The Coast at Sinaloa

Three days of highway and then the Pacific. I've driven this coast before, years ago, but I always forget how the sea here is different from the sea up north — warmer, slower, more willing to let you in.

Camped on a beach without a name. The kind of place you find by turning down a dirt road when you have a feeling. I've been following feelings more than plans lately, and the hit rate is surprisingly high.

Ate shrimp tacos from a truck that appeared at sunset and disappeared before I woke up. Rinsed the salt out of my hair with a gallon jug of water.

The nights are loud here. Insects and frogs and something further off that I couldn't identify. I lay in the bed of the truck with the tailgate down and tried to let the sound fill the space where the thinking usually lives.