Summer Ritual, or, Latino Possibilities
by Sub-commandante X

Heading out to the nude beach at The Canaveral National Seashore, Titusville, Florida is a yearly rite of summer. Despite political posturing, and scare headlines in the press recently, Memorial Day 2000 is looking beautiful and au natural at the coastline.

There's no sign says, "Nude Beach". Ya gotta know how to get there. Since my folks have lived here 15 years, that makes me an honorary local yokel.

A $5 day pass will get you to the beach. The drive, alone, is worth the price of admission, through the scenic seashore with the Space Shuttle launch pads just beyond the marshes.

Gotta stay alert though, had to slow down (from 35mph), and swerve, twice, to avoid making a mess of 1) a raccoon, and 2) a slithering snake. Early morning in a wildlife preserve, I guess.

The beach parking lots are consecutively numbered, 1 to 13. If the nude beach had a number it would be #14. But it's unmarked.

Because of the holiday, the closest I could find a parking space was in lot #11. Had to haul the folding chair, notebooks, water, & stuff, the rest of the way on foot.

Not complaining, guess I needed the exercise. It felt great when I settled at a private stretch of beach, and prepared for a Memorial Day nude plunge in the ocean.

Viva freedom, wherever you can find it nowadays.

Back on shore, I read of ancient cultures of the prehistoric African Catal Huyuk type, which were cattle-raising, Great Goddess worshiping, partnership societies practicing an orgiastic and psychedelic religion.

If we could do it then, why not now? What else you got going?

Don't let NASA fool you, scratch the surface and Titusville is a red-neck, provincial hick town. Bumper sticker in a Walmart parking lot,

"Save a horse, ride a cowboy"

Speaking strictly for me, theoretically, not looking to get involved in any 'entangling alliances' any time soon.

But, a chance collision in the hall sent magnetic, electric impulses to the body amid embarrassed smiles.

"Pardon me. Sorry... we'll dance again," I said.

"Okay," she said (hopefully?)

No offense, but I don't think so. Really, "It ain't me babe". (Somebody said that, I think.)

At the 'silent' art auction with the hip country band, the gypsy-girl flashed her love puppies at me, lest I forget. She snuggled close to tell me she's broken up with her man, and my gumba, Marco. Says she's downhearted, and wants my number. (It's still in the book.)

Well, OK, she was drunk. But, Marco left her for another. Now that could change things. Not wanting to seem too eager, still got my pride.

I'm not that easy. (Just don't push it.) And she did give up her twelve cats, so there would be room for me.

But, I just don't know. Why don't you call me in the morning? If you remember, we could talk...

There were tales of passports, expatriates, Cuba, Costa Rica, and Mexico. It made the night thick with hot latina possibilities.

Seems there are regular flights from the Bahamas to Cuba for U.S. tourists. No big deal. No fanfare.

And, there are boat communities of retired U.S. citizens in Cuban ports, right now.

Sometimes you just gotta turn off the TV, and talk to people to find things out. Be sure to make a note of it.

Sub-X is a survivor of the radical '60s. These days he's attempting to get beyond the 'Them' and 'Us' duality of Conflict Consciousness. Trying to eliminate conflict from one's reality is a lot like dealing with alcohol. It's an on-going process. Currently, Sub-X seeks solutions and asks, "Why not more beauty, love, and joy?" We know we can do so much better. OK, so why not?