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As a teenager living in Chula Vista in the early 1960s, living just a few miles from the Mexican border, I was often in Tijuana. Most of my friends and I were addicted to the place; it gave us the freedom to do practically anything we wanted, and the thrill of always being on the edge.

A powerful blow to the side of my head sent me sprawling on the sidewalk. Then a strong hand seized the back of my pants and lifted me up from the sidewalk. About that time, I noticed the dark sleeves on the shirt above the hand. Tijuana has long been a place where you can find all kinds of trouble. This was the wrong kind.

Illustration by Casey Beifuss

As a teenager living in Chula Vista in the early 1960s, just a few miles from the Mexican border, I was often in Tijuana. Most of my friends and I were addicted to the place; it gave us the freedom to do practically anything we wanted, and the thrill of always being on the edge. I had witnessed some crazy things there: fights, robberies, even shootings. And it was not unusual to witness a police arrest in the aftermath of these events, and to witness in the police beating the crap out of the person being apprehended with their batons. Those dark sleeves I saw were police sleeves.

* * *

That night, we went to a dance in Chula Vista. Maybe we didn’t like the band, maybe we weren’t meeting any girls. Whatever the reason, we decided to head down to Tijuana to finish the night. Strange: we usually started the night there, drank as much as we could, then headed back to a dance or party in Chula Vista. Strange too that we decided to drive across the border. Normally, we would park on the U.S. side and walk in. There was a good reason for this: if you got into an accident in Mexico, there was a strong possibility the police would confiscate your car. And there was always the chance of being taken to jail. And for sure, all the money you and your friends had, and all your valuables, would be taken by the police. The rule about having an accident in Mexico was that if you were not hurt, you should tactfully remove yourself from the scene, drive away if possible, and get yourself back across the border as fast as you could.

We made the normal rounds of the usual places. First, the El Patio bar on a side street off Avenida Revolución, the main tourist street in Tijuana, for a couple of cheap pitchers of beer. Local Mexicans patronized this bar, and it echoed with the distinctive sound of domino tiles being slammed on the tables. After a couple of pitchers at the El Patio, we headed to the Long Bar, a common gathering place for young people from the U.S. Often, we would see people we knew there, a number of them surfers headed down into Baja for the waves. Talking with other surfers meant bragging and lying, arguing over who was the best (and worst) surfer, and stories of near-death wipeouts and secret surf spots. And there were always some good stories about exciting encounters with Mexican locals, with at-gunpoint robberies topping the list. One oft-told tale warned of a guy who would show up out of nowhere at the popular surf spot K38½ with an old rusty rifle to charge money for parking and camping.

The Long Bar meant more beer — in a bottle if you could afford it. The 40-ounce bottles of Suprema or Superior were my favorites. Also, shots of Jose Cuervo white (the cheapest option) and whatever mezcal could be had, as long as it featured a worm at the bottom for whoever got the last pour. No one ever had much more than a few dollars, which was a good thing, because it limited our consumption. We smoked cheap Mexican cigarettes, unfiltered Fiestas. Occasionally, we paid for a song or two from the live Mariachi bands that were always roaming around. The loud sound of the horns and squeeze box accordions always got everyone fired up.

Around midnight, we headed for Mike’s A-Go-Go Bar on Avenida Revolución near the Jai Alai Frontón Palacio. Mike’s was a good place for loud rock bands; the dance floor was always packed. Mixed drinks were the preferred option; the Tom Collins with tequila was my favorite. Cheap, sweet, and went down fast. Sometimes, we stayed in Tijuana all night.

On this night, we left Mike’s at 1 am, pretty messed up, but still thirsty. We headed for The Jungle Club, which had just about the cheapest pitcher beer in Tijuana. Plus, you always got a bowl of little round Spanish peanuts. The Jungle Club was pretty entertaining, because it had a dance floor where the locals would pay the ladies to dance. The loud oompah Mexican dance music, the strong smell of cheap stale beer, and the occasional cockroach in your peanuts made this place perfect for a last stop before leaving town.

We were all joking around, shoving each other and talking loudly. Just then, my head bumped into a banner hanging over the sidewalk. I thought it was one of those “Big Sale” signs that hang all along Avenida Revolución, luring tourists. I swatted at it — then grabbed it and yanked on it, as did everyone else. It fell on the sidewalk, and we all proceeded to stomp on it. That’s when the hand hit me. And after I noticed the dark sleeve, I noticed the green, white, and red of the “sign” I had pulled down. A Mexican flag. And then I realized that it was Mexican Independence Day.

I tried to apologize in both English and Spanish, and tried to say I would put the flag back in its place. But there would be no easy out here, no payoff and on my way. Fearing that they might be scooped up as well, my friends backed away — all except one. I heard him say the word dinero several times. But the two officers told him to cállate — shut up. The officer who had a hold of me roughly escorted me down the sidewalk to the corner. I did not resist. My hands were free, and as I was walking, I reached into my front pocket, pulled out the keys to my 1952 Willy’s Jeep Station Wagon and dropped them on the sidewalk. I knew someone from my group would see that and grab them.

Within a few minutes, a panel truck drove up to us. One of the officers opened the back door, pushed me in, and pointed at the metal bench along the side. The driver came around to the back door with a chain in his hand, then wrapped the chain around both of my wrists and the leg of the bench. He secured it with a normal padlock. I could tell it was not very secure, but also that trying to make a run for it was not a good idea. Both of the two officers and the driver had revolvers in holsters on their waists. I kept saying “lo seinto mucho” and “mucho dinero,” but it was useless. As the panel truck drove away, I looked out the back window. The image of my friends, helplessly standing there on the curb with no expressions on their faces as I was taken away, is one I will never forget.

I assumed I was headed for jail. My immediate thought was that my friends would all chip in, head over to the local Tijuana police station in my Jeep, and pay whatever fine was necessary to bail me out. But as the panel truck drove through the streets of Tijuana, I quickly deduced that we were not going to the local downtown police station. I had been there before to bail out a couple of buddies. Instead, I could see that we were headed out of town.

I was already scared. Now I was more scared. There were plenty of stories of people being tortured by police, even people disappearing. I kept thinking that while it was a bad thing to tromp all over a country’s flag, especially on that country’s Independence Day, I hadn’t been robbing or assaulting anyone. But I wasn’t sure it mattered. I decided I had to escape.

I had quickly figured out how I could get out of my chains. (If this happened today, I’m sure they would have used handcuffs.) And it was just the driver and myself in the truck. And there was a handle on the inside of the back door. I thought about jumping, but we were going pretty fast. Subduing the driver wasn’t a possibility, either, not with the mesh screen separating us and the gun on his hip. So I stayed put for the moment.

Eventually, the streetlights gave way to darkness. Then we were climbing up a hill on a noisy gravel road. Then we reached a level place and stopped. The driver came around, opened the door, saw me sitting there without my chains, and smiled as if to say, That’s what everyone does. He motioned for me to get out, and as I stepped out into the quiet darkness, I saw what looked like a big building with no windows, just a door. But soon I realized it wasn’t a building; it was the outside wall of La Mesa, the Mexican State Prison.

The driver took me inside and up to a counter where he motioned for me to empty my pockets. The guy behind the counter went through my possessions: I had one dollar and some change in my front pocket, and in my wallet, I had my driver’s license and school ID. The guy behind the counter noticed my Spanish surname, and started speaking to me in Spanish. All I could do was repeat, “Lo seinto mucho, por favor.” I’m a pretty good talker, but not in Spanish.

The guy behind the counter motioned to the driver to put me in a little room opposite the counter. I figured this was some sort of holding cell, a long rectangular space with bench seats along the walls. The benches were outfitted with arm rests; the arm rests were outfitted with metal rings. I sat down in the seat closest to the door, and the driver picked up a chain from the floor and slid it through the ring of one armrest. Then he wrapped the chain around both of my wrists, and slid the chain through the ring of my other armrest. It was as if I were tied up by the chain, but with no lock of any sort. He then slammed the door, which I noticed closed with a loud metallic bang and then bounced slightly open. I then heard the driver leave through the prison wall’s door, which he also slammed. I was the only person in the cell.

As I was sitting there, I could hear the guy behind the counter slowly typing something, which I assumed was a record of my arrest. The sound of the slow click, click, click of the typewriter sounded like a time bomb ticking down the last seconds of my life. It was clear to me I was being processed for incarceration into the La Mesa State Prison. I started to think about how mad my parents would be when they found out I was in prison, but that didn’t last long, because I knew I had much bigger problems than my parents being pissed off at me. This wasn’t the Tijuana jail that the Kingston Trio sang about. This was prison. And from what I had heard about prisons in Mexico, they were not a nice place for young kids like me.

I kept thinking, I have to get out of here. Once again, I easily and quietly freed myself from my chains. I stood up and cracked open the cell door. I could see the clerk typing away sitting with his back to the counter, and I could see the door to the outside. It looked closed, but I could not tell if it was locked. I didn’t remember seeing the clerk’s gun, but I figured he must have one nearby. I figured there must be more people around somewhere — prisons had guards, didn’t they? — but I hadn’t seen any. Guards or no guards, I knew, then and there, that I had to make a run for it.

I figured I could slowly open the holding cell door, quietly creep the few feet to the outside door, and if it was not locked, open it quickly and run like hell. (The driver had not had to unlock it when he brought me inside.) If the clerk ran after me, he would first have to jump over or go around the counter, which would give me a little head start. Also, I was pretty sure I could outrun him. If he had a gun, he could easily shoot me, but it was still dark and maybe I could get far enough away before he started shooting.

Then I thought about the possibility of guards on the prison walls. They surely had guns. I hoped they wouldn’t notice me running until I had put some distance between us. And even if they did start shooting, how good is anyone’s aim in the dark? If I could just get far enough away from the prison, I could hide somewhere until it got light, then make my way to the border.

I knew it was a huge gamble, but I was a fast runner, and thought I could outrun someone if they chased after me. I thought that I would be able to hide out there in the country. I also thought that I was maybe smarter than the Mexican police, even though I was the one in their custody. But whatever my thoughts, they weren’t going to get me free. I had to move. The clerk was still typing away. I gently pushed open the door and slowly took a couple of steps toward the outside door. Then I bolted. I put my hand on the handle and turned it. Unlocked. I took one quick step back to let the door open inward, then ran like mad.

For a few seconds, I didn’t hear anything. I thought maybe the guy behind the counter was letting me go. Then I thought maybe I was being set up for the Mexican death penalty. Mexico did not have a death penalty, but criminals often died during their attempted escape. But it was too late for that thought now. I was on my way.

It was still dark. I had made it about 100 yards when all hell broke loose. Pop, pop, pop rang out, which I was sure was gunfire. I didn’t look back, but I could see from the corner of my eye that some rather dim spotlights had started shining from the top of the walls. This made me run even faster. By this time, I could hear even more gunfire. Oddly, what I noticed was the variety of gun sounds. Some sounded like firecrackers, others had an echoing sound, and I even heard a couple of blasts. It sounded like the whole arsenal was being used: pistols, rifles, and shotguns.

I had been running through the large gravel parking area for maybe 20 seconds when I came to a small downhill surface. I tripped and fell flat on my face, but I was quickly up on my feet and running down the hill. It was dark, but my eyes had adjusted some, so I could pretty much see where I was going. I got to a gravel road that appeared to be the main road to the prison and started to run down it as fast as I could. I didn’t hear any more gunfire by that time, nor did I see any cars. Then I saw two headlights coming up the road. I crouched down behind some bushes on the roadside, and as the car got closer, I could tell that it was a taxi. I had been raised around people who loved cars, and I knew the sound of the six-cylinder, early 1950s Chevrolet that was favored by taxi drivers in Tijuana.

This was my chance. The taxi got within about 25 feet, and I jumped out into the road and raised both of my arms in the air, imploring it to stop. I hoped there were no passengers, that the taxi was on its way to pick up a fare. The driver stopped. Without saying anything, I opened one of the back doors and jumped in — luckily, there were no passengers. But by this point, my fear had transformed into rage, and I honestly think I would have taken on any hostile passengers, and even the taxi driver.

I hollered, “La fronteria rapido, la fronteria rapido, mucho dinero, mucho dinero.” The taxi driver whipped a U-turn in the gravel, and off we went. I did a quick glance out the back window towards the prison. By this point, it was awash in light. I continued to holler about the border, and the driver sped along through one street after another in that direction. The 6-cylinder engine revved up and down; it sounded like a kid’s bike with cards hitting the spokes of the wheels. There was hardly any traffic and no people around, so the taxi driver didn’t stop for lights or stop signs.

After about ten minutes, I saw we were nearing the border. I motioned to him to drive up as close as he could. It was just starting to get light, and everything outside looked normal — just a few cars and people around and no police in sight. There was just one lane open, and a U.S. Immigration and Customs Officer at the crossing checkpoint, questioning a motorist.

I had no money or valuables of any sort with which to pay the driver, and no ID to show the Customs Officer. I knew I would have to jump out of the taxi and make a run for it across the border, and that is exactly what I did. When the taxi driver got within one car length of the checkpoint, I jumped out and ran along the passenger side of the car at the front of the line. As I ran, I could hear the taxi driver hollering some swear words in Spanish at me, but I didn’t look back. The Immigration and Customs Officer looked up and stared at me for a moment, but said nothing. I think he recognized me as one of those crazy teenagers from Chula Vista.

After I made it onto U.S. soil, I slowed down some, but I didn’t stop running until I was out of sight of both the checkpoint and the taxi driver. No one on the U.S. side came after me or even called out for me to stop. When I did stop, I thought for a moment that I was going to cry. But then that feeling was replaced by a rush as I thought about what I had just pulled off. What a story this was going to make for my friends in Chula Vista! Now I just needed them to have picked up my keys, headed home, and then set out on a rescue mission at first light.

I walked a little ways over to the border crossing for people entering Tijuana and sat there for a while on the curb, watching. Sure enough, it wasn’t too long before I spotted my white Willy’s Jeep Station Wagon, with my friend Gary driving it. He pulled over and I jumped in and said something like, “You won’t believe this.” He responded, “We thought you were a goner.”

Gary had gone around to all our friends and collected about $30, but he didn’t think that was going to help. He thought that maybe someone would be willing to trade my Jeep for my freedom, but he wasn’t sure.

I bragged about my Mexico prison escape in Chula Vista until I was pretty sure everyone was sick of it. It would have been easy to embellish the story, but there was really no need. The truth was wild enough. There was just one thing I couldn’t get off my mind; was I the one who did most of the pulling on the “banner”? Was I the one who did most of the stomping on it? But in the end, I guess it didn’t matter. What mattered was that I was the one who got nabbed. Also, I felt bad about not being able to pay my get-away taxi driver. Several months later, a few of us took a taxi from the border to the Bullring by the Sea. Both the taxi and the driver seemed awfully familiar. I made sure he got a nice tip.

When it came to Tijuana adventures with my friends, I took a couple of weeks off. I was a little gun shy, so to speak.