The Fence

    The summer of 1984 was warm and pleasant. Our family normally took a vacation together in July and this year the destination was San Diego. My father would plan the route on an AAA road map marking the Motel 6’s and Denny’s restaurants along the way. Since frugality ruled the day, staying in San Diego proper was out of the question. We pulled off Highway 5 at San Ysidro and waited in the car for our father to register and exit with the orange-colored key and a handful of attraction brochures from the lobby.  

            After we came back from dinner, I grabbed my skateboard and went off exploring on my own. Willow road leads two directions. You can either go back towards the highway or South, I went South. I rode past the chain-link fence that surrounded the vacant McDonald’s. A chill went over me when the thought of what had occurred there only days before 22 returned to my memory. James Huberty, after being put-off by a mental health hotline, entered that restaurant armed to the hilt and murdered 21 patrons. This was one of the first mass-murders of many to come on American soil. I moved on.

            I could see the border fence rising above the rooftops not too far off. It followed the hilly terrain and had a ruddy, rust-colored appearance. I was surprised that it was not topped with razor wire. I thought to myself that if I wanted to I would have no problem crossing into Mexico. The Bronco patrolling the fence about a half-mile away made me think again. I don’t know if this wall has been rebuilt since. I imagine it has. I skated to a hill where I could get a better view. There was a large Mexican flag hanging from an elevated position. I had never seen a flag, any flag of that size. I thought to myself, The Mexican people must be very proud, a very patriotic people. It seemed much more crowded on the other side of the fence. I remember wondering what this land was like in the years before the fence.

            The next day was our trip to the beach. I took my surfboard everywhere I went in those days. The motel clerk recommended Border Field State Park nearby where if I am lucky I might find some waves. We drove through the gate, parked and made our way down the trail to the beach.  There’s a large stadium visible over the fence. They hold bull-fights there where the tourist can get a taste of the Mexican culture. The clerk was right. The swell was good that day. Looming to the left was the rust-colored fence again. I followed its path with my eyes as it snaked down towards the beach. When it met the sand the fence was nothing more than tall poles driven in about a foot apart. They seem to be crooked, unsightly, and uneven along the top. Maybe it was the unstable footing or the power of the sea over them.

            I looked through the poles and saw the many umbrellas and lounge chairs of the Tijuana beachgoers. There were many people on that side. Mexicans must love the beach too. I even saw two small boys squeezing themselves between the rusty poles. “Mexico-America, Mexico, America,” they said laughing as they continuously entered and exited the country.

I paddled out beyond the breaking waves and sat up on my board. I was about even with the end of the poles. I could just paddle a few feet over and cross over into Mexico, no one would care. There were no guards, no border patrol, or anything preventing me from doing so. Hmmmm.

             We enjoyed the beach that day. The weather was perfect. The waves were decent. The scenery was beautiful except one thing; that ugly looking crooked steel fence that was the border. It has been rebuilt since then. It now has solid panels where you can’t see the umbrellas, lounge chairs or sunbathers on the other side. The have a “Friendship Monument” there now. I think friendship might require contact, at the very least seeing those on the other side.