North of the Border.
A journey by air, sea, and land a los United States.
I spent my entire childhood going back and forth from Tijuana to Ensenada to visit my mother’s side of the family—for birthdays, Christmases, New Year’s Eve. The scenic highway offers a mesmerizing view of the Pacific coast, impossible to overlook. I would usually manage to get into the car last, just to claim the window seat—on the right side when heading south, on the left when coming back—in a small ritual of coastal contemplation.
I used to call them “the little ants”—those tiny human silhouettes that, from a distance, seemed to rest as they floated in the water, scattered along the road, especially around kilometer thirty-eight and near the last toll booth at Playa San Miguel. Who would have thought that, many years later, I’d be one of them.
I’ve been an observer of surfing and the coastline since I was very young, though back then I had no understanding of the social dynamics that orbit around surf culture, nor of the historical wounds I would eventually carry into the water—wounds that would come to shape the way I see, process, and express myself. Like music, books, lived experiences, family history, and the surrounding geography, surfing has been a platform for the lifestyle and storytelling. And even if not all of those stories are about riding waves, they are all, in one way or another, about the search, or the experience of returning to ride another wave.
Whenever I come across a story set in Baja California or Mexico in surfing media with the label “South of the Border,” it immediately catches my eye, specially if it involves good pristine waves, drugs, guns, or outlaws just to analyze how Mexicans are portrayed.
North of the Border
—Gulf of Mexico— The maritime route
It’s one hundred and twenty-two nautical miles from Puerto Morelos to the port of Brownsville, Texas. That would be our next destination after covering a similar distance from Tuxpan, Veracruz, to Puerto Morelos in Quintana Roo. These were strategic decisions that allowed the team of scientists to save on import costs and simplify the logistics of transporting sophisticated equipment designed to measure multiple variables in the incredibly deep abysses of the Atlantic.
As we were arriving Brownsville port, we were greeted by a common dolphin—utterly indifferent to borders, especially the one between Matamoros, and, Texas. Upon docking, the captain of the Justo Sierra announced over the loudspeakers placed throughout the vessel that we should gather our passports and visas to present them to the immigration agents. He instructed us to be ready to disembark, one by one, for individual interviews in the conference room.
I was once again overcome by that familiar anxiety, the same one that always creeps in when crossing the border by car—that tight tension during the one or two minutes you spend in front of the agent, trying to speak with perfect diction—preferably in Spanish—lest they suspect any hidden intention of voluntary repatriation if I answer in English. Always with the seatbelt glaringly visible, as if to demonstrate, wordlessly, that we follow every rule to the letter.
My turn came. The agent asked:
"Are you Jesús Alberto García Salazar?"
"That’s me."
"What do you do? What’s your role here?"
"I’m a science technician, assistant to the research team. I also document the activities and missions aimed at generating knowledge about the depths of the Atlantic."
"Very well, young man," the officer replied. "You may call the next one."
And so ended my brief encounter with immigration—uneventful, lasting just over a minute.
We set sail for the Atlantic, bound for Cuban waters, to recover buoys loaded with instruments containing valuable data. That data would enrich our understanding of the immense body of water that is the Gulf of Mexico. After a week at sea, one afternoon—whether Monday or Thursday I couldn’t say, for on the ocean the days begin to lose their names and only day and night remain—we spotted a formation of storm clouds above a distant sliver of land. At its center, a small chapel-like structure: the Cabo Verde lighthouse. White and upright, it stood in stark contrast to the metallic, piercing blue of the Caribbean below and the thick green of the tropical vegetation above the horizon. It was both a relief and a joy to see solid land again after so many days surrounded by nothing but blue.
We kept working intensively until, somewhere between the Bahamas and Cuba, a mishap during the recovery of a buoy led to the entanglement of an oceanographic cable in the propeller of the Justo Sierra. A wave of heated discussions broke out between the first and second officers and the head of the scientific project.
The first step in resolving the emergency was to send divers to assess the extent of the damage. Once underwater, they managed to take images and examine the propeller in detail—until one of them raised a hand above his head, the universal signal of warning: shark sighted. Sure enough, a majestic pelagic whitetip shark was circling the immobilized vessel. The divers surfaced immediately, alerting those of us on deck.
Memo, one of the sailors, dashed for a hook large enough for a shark and baited a line with a chunk of meat—an attempt that ultimately failed.
The images confirmed the ship needed to head to the nearest shipyard for repairs. We drifted for about a week, along the cargo route, until a Cuban tugboat arrived. It looked as old as the cars seen on postcards from Havana. We were to be towed by a hawser—the thickest I’ve seen in my life—which still seemed small for dragging such a massive vessel for several days.
It took three days of titanic navigation. Fortunately, we had—quite strategically—two Cubans on board, a teacher and a student, who had joined us at a Mexican port. Their presence allowed the Justo Sierra to legally operate in Cuban waters.
The Matanzas shipyard in Cuba reminded me of the port where my grandfather used to work: lots of rusting metal, small houses, a few cranes, and aging ships. The only difference was the intensity of the green in the background—more vibrant and contrasty than any other shade I had seen.
As is customary when arriving at a foreign port, immigration and military authorities came aboard. Personally, I had expected figures resembling Fidel Castro: bushy beards, olive-green uniforms. I was wrong. Two clean-shaven men appeared, dressed in crisp white uniforms, colored insignias on one side of their chests, golden pins on the other, and flat hats—as if the maritime aesthetic were standardized across all the world’s militaries.
This encounter carried a somber undertone. We were just steps from a culturally rich and picturesque country, yet due to broken diplomatic ties with nations the Justo Sierra was to visit later, none of the Mexican crew was allowed to set foot on Cuban soil. I couldn’t help but think of Che and Fidel’s beards, socialism and guerrilla warfare. And of how the conflicts between that nation and others flying star-spangled flags were—at least in my imagination—responsible for our confinement and boredom on board.
Still, there was a cultural exchange with the Cuban sailors tasked with repairing the propeller. We gave them tools, chains, ropes, and other technical items—but also more personal things: toilet paper, soap, and my tamarind candies. One of them surprised me in particular—he proudly showed off a jersey of Mexican soccer player Javier “Chicharito” Hernández.
“Look,” he said, “Chicharito’s number ten. We love him here just as much as Cantinflas and El Chavo del Ocho.”
After a week in the Cuban shipyard, I found myself reflecting on my time in the Caribbean. Surrounded by the smell of oil, diesel, and salt, I couldn’t help but think of other islands, other waters, other memories. Cuba wasn’t the first Caribbean land I’d stepped on, though it was the one that most deeply confronted me with the weight of history. The heat brought back memories of a previous stay, in another corner of the archipelago, where the greenery was no less intense and the struggle had other names.
—Puerto Rico.— The dreams route
I never imagined that small piece of land, which I reached almost by accident, would leave such a lasting mark on me.
I remember the border agent warned me about the coquí—or at least about its song. I typed the word into my phone while waiting in the visa hall, intending to look it up later. I was headed to a “Free Associated State” of the United States, and it wasn’t until I saw the flag that I understood the symbolism: one more star, added to the fifty already waving on the flag of the U.S.
That’s how I arrived in Adjuntas, a small mountain town where rain is a daily part of life. As green—or even greener—than Cuba, it was a place so full of life that, I confess, more than once I was moved to tears. Tears of joy, of being there, in the place where I felt I was meant to be in that exact moment.
There I got the opportunity to learn from Alexis Massol, recipient of the Goldman Prize—the environmental equivalent of the Nobel—whose actions spoke louder than any accolades. I felt honored to share space with him, to learn from his convictions and experiences. It was with him that I learned the story of Don Pedro Albizu Campos, the Puerto Rican independence leader.
One afternoon, while at Casa Pueblo, I asked Alexis about the coquí and its meaning in Puerto Rican culture. He led me to a portrait of Albizu, accompanied by a bird.
“Let’s talk about the pitirre instead,” he said. “I’ll tell you the story behind this majestic bird. It lives in our forest—the same forest we defended from copper mining companies. That fight, among others, earned me international recognition.”
“Look, Jesús,” he continued, “this is Don Pedro. And on his shoulder is a pitirre. He carries it as if they were one and the same, guardians of the nest against predators larger than themselves. It’s well documented that pitirres protect their young from vultures—victoriously, despite their size.”
The pitirre and Albizu Campos symbolize resistance. Both embody the Puerto Rican spirit that does not yield to domination—neither natural nor political. They face invasion, threats, destruction brought by those who come from outside.
I tried to take it all in. Later, on my way home, I understood: it was the struggle for independence from the United States.
Weeks later, I received a message from his granddaughter, Corali. She wanted to meet me and show me the forest where she grew up—the same one the Massol family has protected for generations. On our way to the heart of the island, we climbed the mountain, and before entering the forest, we made an obligatory stop at a bridge: the rain had come down hard that day, overflowing the stream. We had to wait beside the furious waters until the current calmed. It was a completely normal situation for those living in the mountain’s everyday rhythm, but for me, that moment became one of profound connection, marked by the greatness of the place. We both felt it. When we finally crossed, something in me took root. For a brief moment, I felt I could grow roots there. Everything planted in that land thrives. I was no exception.
We reached her home, a cabin built from the very trees surrounding it. She told me her late uncle had built it. It measured about three by four meters, with a second level that served as a bedroom. We gathered a few things and headed to her mother’s house. I was still dumbstruck by the majesty of the forest, unable to speak. We had dinner, shared wine, and back in her cabin, we gave in to the moment. The intensity of it wrapped around us—our bodies joined, separated only by the sweat stirred by euphoria.
The next morning, I reached toward the base of the bed and touched what felt like a wooden handle. Corali gently stopped me and pulled out a machete.
“I live alone,” she said. “That’s why I sleep with machetes.”
I got up, stepped outside the cabin, and walked naked to the river to bathe. The scent of wet earth enveloped me—dense and unmistakable. The sun’s rays fought to pierce the thickness of the canopy. That’s when I understood: Corali’s machetes, and those of her family, were the same pitirres, defending the nest. And though what we shared was fleeting, it carried weight. It left a lasting lesson.
“The first duty of a man is to love the soil where he was born,” said Albizu. In Puerto Rico, that phrase comes alive in practice. Since that day, one certainty haunts me:
“In Puerto Rico, love is spelled with machetes.”
Experiences like this would shape my path in the years to come.
—Colorado River Delta— The air route
I find myself in a unique position: observing from the air the delta of the Colorado River, now nearly dry. It's an issue we share with our neighbors to the north, and from this privileged vantage point, I can document the recent releases of water that the United States has made to Mexico. Our mission was to capture the thread of water over the two days of the pulse flow previously agreed upon by the hydrological authorities of both countries.
Aboard a Cessna 182, I'm accompanied by Bill Worthington, a retired pilot who now lends his skills to the cause of conservation. After a brief safety review, relayed through the headsets that muffle the roar of the propeller engine, Bill contacts the control tower to request takeoff clearance:
—Bill here, to control tower, over.
—This is Mexicali Airport control tower, over.
—Requesting permission for takeoff, over.
—Runway is clear and ready for takeoff. Have a safe flight. Over and out.
Once airborne, at just over a thousand meters of altitude, I ask him about the flight plan. He points to Morelos Dam as point A, and Montague Island as point F, our final destination. To fly over the dam, Bill requests permission from the U.S. control tower: we were carrying a Mexican passenger, and would be circling above the border area, at times crossing the wall and coming back again.
—Bill here, to control tower, over.
—This is Yuma control tower, over.
—Requesting permission to enter American airspace, carrying a Mexican passenger on a photographic mission around Morelos Dam. We’ll circle a couple times and return, over.
—Copy that. Permission granted. Have a safe return flight. Over and out.
The view of the border wall was overwhelming: a rust-colored metal monster stretching from east to west, fading into the horizon. This steel giant was cut perpendicularly by a thread of water that, from above, revealed with brutal clarity human stubbornness: on one side, a lush, fertile agricultural valley; on the other, a dry, scorched landscape, like something out of an old Western. The aerial perspective suggests that south is north, and vice versa, as if even the cardinal points bowed to the logic of power. It invites you to imagine a time when this territory had not yet been divided.
We finally flew over Montague Island, awestruck by the tidal threads carved into its surface—water traces resembling the veins of a lung, as if nature itself, in its own language, were crying for help.
At the end of our route, we veered toward the true north, heading back to the airport. With a note of secondhand shame, Bill apologized for the decisions made by some of his fellow countrymen. The place where the Colorado’s journey ends—or once ended—before its waters were halted by upstream dams, has been shaped by decisions made at tables where only those with power sit.
In his chronicles, Fernando Jordán once described the Colorado as the Nile of the Americas. It was also the setting for battles that would define the position of the wall during the Mexican-American War. William Walker, a filibuster from the U.S. East Coast, attempted to conquer Sonora and Baja California in the late 1840s and early 1850s. Back then, northern Mexico was sparsely populated and still reeling from the recent loss of territory. Acting on his own, Walker sought to annex those lands as part of American expansionism.
But in 1854, he came up against Antonio Meléndrez Ceseña, a man related to my maternal grandmother, María Magdalena Ceseña. Historians say Toño had a natural talent for military strategy. He resisted Walker’s advances in protracted skirmishes that stretched from La Grulla—the old capital of Baja California, now Ejido Uruapan—through Valle de la Trinidad, across Sonora, and beyond the border.
Not even the filibuster’s naval reinforcements, numbering in the thousands, managed to conquer that precious stretch of Mexican desert. For this feat, the Mexican government recognized Meléndrez as a Hero of Baja California. But glory came at a price: soon after, despite promises of a military rank, he was betrayed and executed by his own countrymen in the town of San Vicente.
I imagine he must be rolling in his grave, seeing that today that coastal strip is full of new William Walkers, now waving corporate flags of conquest. Those who sold off that land in symbolic acts may well be descendants of the same traitors who condemned him to the firing squad.
It is in my blood—as it was in his—to defend this territory. Because the desert, too, has memory. And I do not forget.
—Tijuana - Vandalia, Illinois— The land route
My father’s English accent betrays his Mexican roots from the very first word. He proudly says he learned it by watching cartoons on Channel 6 and listening to 91X from San Diego, a station whose signal reached most of Tijuana. Before Spotify and Netflix, those broadcasts defined the culture of the busiest border in Mexico—and the world.
Tía Juana, as we affectionately call that city, saw him grow into a chemical engineer, spending a lifetime crossing north of the fence. He recalls that as a teenager it was common to cross on foot by simply telling the border agent, “U.S. citizen,” without fear of being turned back. He and his half-brother did it often, usually just to catch a movie, without any major immigration hassle.
He was offered a job as a chemical engineer in Vandalia, a small town in Illinois. He would be developing rubber seal formulas for the auto industry. I remember we were picked up from the airport in St. Louis, Missouri, in a limousine, and taken directly to what would be our home for the next two or three months: the Ramada Inn. The hotel included breakfast and a pool. I’ll never forget the powdered sugar donuts or the boxed orange juice. In general, the breakfast was bad—probably because it was nothing like what we were used to eating in Mexico. But we couldn’t complain—it was included.
It was a small town. There was a bowling alley, a skating rink, and a Walmart for entertainment. We learned to bowl decently and alternated between the lanes and skating in circles. We always ended up at Walmart, wandering the aisles without buying anything except a swirl cone with caramel and some Flamin’ Hot Cheetos—the closest thing we could find to Rancheritos or Crujitos from Sabritas.
That was how we spent the first few months, until my siblings and I enrolled in school. Karina was five; Alejandro was nine, a year younger than me. My brother and I understood the language thanks to our bilingual elementary school in Mexico, but we lacked technique, grammar, and fluency. My sister, on the other hand, arrived knowing nothing. I can’t imagine what it must’ve been like for her to sit in a math class where, in addition to learning operations, she had to process them in another language. “One plus one equals two” is not the same as “uno más uno es igual a dos.”
I vividly remember my fifth-grade teacher, Mr. Ruot. He had a long blonde mullet and a thick walrus mustache that covered almost his entire mouth. He always wore Dockers-style pants, short-sleeve button-down shirts tucked in, and gave off a pungent scent of coffee and cologne that seemed to come from his soul. I’m fond of him because he was very patient—especially with the Mexican kid.
Classes on Mondays began promptly at 8 a.m. with the Pledge of Allegiance. A voice came from a speaker behind the teacher’s desk, and at the sound of the signal, everyone stood next to their desks. The first few times, the teacher and my classmates encouraged me to stand, place my right hand over my heart, and recite: “I pledge allegiance to the flag of the United States of America…” Then came the national anthem. It took me a few Mondays to understand that I could stand without placing my hand on my chest, without reciting the pledge. A voice in my head told me I didn’t have to do it. That I didn’t need to disrespect either country—mine or theirs. That was the first moment I felt, with clarity, my patriotism. I told myself, loud and clear: “I am Mexican.”
Eventually, I memorized the pledge. But I stopped saying it aloud.
One of the few classes that truly left a mark on me was Social Studies. That’s where I learned about the Underground Railroad—a network of secret routes and people, mostly white abolitionists, who helped Black slaves escape north to Canada. The name Harriet Tubman has been etched in me ever since.
Curiously, it wasn’t until we’d been in the U.S. school system for several months that strange things started happening. At the skating rink, for example, some kids would stick out a foot to trip my brother and me. It happened more than once, on different days, by different kids. At first, we didn’t understand. Later, the pattern became obvious. It always ended in mockery.
I remember fondly the first time we discovered winter, and how it differed from autumn. We were all in the car heading home when something started falling from the sky, something we didn’t have a name for. It fell slowly, almost in slow motion, drifting on a choreography of wind and gravity. It wasn’t rain—it didn’t soak or slide down the window like water. Under the streetlights, we saw those tiny things had distinct shapes, like hand-carved patterns in delicate symmetry. They were snowflakes. It was our first snowfall.
My parents were just as excited as we were. They tucked us in that night promising that the next morning, we’d build our first snowman. When morning came, I woke my brother. We ran to pull open the curtains: everything was white. Everything. We begged to go outside. As soon as we stepped out, we heard that crisp sound snow makes underfoot—like wet sand. We made snow angels, threw snowballs, rolled the snow into giant spheres. Each of us began to build our own snowman. We used branches for arms, pebbles for eyes, sticks for noses.
But we didn’t get to finish.
Suddenly, a sharp whistle cut through the trees. Then we heard my dad yell, urgently:
—Everybody, get inside the house!
We obeyed, without knowing why. Turns out someone was shooting at us with a pellet rifle. Apparently, they found it amusing. That was how we met—and first played—in the snow.
We were too young to understand what was happening. I still don’t know why we lived in a hotel, why I had to recite the pledge to the American flag, why they tripped us at the skating rink, why the story that stuck with me most was about the Underground Railroad, or why someone felt the need to shoot at us while we played in the snow.
Being a legal immigrant, the son of a hardworking, honest father with professional ambitions and a focus on the growth of his loved ones, I now realize that we experienced racism.
Diary Entry — Crossing the Border
Crossing the border has always been a nerve-wracking experience. No matter how many times we’ve done it, there’s always something about it that shakes me up inside. Maybe it’s the forced conversation with the border agent, or just the simple fact that a few meters make all the difference between one country and another, between belonging and being watched.
Before we even leave, I already have a checklist in my mind. The car insurance has to include full coverage valid in the United States. The visas need to be within easy reach, like an invisible safe-conduct. And if we’re going beyond the first 25 miles — say, to Disney — we need that extra permit. It might seem like a minor thing, but without it, you can’t go very far.
My dad always says the same thing right before we reach the checkpoint: “Check the trunk carefully, make sure there’s nothing someone could plant on us.” He says it in a serious tone, almost like a ritual. He also insists on carrying U.S. dollars in cash. In San Ysidro, once you're on the U.S. side, there's a last stop to exchange pesos at a good rate. Sometimes it's twenty pesos to the dollar, sometimes more. You never know.
Once we cross, the rules change. You have to drive faster — over 80 kilometers an hour — and obey every traffic light like it’s sacred. No throwing trash out the window. At every crossing, without fail, my dad repeats: “You don’t throw anything out here, understood?” And of course, over there, there’s no such thing as “fixing things with a bribe.” You follow the rules or you pay the price. Simple as that.
Even eating over there is different. A basic meal costs between eight and fifteen dollars. It’s not much if you think in dollars, but in pesos it hits harder — that’s between 150 and 300 per person. And don’t even think about drinking in the car. Over there, alcohol and driving do not mix — not even by accident.
Language usually isn’t a problem. Even though everything’s in English, most people working in stores or restaurants are Latino. Just greet them in Spanish and they’ll smile, like recognizing something familiar — even if each of you is standing on a different side.
As for American beaches, I don’t have much to say. I haven’t spent enough time on them to give a fair opinion. And truthfully, I don’t miss them much. From Ensenada on down, we’ve got plenty of ocean, plenty of waves, plenty of horizon. And for now, at least, that’s enough for me.
