A late September afternoon, the sun is dropping behind the hills shadows grow across the dash. A fine talc like dust collects in the sweat dripping down my arms, small brown rivulets growing towards my wrists as we close in on what is the last few miles to the point. We have been on this unmarked section of what was a decent road for over an hour, sliding from one pocket of moon dust to another, straining to keep the van moving ever forward, nerve wracking shit. Boards and boxes of supplies shift and slide as gravity attempts to throw them into unsorted piles, the dog whines and barks at their intrusion. Taped off vents breathe little puffs of brown into the air.
Above us the little truck stops at the crest of a hill, heads peering out and watching our progress(as they have for the last 25 miles off of Mex1) as we pass once more across a soft pan of soil before hitting hard road. Satisfied we won't bog down they drive off and disappear behind the cloud that rises into the settling light. We hit the top of the hill to finally see the ocean laid out in front, the Mexicans driving down to the south toward the fishing village, to the north trucks and cars are pooled against the north wind a couple of sailors streaking between whitecaps. Between the two posts a righthander turns into the wind, quietly peeling under the cliff with no one on it.