Would walk barefoot along another…four kids from the block to the

beach. About…two long miles away. We only wore shorts. No shirts. No

shoes. Five barefoot eight year old kids. Walking to the beach as birds

to the water fountain. The ocean waves were high…high…as…ten foot

high…I was…not even four feet tall. Nonetheless, I would go against

them with all my might. Braking them each time. Now and then they

pushed me to the sand as a minuscule leaf…but I relentless would go

against them again and again. Me, a tiny grain of sand fighting the

ocean. Or so I thought. I did the above every afternoon. Every single

day. Some evenings I would be back home after dinner time.

I would stealthily get in bed. Back then, eight PM was as late as

midnight. Mazatlán was a sleeping town. This house were we lived

had four sheets of wood for a door. Two upper two sides would be left

open in order to get some evening fresh come in. The lower ones were

locked to avoid rats or others creatures of the evening come in.

So, I did the above again and again day after day.

Until one day my hedonistic ways took its toll on me.

You see, I would go to bed wet wearing my wet shorts. I know, I know.

I could have removed them. What do you know when you’re only eight

years old?

One morning my step mother noticed I wasn’t breathing normally and

that I had a fever. Took me in her arms into the back seat of a taxi cab

and took me to the hospital. Had tonsils surgery.

After that I changed my mind about going not to the beach as

frequently.

EO