Don't Start the Revolution Without Me! - Jesse Ventura [95]
What I’ve raised here are just a few of the questions being asked by experts and citizens all over the U.S. Maybe no one will ever know what really happened that day. One thing I feel really strongly about is that you should never listen to just one side of a story, whether that be the official side or the conspiracy side. Especially when it has affected our whole way of life and our reputation as a fair and free country around the world. Look, listen, read, explore, discuss, and do everything you can to find the truth, and then make your decisions based upon all the evidence you have. Question everything.
CHAPTER 12
At Conception Bay
“Judge me by my policies. Judge me by my commissioners, and judge me by the work that we’re trying to do—not a feeding frenzy of media so that you can get ratings and make money.”
—Jesse Ventura, The News Hour with Jim Lehrer,
February 14, 2000
Not too far below Mulegé, traveling a meandering stretch of Highway 1, one of the most breathtakingly beautiful spots that I’ve ever witnessed appears suddenly from around a bend. It’s called the Bahía de Concepción. Conception Bay. It’s vast, with a series of small islands in the middle. Looking across it, you see a mountain range—the southern end of the Sierra de Guadalupe—and, until you spy the opening, at first you can’t tell whether this is a lake or the ocean.
It is a calm day, no wind. Far below us, probably 200 feet or more, the tranquil, turquoise waters are so clear that we can see all the way to the bottom. A couple is snorkeling down there, and even their shadows are visible. “Terry,” I say, in a near-whisper, “this is almost too much to handle. I don’t think I can concentrate on the road.”
I used to say that I would someday retire to the surfing beaches of Hawaii, but this spot is more captivating than anything I can imagine; a “desert Polynesia,” as the tourist brochures say. I decide to make the first turnoff we can, and find a place to park the camper.
Terry recognizes a frigate bird passing overhead. In the near distance, we think we catch the spouting of a whale. There don’t seem to be many facilities for visitors, but at the base of one rise, a dirt road lead off toward the bay. I edge the camper onto it, and momentarily we emerge at a cove. We are alone. Alone on a glistening, white sand beach. Pelicans dove for fish. Fiddler crabs race along the shoreline.
“This feels pretty close to heaven to me,” Terry says.
“Conception Bay.” I turn the words over in my mouth. “The name sure fits, doesn’t it? I’ll bet this is the honeymoon spot of the Baja.”
Terry smiles, and curles up in my arms.
We spend the night here, awakening soon after sunrise to walk the beach with Dexter. Out near one of the islands, another couple is already paddling around in a kayak. There is barely even the ripple of a wave.
“Let’s just not even think about getting anywhere today,” Terry says, and I nod in agreement.
Back at the camper, she returns to reading Steinbeck’s Log from the Sea of Cortez. Long ago, his expedition had pulled into Conception Bay to collect marine life and, when Terry comes to a certain passage, she motions to me. “Listen to this,” she said quietly.
“Behind the beach there was a little level land, sandy and dry and covered with cactus and thick brush. And behind that, the rising dry hills. Now again the wild doves were calling among the hills with their song of homesickness. The quality of longing in this sound, the memory response it sets up, is curious and strong. And it has also