The Departure

(This is an expanded version of an earlier FB posting)

I have just returned to Casa Azul in Yelapa after dropping off my best friend/wife Diana at the airport to begin her latest adventure al norte. Her energies will be apportioned between her sister in Los Angeles, her parents and younger sister in Palm Desert and her two adult children (one of whom-Katherine is expecting the first grandchild in mid-August) in San Diego. There will be countless hours spent cajoling her adult sibs into whatever projects they're avoiding, hour upon hour of dueling televisions on full tilt from opposite ends of her parent’s home all topped by her daughter's request that mom be her birth coach and attend classes and the delivery with her. Life will be busy.

Nikki, our English Shepherd, and I will remain in Yelapa until early August before trekking north. The mid-summer heat/humidity will become oppressive but we are seasoned veterans and will survive (define survival). Those of you caused to spend time away from a spouse or even recently experienced a departure understand well the intensity attracted to the early hours of being solo. I clomped up our stairs to the front door this evening. There was a pair of small sandals waiting at the top, in addition, a paper-thin pink petal from a nearby flowering tree had dropped onto our mat. I flashed upon the frailty I felt in my relationship and as a human in general. Did I express the most sincere of tones in my last "I love you?" Might that parting hug have been just a little longer to convey the proper meaning? I wasn’t sure.

Nikki, as always, was delighted to see me yet her eyes quickly communicated that the number of people returning was not the same as the number who had departed earlier that morning. It's complicated. She and I will journey through the next few months knowing that we are two thirds complete and that will be "ok." Que le vaya bien querida, que le vaya bien.

When a partner is absent, even temporarily, we make subtle alterations to our lives. The bath towels last twice as long as I alternate between the two daily. Dishes are washed every other day but not until their accumulated presence on the counter infers that two souls are in residence (i.e. two wine glasses, two dinner plates, etc.) I will play music which my spouse enjoyed less than I. I will have that additional last glass of wine while Nikki remains a little closer a little longer. The bathroom door no longer requires closing. Prior to Diana’s departure, I told her warmly that I would miss her five times each day: 1) a hug in the morning; 2) breakfast 3) lunch 4) dinner 5) a hug at night. She seemed strangely, to me, less than moved. Perhaps it was the fact that 60% of the times that I would miss her related to meal creation and service. The kid is sharp! That’s one of many reasons why I love her. 

Commercial Break
Flash!!! Flash!!! summer rates are now in effect:
single-- 100p/hour; 250p half day (3 hours)
double- 150p/hour; 400p half day (3 hours)

Multi-day/extended stay rates available upon request. Visit Memo at the playita or call ahead (cell) 322 146 5046. Happy paddling.

The Old Man at the Sea

I descend the walkway to the playita, plunk into my beach chair and scan the bay.  I am aware of a familiar soul roaming the beach before me. He is a mature gentleman, lean and bronzed by the Mexican sun. His daily ritual rarely varies. The trash bag trails  as he scours the upper beach for plastic bottles, paper wrappers, styro-foam plates/cups or other discards. Our eyes meet, we nod courteously and exchange “holas.”   His route begins at the rocks to my right, follows a stone wall past the restaurant, veers to the left, crosses the creek, re-emerges adjacent the ramp and proceeds to the opposite corner of the beach. Stopping, stooping and gathering parcels as soon as they are spied. The locals seated a top the sea wall watch him with quiet amusement tempered by a bit of discomfort. Some speak out, while others ignore.

The linear route across the beach morphs into the first curve of an oval and drops down to the water’s edge. His bag is buoyed  awkwardly by the waves. More trash is plucked from the sand and surf. He withholds judgment as he trudges along remaining resolute in his task. As the last curve of the oval closes, he pauses to appreciate the result. The accumulated debris in his bag signals the playita’s temporary return to a pristine state. We acknowledge each other once again.

Of late, yet another task consumes his time. He enters the knee-high surf and scans the water for what appear to be shell fragments. Once located, he extracts the piece and instead of garnering it as some personal treasure, he pitches it up onto the sand. His progress is slow and methodical yet his practiced eye is no less capable of spotting the desired object than an egret is capable of detecting a small minnow. The number of shell fragments present increases daily and must now total in the hundreds. Second task completed, he departs.

To what purpose is this behavior directed? Is this misguided fool now scouring the sea beds for debris? From my perch, I observe the following: visiting couples strolling the playita pause then retrieve a personal Yelapa treasure which finds its way into a satchel tagged for Anchorage; city cousins visiting their rural counterparts dart across the beach a la Easter egg hunt style and screech with glee as tiny fingers close around a new fragment. My friend adopted a stretch of beach, cleaned it up and turned it into a treasure trove for the young and young-at-heart. How cunning. I sense this old boy might have been a teacher in a former life.

As this entry is being posted on Earth Day, I urge you all to watch for those who make seemingly minute differences. They are out there, aren’t we?            

A Tribute

Perform an internet search for the words “Ghost Crab.” In merely one tenth of a second Google will generate 1.4 million hits. You know what these little crustaceans are, right? They appear from countless voids in the sand with one claw acting as a scooper/dumper. They proceed to pitch their load and race sideways back to their holes. Watching them becomes hypnotic, especially from my office on the Playita.

You all remember my story about the young man who re-purposed a broom into a kayak paddle? Well, the other morning I discovered that it had been re-purposed yet again into a futbol (soccer) goal post. Its companion was a piece of drift wood delivered by the sea. Countless mounds formed by furious feet bore silent witness to the prior night’s frenzy. The field lay ghostly void of activity.

Well, that’s not really true. The ghost crabs were out, perhaps a hundred or more, all performing the morning housekeeping tasks they were hard-wired to enact. Endless teaspoon sized deposits of sand immerged to be transported a foot away and pitched. The crabs crossed paths, paused for a second or two, then disappeared down their caverns-in-progress. Two tiny eyes affixed atop antenna style extensions afford their owners the ability to sense movement from all directions. Any intruder will cause each to scamper sideways propelled by eight legs independently engaging at warp speed. Within a nanosecond the Playita is empty of ghost crabs. This scenario plays out countless times throughout the day. While I have observed repeated canine attempts to pursue these creatures deep into the ground, I have yet to see said canine immerge with a crab in tow. Nature has chosen to protect these entertaining octopeds. 

      

In Appreciation  

This past week, Diana and I received word that a friend, and Yelapa visitor, had died as the result of cancer.  We met Steve and his wife Karen during their afternoon visit to our pueblo. We shared a cold beverage and lunch at our favorite restaurant, Shambhala. The four-way conversation was animated and warm. We became instant friends. Although Steve’s physical presence was not substantial, he quickly carved caverns of life and meaning into those with whom he came in contact. He was a gentle giant. Thank you, Karen, for sharing him. Thank you Steve for the memory you planted within us.  

Easter Sunday

Sunday remains my favorite day; it’s family day. This Sunday is mega-family day. As Semana Santa progresses towards culmination with Easter Sunday, incoming water taxis are engorged with nationals enroute to Yelapa to visit their “country cousins.” For every adult there are generally at least two children; most are under the age of ten. Our village affords the “city cousins” the opportunity to freely and safely roam the streets, play a limited number of primitive video games, romp on the beach or generally just hang out while large circles of parents, aunts/uncles, grandparents and other adults occupy collections of plastic chairs on balconies, patios or along the main path through the village. It is a happy time.

My office platform affords one of the best vistas to observe this activity. Immediately in front of me resides a multi-generational collage of family members. Grandpa is fast asleep between the platform and a ramp accommodating foot traffic from the seaside units above. Two couples occupy sand-filled beach towels which evidence the frequent visitation of young ones. Coolers bear assorted snacks and beverages. The adults’ attention scans the water’s edge less than twenty feet away. There, I observe no less than a dozen jumping, splashing, running, squealing young boys and girls.

Down the beach resides a group of older girls. They scheme and then swim out to a nearby vacant panga.  It is quickly repurposed into their offshore headquarters. Other like-minded females follow swelling the panga’s occupancy to near capacity. This concentration of femininity does not go unnoticed. A like numbered band of adolescent males rushes into the water a la Braveheart. Fortunately, they bear appropriate attire. Girls scream, boys growl, bodies leap through the air. Pandemonium abounds! The damsels (the prey), flee to safe harbor from the warriors (the predators), and focus on sequestering a second panga. The young men, unwilling or unable to take prisoners, amass on the now vacant panga to plot their next move. No discernible discussion evolves. The term “Mexican Standoff” defines the moment. One girl seizes the stage and leaps into the water, swimming toward yet a third panga. The ensuing block of time finds the two groups ultimately melding onto and off of three pangas. There is continuous swimming, jumping and screaming. The boys digress into attempting acrobatics from the panga. They bear no idea as to why they must do this; it is a validation of ancient instincts.

Three couples in their mid-teens descend a ramp to assume positions next to a tall stone wall. The senoritas are clad in snug semi-revealing tops complimented by short shorts or equally brief cut-offs. The boys all wear the basic Yelapa uniform: T-shirt and board shorts. Each of the six has a cell phone in hand; they silently settle into their world of addictive texting. Periodically, one glances upward to exude disdain at the noise level of the groups occupying the water. The beach scene is reminiscent of a Carmen Lomas Garcia painting. A smile creeps across my face.

The afternoon sun drops early in Yelapa due to a high ridge line on the southern border of the village. Following some inaudible signal, perhaps a group text, the teenagers arise and retrace their steps up the ramp. The remaining trio of panga pirates sits silently astride individual benches. The clutch of little ones are retrieved and dried before returning to the homes of their hosts. Tomorrow, hundreds of family members will return to their city environs fatter and browner; affirmed that nothing beats a weekend in the country.     

Commercial Break

For the balance of April, up until my departure on Friday, April 26; hours of operation will return to the normal 10 ish to 2 ish. It might be wise to check availability before planning a day with a Yak. Local cell phone is 044 322 146 5064 or contact me via email at billrisdon@gmail.com. Happy paddling--memo