I was going to spend a lazy afternoon; but, it spent me.
One of those tropical winter days -- all heat, light, and sound.
Joel Grey sings I am a Sentimental Man in the background.
I am not a sentimental man. I profess no love of mawkish emotionalism.
But this is a week to start toting up life´s ledger. To let the left side of my brain dance on its own balcony.
I am moving house. To a sedentary laguna with its sunning crocodiles and hyacinth-hopping grebes.
Away from the one thing that has defined my months in Mexico -- the Pacific. The sea drew me and has held me here.
I have always loved large bodies of water. As a sailor, a tourist, a sometimes resident. Whether the Pacific, Aegean, Atlantic, Indian. North, or Caribbean.
I have been as beguiled as Odysseus by their siren calls.
With the exception of stormy days, my experience is that waves lap the shore.
Not in Villa Obregon. When I arrived in April, the waves would crack against the beach. Not crash. Crack.
They were loud enough to startle Jiggs into believe we were in the midst of thunder. The impact was great enough that the house would shake with each wave. I have missed several earthquakes -- some this week -- because I mistook the shaking for waves.
I have a friend who is a cinematographer. I have told him several times he should come to my beach to record the waves.
He could create a complete sound effect library. Rifle shots. Car crashes. Subway trains. Fighter jets. They are all there. In the waves.
The price to pay for the symphony is dangerous swimming water. More than once the waves have introduced me to the sandy bottom.
Bikers get road rash. Swimmers in Villa Obregon get beach rash.
For six months I lived with my temperamental neighbor. Then, one day in October, the mood switched. Sunday the equivalent of broken crockery, Monday all sweetness and light.
I thought I had traded places with Islagringo. The effect was almost Caribbeanish. The waves caressed the shore. Swimmers enjoyed the surf without worrying about spending the rest of the day getting sand out of their suits.
The only people disappointed with the change were the skimboarders.
Perhaps, Poseidon was content. If so, his bipolar disorder flared up again last week.
The waves are back with all of their fury. Living up to their nickname La Playa de las Tambors -- Beach of the Drums.
I entered this play when the sea was thrashing the shore. I now leave it almost as it was nine months ago.
There is something comforting in that. Consistent unpredictability.
But I leave without sentiment. Because the sea does not care if I am there or not.
And I am pleased to know it will always be just as I left it.
Waiting -- if I decide to return.
One of those tropical winter days -- all heat, light, and sound.
Joel Grey sings I am a Sentimental Man in the background.
I am not a sentimental man. I profess no love of mawkish emotionalism.
But this is a week to start toting up life´s ledger. To let the left side of my brain dance on its own balcony.
I am moving house. To a sedentary laguna with its sunning crocodiles and hyacinth-hopping grebes.
Away from the one thing that has defined my months in Mexico -- the Pacific. The sea drew me and has held me here.
I have always loved large bodies of water. As a sailor, a tourist, a sometimes resident. Whether the Pacific, Aegean, Atlantic, Indian. North, or Caribbean.
I have been as beguiled as Odysseus by their siren calls.
With the exception of stormy days, my experience is that waves lap the shore.
Not in Villa Obregon. When I arrived in April, the waves would crack against the beach. Not crash. Crack.
They were loud enough to startle Jiggs into believe we were in the midst of thunder. The impact was great enough that the house would shake with each wave. I have missed several earthquakes -- some this week -- because I mistook the shaking for waves.
I have a friend who is a cinematographer. I have told him several times he should come to my beach to record the waves.
He could create a complete sound effect library. Rifle shots. Car crashes. Subway trains. Fighter jets. They are all there. In the waves.
The price to pay for the symphony is dangerous swimming water. More than once the waves have introduced me to the sandy bottom.
Bikers get road rash. Swimmers in Villa Obregon get beach rash.
For six months I lived with my temperamental neighbor. Then, one day in October, the mood switched. Sunday the equivalent of broken crockery, Monday all sweetness and light.
I thought I had traded places with Islagringo. The effect was almost Caribbeanish. The waves caressed the shore. Swimmers enjoyed the surf without worrying about spending the rest of the day getting sand out of their suits.
The only people disappointed with the change were the skimboarders.
Perhaps, Poseidon was content. If so, his bipolar disorder flared up again last week.
The waves are back with all of their fury. Living up to their nickname La Playa de las Tambors -- Beach of the Drums.
I entered this play when the sea was thrashing the shore. I now leave it almost as it was nine months ago.
There is something comforting in that. Consistent unpredictability.
But I leave without sentiment. Because the sea does not care if I am there or not.
And I am pleased to know it will always be just as I left it.
Waiting -- if I decide to return.