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The crunch of cereal newly introduced to cold milk nearly hides their first
breath, but in seconds my feet have me amid ship. Milk and cereal carefully
leveled in one hand, running backstay in the other, I balance and look for
the next blow. Despite the number of times they have shared my mornings, I
more eagerly stand to watch dolphins loll by than stand for humans that
polite protocol might dictate.
They are accustomed to me and it seems they alter course to pass closer to
the boat. There is a spiritual connection, between them and me, as I know a
departed friend swims forever with them. I always talk to them in our
meetings, but I never understand the answers. Maybe, it is because our
temporal world has separated us too far from the rhythms of nature for us to
hear. Perhaps they do not answer, denying us their serenity in retribution
for the wounds we inflict on the planet that carries us all.
 Our
commune is interrupted by the labored song of a small outboard pushing too
large a burden. A small open boat delivers me from my dolphin revelry onto a
new story. The little engine propels an extended family of locals and their
quantities of beach necessities toward a base camp already established on
the sands of the Mogote. A pretty girl in her mid-teens sits tediously
erect on the bow facing aft. She is removed by age and distance from the
other passengers as her hands clutch tightly to the gunnels of the smartly
painted red and white boat.
As the boat nudges into the sand, she springs free of her trepidations. She
executes a graceful leap and a pirouette across the yellow sands, her long
black hair radiating outward as she spins. Perhaps she celebrates returning
to terra firma from the tiny, tippy craft which has safely made this voyage
many summer Sundays since her mother was a child. Maybe she dances with the
shiny joy of a summer day that has been worn away by time in the other
passengers, who dolefully unload the blankets and beer.
The crackle of the VHF radio reminds me there are dishes to be done and
things to do, even on a Sunday. The sun too prods me along, as our
affectionate early morning relationship will soon pass as she climbs higher
and angrier into the Baja sky.
The dawn waves are but a ripple as my dingy skims across bay to the dock.
The full moon low tide shows the sand bar as a coffee stain down the middle
of the fabric of the bay and I slow slightly.
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Sometimes observed as unwelcome links back
to reality by their skippers, they swing cautiously in groups, avoiding
the mortal wound from larger craft that would render them finally useless.
At the Dock Restaurant, I interrupt a single
couple with morning greetings as the waiter brings their breakfast,
garnished with several strips of the bacon which had tormented me earlier.
In season, this same verandah is teaming with cruisers and ex-pats,
conversations and yarns being spun without deference to time. The trip
down, the night before, and plans for the day are all conversations that
wait in the wind with the waiter's dreams of grand tips. Today the
waiters and I leave them to a quiet conversation as I move on to my car.
I pass unchallenged though stop signs up the
hill toward the office. Two preschoolers walk hand in hand from the corner
store. A newly purchased bag of eggs proudly held, tells of their mother's
nearly completed assignment. I take a moment for this "Rockwellian" scene
that vended fear has swept from American streets like unprofitable
rubbish.
 A
barrel of mops blooms on the sidewalk in front of a hardware store, open
uncommonly early for a Sunday. A young man rolls a second barrel of brooms
into place under the bright red awning. The brooms swat at his face and
try to leap from the barrel, an obvious penalty for his over-exuberance on
Saturday night.
At the one major intersection I cross, I am
held by the changing of the traffic light. On the far corner a middle
aged man acknowledges my existence and that of the car across from me with
a slight lift of his left hand. He holds the Sunday papers he is half
heartedly trying to sell. With little interest from either party, he
returns to the shade of the corner.
Farther down the residential streets the
activity increases. Some teenage boys play basketball in the street
against a new portable backboard. I interrupt their game as they scurry
for the "sidelines." In my rearview mirror I watch them argue for
possession of the ball caused by the time out of my passing. Some things
transcend international boundaries.
As I turn the key on the gate of the office
you might think I would bemoan going to work on a Sunday, but it's just
not so. As I walk across the courtyard I compare my commute with that of a
few short years ago. Here, there were no delays, no accidents and no
frantic lane changes. I haven't needed my second finger to operate a motor
vehicle since I left San Diego! This morning I saw nothing,
yet witnessed everything.
So, working on Sunday? Sure, I'd rather be
at the beach. But I wouldn't trade you my Monday through Saturday on a
bet. Besides, I had a story to tell.
Tomas |
