Borders

By: Dylan Hoover

A metal wall, tall, laced with barbed wire. A sign fixed to the gate’s center, states: This area is patrolled by U.S. Border Patrol.

I trace this elaborate death trap’s path for hundreds of miles out here in what seems like no man’s land. The bars are dark amber, several shaded crimson, and only recently oxidized turquoise. Towers of terracotta are fortified by sand, surrounded by gravel trampled over time.

Everything is intended to deter and convey a menacing warning: this border is impenetrable. It feels like an active warzone; only I’m not as scared as they want us to be because I know no enemy to fear.

There is barely anything below San Diego, along this empty void into southwest Arizona. True fear lies in isolation. Seldom a ghost town, seldom a familiar human face. Just some stupid fucking wall erected by an orange, xenophobic tyrant.

I immediately recognized it when I merged onto California 94, a long day of swimming in the Pacific Ocean behind me. Saltwater drenched in my hair, clogged inside my ears, and trapped in the passageways of my nostrils from those powerful, thrusting waves. My feet in their flops are still sandy with chalky grain, caked in earth’s oceanic ingredients.

The West finally beckoned me.

When I burp, I think about the Cali Bacon Burrito I enjoyed at lunch. Back in Laguna Niguel, I contemplated visiting the Pro Surf Shop or trekking further down into Tijuana or Baja. But I left my passport back in Pennsylvania on my desk, wishing we didn’t need one of those to travel throughout the same continent. In the same way, we need ID to buy our weekly dose of Tequila, or we get carded and angry from withdrawal.

I think about the cute Latino woman who greets me in Del Taco, and the way she speaks Spanish in her exchange with her other workers. Even on a smoggy day, her happiness is somehow contagious behind a shadowy counter.

“Careful with the fries,” she warns when she hands me the greasy brown paper bag. “They’re really hot.”

“Cool, I will be,” I respond, returning a smile, trying not to stare but finding myself doing so for way too long.

I never learned Spanish.

It’s immoral to adopt the language of people who arrived to violently overthrow another. The story of the Aztecs is one that has inspired me since I was young. Not just because I thought their weapons or the way they held human sacrifices were cool. Myths of an annexed civilization that rivaled that of Venice or any booming metropolis located in Europe at the time. Mexico, the very name, is derivative of the first Aztec tribe: the mighty Mexica.

I can’t see past the woman for what she really is: an Original victim, a person whose way of life was stolen by land thieves keen to impress Catholicism and their language in the name of Spain. So I imagine her addressing me in Nahuatl instead, having that opportunity to learn and engage her traditions born from Mesoamerica. Sadly, it will only ever be wishful thinking. Sadly, me confessing this to her is, too.

Mexico feels strangely closer to me than it ever did. I suppose it’s because I’m actually traveling alongside it. Wishing I could cross to that other side, and never again return.

When I pull over at the rest stop on the outskirts of San Diego, I spot that stupid fucking wall erected by an orange xenophobic tyrant within a mile’s reach.

Sudden numbness turns into a nervous clot in my stomach. I begin panting heavily. Blood races through my anxious body, mirroring the sensation of sweaty pits and subdued confusion. Quietness soon engulfs the desolate landscape. Not that it was really loud before I arrived, anyway. It just seems to me a reflection, an invitation to reflect.

A thought suddenly occurs to me: someone today was risking everything crossing this desert wasteland in 117℉ just to come here. Where is the warm welcome for their courage? Where is the kindness?

The few, the brave, are often met with rebuke instead. They’re told they shouldn’t have come, they shouldn’t be here, and that they will be sent back.

But there is beauty in journeys, stories that people can live to tell from near-fatal experiences. Just like my beloved Aztecs, who ruled with strength and higher knowledge of our place in the stars. I believe this. And if I were to spot someone crossing on this scorching afternoon in San Diego’s far outer rim, my natural instinct must be: to help them, despite whatever consequences may ensue upon me.

I couldn’t protect the Aztecs from the Spanish. And I couldn’t bring myself to experience life away from the East Coast for so many years. But myth can be a powerful weapon in the desert. It teaches you things from the past, things you master for the future of your arsenal. One of those being: never becoming the Spanish.

Survive by doing better.

* * *

White trucks have begun garrisoning the vast wastelands on Route 8 for the past hour. Decals, more of bold letters really, read brightly: United States Border Security. Drivers floor in, do donuts in the arid abyss, causing layers of dust to rise high like some smoking mushroom, turning the sky into a rust-tan color. They’re unaware I’m watching them dubiously from afar but close enough to decipher a scheme. I am skeptical of their activities. Pretending I could stop them in my head, that I could transform them into a fraternal order of saviors rather than the merciless Hands of a corrupt authority.

I pull onto the foot-wide shoulder of the road, leaving enough room for passing traffic that will never arrive. Turning the engine off to rest, I feel the windows with the soft, pale palms of my hand. The glass is like a pan pulled freshly from the oven. It’s painful to touch, to imagine who is out there. Afternoons are boiling in a place like this. My sinuses are flaring, reacting to the extremity. But I betray them even further when I step out and embrace the heat with resilience. The same weapon an Aztec may have cultivated when the Conquistadors stormed the artificial streets of Tenochtitlan. They didn’t have muskets or horses or a map of the world, just raw willpower.

Across the dusty road, through the clouds of smoke, I survey for the worst, expecting tragedy with the increasing presence of Border Security.

Someone dead.

Not just a migrant. Not someone tethered to any country or nation. Just a fellow human who wanted something different for themselves or their family. Who risked it all, and maybe a little too much, in a deadly crossing.

But there is no one to my relief. Or maybe there actually is. Somewhere hundreds of yards from where I was investigating. I really hope not. I learned briefly in the news months beforehand that migrants suffer terrible fates in their desperate efforts to enter the United States. While I was disturbed, you don’t really understand why living on the East Coast in grass fields, with running rivers and lakes and greenery. That’s the luxurious world I came from, the world I grew to know. It’s different here in the southwest. The elements will test you as politicians do when they say: don’t come.

People have been found injured in these regions bordering Tijuana. Broken limbs. Dehydration. Venomous snake bites. Brain damage. Barbed wire skirmishes. These government-documented incidents have nothing to do with what it feels like to truly be here, kicking weeds and fighting to breathe. In a desert hellscape, where the only reminder that you’re on earth are the occasional saguaro cactuses with their prickly spines and humanoid pose.

* * *

I’m dipping below the saltwater, edging deeper into the raging Pacific. Imagining crossing to Asia, doing the record impossible, holding my breath in the hope of reaching a new continent, maybe Beijing or Shanghai, with just my own body. I could start over there, as I’ve started over on this coast.

Back on shore, an aged Mexican man is fishing alone by himself in the afternoon. He wears an oversized Swiss khaki hat, the strings pulled neatly around his chin, a few inches beneath a calm smile. I’m much taller than him. He moves the wire fishing rod with a gentle swish of the hands, reels the pole in, and anticipates cashing in on some serious game. I feel safe that he’s there keeping an eye out for dangerous marine life in the process of my swim.

“Hola, amigo,” he says while I toss my shirt down on the rocks, removing my bone-tooth surfer necklace.

I don’t need a college course in Spanish to understand the greeting. In fact, I don’t fucking need anything from university to survive on this beach right now or anywhere else, for that matter. I’ve realized this since I decided to drive cross country.

I’m on my own.

I wave cordially to the man, approaching with my knee-high lime-green palm trunks—the same ones I wore last year in Greece.

“Good day in the water?” I ask him politely.

What do I really know? I’m new here. But I’m determined not to be.

“Oh, yes, yes. Not a bad one, I can tell you that. Might want to watch out for the big ones,” he says, gesturing his head towards the water.

“Right.”

I was confused and hesitated momentarily to respond.

“The fish,” he clarifies.

Fish aren’t supposed to be that big unless it’s another creature. It doesn’t stop me, though.

I run straight towards the huge wave. The man reaches down into his cooler, fishes out a bottle of Jose Cuervo, and takes a generous swig.

Nearby, some blond surfer dude—definitely in his early twenties like me—is perched on the sand beside his girlfriend on a ripped emerald towel. She has sleek black hair, soaking wet from a recent dive. Sometimes, they spot me in their conversation. There aren’t too many others ashore. I exchange awkward glances with his girl. Maybe she thinks I’m his clone and is horrified by the very thought of that.

I’m drifting farther and farther away before she can deduce. Yet I wonder if she can tell I’m lost by my mute expressions. I was the same as them not so long ago, before Cali. In love. But it’s complicated. She’s there. And now I’m here. Angry, very angry, but letting go, breaking waves, riding waves. Deliberately getting lost.

I’m transfixed by the horizon. I rise to a forming high tide, shaking my head from left to right, releasing the excess water. Strands of my hair catch the Pacific wind, which switches directions faster than I can turn my body. My feet grow colder as I can no longer see the shoreline. By some miracle, I catch just enough air to survive the weight of massive waves plummeting on top of me for four cycles. The whole experience feels strangely nurturing and healing, despite the danger and challenge.

Perhaps Ponce de León searched the wrong corner of the continent. If ever there was a Fountain of Youth, it’s the Pacific.

I couldn’t breathe anymore. It had been forever since I surfaced. When I did, I heard the fisherman screaming: “Shark!”

I’m doggy paddling before I break into a front crawl surge. Behind me, I notice a leathery gray fin. It looks like a miniature sailboat. Only when I glance at it do I realize that I could soon be a victim of a shark attack. Unless, of course, I can return to shore promptly.

It wasn’t the grand finale I was expecting when I swam back to the sand courtesy of a water sprint—not that I wanted one anyway.

Just an: I told you so.

Most of the beachgoers have already carried on. Except for the fisherman.

“I thought I spotted a big fish earlier. You’re lucky, amigo,” he says. “You want fish?” He pulled a dead tuna from the orange bucket beside him.

“No, no. That’s enough fish for today.”

I was shaking uncontrollably at the thought of the lurking shark, its razor-sharp teeth and pink gums restless to strike. Naturally, though, I wanted back in the waves. The Mexican man watched me test the water with my foot, testing for another swim.

The surfers moved down the pier. It was time to pick myself up before I became too comfortable. I jumped back into the water, staying closer to shore this time, following the movements of a tanned, attentive surfer girl not so far from me.

* * *

I’m stranded miles deep in Golden State traffic with a rusty Pennsylvania license plate. Cars, motorcycles, busy ordinary Californians. I pass as many green directional signs as I do red-lettered California plates, some decorated with PVC silver palm tree frames. The source of the backup must be Interstate 5 into Los Angeles, I think. And violent honking probably means it’s rush hour. But again, I’m not from here. So I believe this instead of maybe the fact that I drive slowly out of caution.

I don’t want to get into another car wreck like I did in my freshman year of university. My professor didn’t know then that I failed my calculus exam because the evening before, I had been clipped by a hothead redneck driver.

I have all the windows of my Subaru rolled down. It isn’t quite sunny out, though. There’s smog and burning wildfires raining down from Orange County. They remind me of my past. Rising, burning, destroying, disappearing. It feels like a literal display. I’m letting go of everyone back home. It also feels like the waves can help me find my new one.

The palms of my hands are sweaty. The wheel is becoming difficult to maneuver. I never listen to the radio, and I don’t think Spotify is tight enough for me to roll with. So I’ve been bluetoothing “Hotel California” by The Eagles for hours since I crossed state lines from Las Vegas. It helped me transcend the desert, the belief that I was also on a dark desert highway, cool wind in my hair, too.

The smell of strange flowers fills the inside of my car as I enter Laguna Niguel. Everywhere, there are flowers: outside homes, shopping center complexes, private resorts. The Californian elite clearly loves them, lest they wouldn’t be here. Zoning is another border, a barrier keen to divide and separate.

The whole state seems like a flower to me, whether they are there or not. I came for beaches anyways, not poppies and posh twerps. My whole life, swimming has been an escape, a kind of therapy. The best swimmers are from California. Maybe Hawaii, too. Either way, I knew this was an oceanic paradise, dust gradually blowing in as I traveled along the interstate. I used my hand to brush my hair back, trying to understand why this place couldn’t be shared with everyone. Why borders must exist, and the few who have agency to enforce them from their manicured, spray-painted backyards.

I merge onto the ramp for Laguna, GPS my way over to Irvine, and I discover it—The Eagles still blasting away—my hotel in California.

* * *

One doesn’t naturally think of controversy being commonplace in a rural wasteland. But the American desert I roam is no ordinary desert. It’s a work of art, beauty, and opportunity—with an iron rod of evil branded right through it. Courtesy of fear. A stupid fucking wall erected by an orange xenophobic tyrant.

I’m glad Mexico didn’t pay for this metallic piece of garbage. They paid in other ways throughout history. I notice this as I violate the 100-foot-away rule. Graffiti lines the bars. Hearts of all colors. Peace signs. Smiley faces transposed over frowns. Phrases and words like: peace is possible, commit, connect, care, love, welcome. I see stick figures. A man holding a cross above falling men. The date? 1521. That was the year the Aztecs and Tenochtitlan fell to Cortés and his invading European forces.

I realize there’s a threat to Mexico even half a millennia later of similar proportions.

I feel sicker than ever. The heat isn’t helping. And I’m suspicious that Border Patrol is nearby, keen to interrogate me. My mind is numb for a moment. My body is fixed stationary against the graffiti. I think it’s the end. It’s been hours since my last glass of water. Red eyeballs are rolling in the saguaro cacti, at least they appear to be.

“It’s dangerous out here,” I hear it shout, needle arms moving, swaying, with fluid style.

A tangerine sun is dipping beneath the haze of the desert plains. Orange turns into a burgundy crimson. The light makes my tan so much sexier. I forgot where I parked the Baru. Flashing lights are storming in the distance along the sand-covered highway. Stars are sprinkled like on top of a frosted donut, peaking through purple and red.

I breathe deep and listen to a quietness I’ve never known. I don’t know whether to panic or rejoice, or do a bit of both. Out here, it doesn’t matter.

“Get away from there,” I hear a man burst from afar. When I whip around, he is nowhere to be found. The command is frightening enough that I dart through the sand with my weathered flops. I lose one along the way, my arms gliding, legs racing towards the freeway. My Baru is parked on the shoulder, where I must have left it hours ago.

While I unlock the doors, the sound of a gunshot echoes across the remote abyss. Then shrieking. Then nothing. Emergency lights in the distance are blinking more rapidly, like red flares in international waters. Without further hesitation, I climb into my car and edge closer.

* * *

I see the sight of the wall again. This time, a woman and three men are caught atop the barbed wire fence. Blood dripping from their bodies has leaked into the sand, forming irregular puddles. Their skin tissue hangs loosely from their bones, and stringy nerves and veins are exposed.

Crackling from the radio fluctuates behind me. I hear a sharp voice scrambling with distress from the interface of the Border Patrol vehicle.

“Sergeant Johnson, What’s your report of the scene? Sergeant Johnson, do you have the illegals in custody? Damn it, Sergeant, do you have the situation under control? Sergeant Johnson, Do you require backup?”

On the other side of the truck, I discover the Sergeant, a pistol in hand, a hole in the forehead, blood draining drooling his neck and chest, and uniform. The gun is pointed towards himself. I inspect him, then gaze at the dead migrants shredded by the barbed fence.

The smell of blood and flesh fills the hot desert air, rotting as the temperature boils.

I start vomiting up the Cali bacon ranch guacamole burrito and coughing. Dizzy and exhausted, I nearly black out. The radio keeps me awake with the horror of its frenzy.

Avoiding the continuing puddles of blood and my own vomit, I reach inside the Patrol car to respond to the frantic man ringing desperately for the Sergeant. I speak, but my voice is cracked and distorted.

“He’s dead. They all are.”

“Who is this? You have no business out here,” snaps the man. “This is a secure area. Government property. Wait there—”

Fuck no, was I waiting around for them. I would have never even answered had I not had particular sympathy for the migrants, whose mangled bodies and bones became haunting images in the dark. I bolted straight for my Baru, away from the flashing lights, against a fleeting sunset. Anger, fear, frustration. I experienced it all breaking 90 mph on the highway. Running from being someone who cared, becoming the other someone who cared a hell of a lot more.

Across state lines in southwestern Arizona, at the first welcome center rest stop, I dreamt that the Latino girl at Del Taco returned to see me.

“It’s okay,” she says as she approaches, “You’re okay.”

I don’t believe her. But I imagine her smiling anyway, of trusting her words.

A neighbor’s horn rouses me prematurely before I can finish the dream. I guess it wouldn’t matter if I did. Her story isn’t changing for the better. Mine feels awfully similar. And if I can’t understand these walls and borders, I can at least forget them in the ocean. I can swim, surf, and start all over again tomorrow.