good, Greg and I are there, at daybreak and enjoying at least an hour of surfing alone. After noon, we call up the Pacifico Brewery, they deliver, to the doorstep, a case of cold ass Pacifico in the bottles. Gude, will mix up a batch of Agua Chile; a sort of Ceviche made with shrimp, lime juice and hot peppers.

The three of us spend the rest of the afternoon looking out across the harbor, over the cruise ships and to a beach that meanders for over 15 miles bordered by mango and coconut ranchos on one side and the warm blue Pacific ocean on the other.

Hey man, it's a transcendental experience with the sound of an old Bob Dylan CD playing "Ballad of a Thin Man" on Greg's stereo. I yell out to Greg, "turn up the sounds!" ... "it's my favorite part":

"You raise up your head
And you ask, "Is this where it is?"
And somebody points to you and says
"It's his"
And you say, "What's mine?"
And somebody else says, "Where what is?"
And you say, "Oh my God
Am I here all alone?"

Because something is happening here
But you don't know what it is
Do you, Mister Jones?".

My favorite Mazatlan Surf Spot