On Ocean Time (By Land): A Captain's Log (World Cup Edition) June 14, 2026
June 14, 2026
We left the Yucatán behind a few days ago, letting the highway take us north along the sweeping, curving coastline of the Gulf of Mexico. The MG handles the curves beautifully, but you really have to take your time and stay alert behind the wheel. The early summer humidity down here wraps around you like warm velvet, and the daily afternoon rains can turn the asphalt slick and unpredictable in a matter of seconds. We aren't in any rush anyway—rushing around defeats the entire purpose of being on island time. We rolled into a lively little spot just south of Tampico yesterday afternoon, the salt air mingling with the savory, mouth-watering smell of grilled local snapper drifting from a roadside vendor's stand.
The best places to stop are never the ones with the glossy, expensive tourist menus; they are always the little holes-in-the-wall with the most local car tags out front and a rowdy group of patrons inside. This little roadside stand was exactly that. A handful of local fishermen and a couple of long-haul truck drivers had a small radio and a portable screen set up under a canvas awning to escape the direct heat of the sun. We grabbed a few ice-cold beers and joined them at a plastic table just in time to catch the late matches of the day.
The entire room absolutely came alive when the Netherlands took the pitch against Japan. It was a beautiful contrast of styles—the flying, fluid orange attack against the disciplined, lightning-fast transitions of the samurai squad. The fishermen were shouting at the screen, slamming their hands on the tables with every near-miss, completely swept up in the international drama. The match was a brilliant display of football, trading spectacular attacking sequences back and forth until the final whistle blew on a thrilling 2-2 draw. Neither side wanted to give an inch, and the shared points felt entirely earned after ninety minutes of non-stop drama on the grass.
We ordered another round of local cold brews to celebrate a game well played and shared a plate of spicy ceviche that tasted exactly like the sea it came from. Moving by car instead of a boat means we don't have to worry about checking the depth finder, dropping anchor, or waking up early to catch the morning tide. We don't have a rigid schedule to adhere to, which is exactly how I prefer to live. When the games are over, we just pack our meager belongings into our small backpacks, turn the key in the ignition, and follow the smooth rhythm of the road to the next coastal town celebrating the global game.
