MEMORIES OF BOCA CHICA: HOMELAND SECURITY TIGHTENS THE NOOSE

By Juan Montoya

Those of us who grew up in Brownsville remember what it was like in the 60s and 70s.
There was but one high school in town. Brownsville was still the kind of place where everyone knew each other or had heard of everyone from someone else. The jocks and chucos were distinct social groups. The “ins” were in, and the “outs” were literally probably dropping out before the 10th grade to make a living or help their parents.
In those days, marijuana was not a drug, or a controlled substance. It was part of a lifestyle defined by the age, the social turmoil in the country, and the war. If you were a male, the likelihood of you getting drafted and getting sent off to fight in Southeast Asia was very real.
Cocaine was unheard of, and heroin was relegated to some very bad people in the most dangerous parts of town, or on its way past Sarita to San Anto, Tecato town.
Almost daily, in the late 60s and early 70s, you’d hear of this neighbor or that neighbor getting the news that their son had been killed “in the Nam” and the entire neighborhood would share in the grief. The little flags on their doors or window were grim reminders that somewhere our camaradas were dying.
They were also the days of unabashed rock and roll. Beatles, Rolling Stones, Cream, Jefferson Airplane, etc., filled the airwaves. We had our own homegrown Jimi Hendrix, one Henry Lee, who could imitate the Great One note for note. During the summer, or at night during the weekend, the place to go was to Boca Chica Beach, turn on the AM station, and enjoy the music with the ocean breeze smelling of sandalwood and brine.
Boca Chica was not only nearer to the city than South Padre Island, it was also more barrio friendly. There were no police cruising the sand looking out for teens drinking alcohol. In fact, there was almost no police presence on the beach, save for an occasional Border Patrol jeep surveying the mouth of the river.
It was a place where couples could sit on the hood of dad’s car and feel the breeze and each other. On moonlight nights, it seemed like the Charro Drive-in, except that the cars were half a mile apart. Kids at that time would pitch in and fill the car up with $6 or $7 dollars. Gas was somewhere around 50 cents a gallon.
It was a place where you could take a date without the social stigma of someone in her family spotting you at the Mr. Q hamburger joint, or later, at Burger Chef.

If some of your friends were from Matamoros (and a lot of them from Southmost and Las Prietas were), there was no fear that an armed INS officer would pull them out of the car and arrest them. One could walk unhindered down Elizabeth Street without having someone eye you suspiciously for appearing to be too Mexican.

You could go right up to the docks at the Port of Brownsville (or off the elevator where the drum ran in the winter) and fish unhindered by George Gavito and his lightning strike force.

It was, in a word, freedom.

In retrospect, what Boca Chica Beach reminds me of was the freedom we have lost. If you, for some reason or other, lose your license or ID, chances are you can't cross the bridge into Mexico, drive past the checkpoint at Sarita or Falfurrias, or walk without worries in downtown Brownsville.

And forget about Boca Chica Beach. That, too, has been lost.