.45 Caliber Politics On A Mexican Beach

This event took place sometime in January 1970, on a private stretch of beach belonging to Claudio. Pi de la Questa was a sleepy, donkey-riddled haven for dope smokin’ Canucks and Chicago gangsta-types back then. Probably not much different now, eh! Anyways, I was renting a hammock on the beach, a shower in the outdoor stall (the best showers I’ve ever had), and a bowl of shrimp each and everyday from Claudio for a buck.

The fateful day was perhaps the sixth day of my time with the Chicago gangsters. There were two guys and a Spanish speaking, dark-eyed beauty who did the translating. Both the guys sported tiny little .22 caliber automatic handguns. After a couple of drinks and some body-surfing, we’d take target practice and then watch the sun sink behind a curtain of surf.

I had been under their command for a week now, working hard to screen out the seeds, sticks and crappy leaves from the raw pot that they purchased from different farmers here and there. They paid me in pot. It was late in the afternoon of a hard day and all was quiet. There was only a ripple of gentle surf murmuring on the beach. We were sitting under the thatched cabana and having some drinks, smokin’ a joint, when the strange sound of an engine drifted to us. All turned to see the blue Lincoln, still gleaming silently in front of the room with the 120 kilos of screened and bagged weed.

The dark eyed gangster’s moll sat to my left and the Pistolaros with the pee shooters were to her left. The sound of an engine soon multiplied into a convoy of army vehicles carrying enough well-armed Federalies to fight a small war.