The Ocean Don’t Lie
Desert Crossing with Vietnam Vet Wade, 1973
Full Table of Contents: Surfing the Interstates: Complete Chapter Guide
Chapter Thirteen: The Ocean Don’t Lie
The Peterbilt carries us through the desert dark. Willie Nelson giving way to silence. Just the engine's rhythm and tire hum. Geoff and Jason sleeping in the berth behind us.
The driver's name is Carl. Forty years hauling freight. "Used to love it. Open road, different towns. Now it's just moving boxes from A to B."
Indio. Blythe. The Colorado River announcing Arizona. Carl shares his thermos of coffee. Bitter, strong, necessary.
"You play that guitar?"
"Some."
"My boy played. Till he enlisted. Left it in his room like he was coming back for it."
The highway empty except for other trucks. Running lights like red stars. The desert huge and black beyond our headlights.
"Two years now. His mother still sets his place at dinner sometimes. Forgets, she says."
What do you say? Sorry seems useless. I watch the white lines disappear beneath us.
Phoenix finally. Four AM. Carl drops us at a truck stop near I-10. Shakes our hands. "Be careful out there.”
We find a Denny's. Pool our money. Split two Grand Slams three ways. The waitress takes pity, leaves the coffee pot.
Dawn breaking. Already warm. We stake out the eastbound ramp.
Morning traffic builds. Families. Retirees. Nobody interested in three road-worn kids. The sun climbs. The concrete heats up.
Two hours in, a Highway Patrol cruiser stops.
"You boys got ID?"
We hand them over. The cop studies them like scripture. Geoff's hands steady but I see the muscle in his jaw. Jason stares at his boots.
"No warrants. But you can't be here. Move along."
"Where exactly can we be?" Geoff asks, voice flat.
The cop's eyes narrow. "Not here."
We walk a mile east. Find a Shell station. Try again.
Another hour. The heat now a living thing. My shirt soaked. Guitar case burning my palm. The thermometer on the bank reads 92 and it's not even noon.
"Fuck this," Jason mutters. First complaint I've heard from him.
Then—salvation. A VW van slowing. Forest green, rust eating the wheel wells. Duct tape holding the bumper.
The driver leans out. Maybe forty. Sun-damaged deep. Arms covered in tattoos—anchors, compass roses, a mermaid with sad eyes. "Where to?"
"Austin," Geoff says. "But anywhere east helps."
"Las Cruces. Hop in."
The van's gutted. No seats in back. Just a mattress, milk crates, coiled rope. Smells like salt water and marijuana. A surfboard strapped to the ceiling.
"Name's Wade." He shifts gears, the transmission complaining. "You boys look cooked."
We share our water. Wade produces a gallon jug of sun tea. "Made it yesterday. Hibiscus and honey."
Tastes like flowers and salvation. We drink deep.
"Headed home from Baja," Wade says. "Three months fishing and fucking off."
His hands on the wheel—scarred, capable. A silver ring with turquoise. The van struggles up to sixty, holds there.
Twenty miles out, Geoff asks about the tattoos.
"Each one's a story." Wade touches the mermaid. "Got her in Singapore. 1965. Before my first tour."
"You were in Nam?"
"Two tours. Navy. River patrol." His voice stays level. "Saw things that don't fit in regular life."
The desert opens around us. Saguaro cacti. Red rock. Beauty and desolation married.
Wade lights a joint. Passes it back. "You boys know anything about sailing?"
We don't.
"Bought a trimaran in '71. Named her Cassandra. Nobody listened to her either." He laughs. "Took her from San Diego to Tahiti. Eleven thousand miles. Just me and the fish and whatever God is."
"Alone?" Jason sounds incredulous.
"Only way to do it. Twenty-one days minimum. That's how long it takes to shed your old skin. Become who you really are."
The speedometer creeps past seventy. The van shudders.
"See, the ocean don’t lie like land does. Can't pretend out there. Can't hide behind—"
BANG.
The world tilts. We're sideways at seventy-five. Geoff thrown against me. Jason praying in tongues. Wade wrestling the wheel like it's alive.
The van fishtails. Straightens. Slows. Stops.
"Motherfucker." Wade almost sounds impressed.
We pile out. The front left tire—shredded. Rubber scattered across both lanes. A semi thunders past, horn blaring.
"That could've been it," Geoff says. His hands shaking now.
Wade's already got the jack out. "Could've been. Wasn't. Help me with this."
We change the tire in record time. Traffic screaming past inches away. The heat brutal. The spare bald but holding.
Back in the van. Everyone quiet for ten miles.
"That's the thing about almost dying," Wade finally says. "Reminds you you're not dead yet."
The desert rolls on. Wade starts talking again. Rules for living. Philosophy earned the hard way.
"Spend time alone. Real alone. No books, no music, no nothing. Just you and your heartbeat."
"Chuck the gringo program. All that American Dream bullshit. It's a con game."
"Find what's real. For me it's wind and water. Might be something else for you."
Desert Center appears. The thermometer on the bank reads 108.
"Jesus," Jason whispers.
We stop for gas. Buy a styrofoam cooler, fill it with ice. Wade adds three bottles of Gallo red. "For later."
Back on the road. The van struggling in the heat. Temperature gauge climbing.
"In Mexico," Wade says, "eight bucks gets you love all night. No guilt, no games. Just human warmth."
"That ain't love," Geoff says.
"Maybe not. But it's honest. Everyone knows the deal."
Miles of desert. Wade's stories getting wilder. Hash oil recipes. Motorcycle crashes. Bar fights in Ensenada.
"Violence is the sea we swim in," he says. "Pretending otherwise is how they control you."
The sun starting its descent. The wine coming out. Passed around warm and sour.
"After my second tour, nothing made sense. Tried college—couldn't sit still. Tried marriage—she couldn't handle the nightmares. Then I found sailing."
He lights another joint. The van fills with smoke.
"The ocean's got its own rules. Respect them, you live. Don't, you die. Simple. Clean. Not like this." He waves at the desert, the highway, America.
"You boys running from something or to something?"
Geoff and Jason look at each other. I stare out the window.
"Both," I finally say.
Wade nods. "That's honest. Most people lie about it."
The mountains rising ahead. Las Cruces emerging from the desert like a mirage.
"Ever been to Big Bend?" Wade asks.
We haven't.
"That's where you find out who you are. Those canyons don't care about your stories. Just you and rock and sky. Like being at sea but dry."
He pulls into a truck stop. End of the line.
We climb out, gathering our gear. Wade hands Geoff the last bottle of wine.
"For the road."
We thank him. What else can you say to someone who's shown you their scars?
"Hey," Wade calls as we walk away. "That thing about twenty-one days alone? Try it sometime. Might surprise yourself."
The van pulls away, trailing blue smoke. We stand in the parking lot. Las Cruces spread before us. The sun setting behind the Organ Mountains.
"That dude was certifiable," Jason says.
"Yeah," Geoff agrees. "But he wasn't wrong."
I think about twenty-one days alone. About shedding skin. About the ocean not lying. About Big Bend and finding out who you are.
The wine warm in Geoff's hand. The night coming on. Whatever's waiting in El Paso already reaching back toward us through the dark.
→ Next Chapter: Chapter 14: Out in the West Texas Town of El Paso - "Border town arrival with Geoff and Jason - the Lucky Tiger truck stop"
← Previous Chapter: Chapter 12: Love Through Stone - "Prophetic African dreams after Big Sur UFO encounter - three stones and future love"
📖 Full Table of Contents: Surfing the Interstates: Complete Chapter Guide
⚓ Wade's Wisdom: "The ocean don't lie like land does" - Vietnam veteran sailor's hard-earned philosophy about truth, solitude, and shedding old skin.