Chronicles Of The Return

We drove through the night from Melaque to Zihuatanejo. Twelve hours down the Michoacan Coastal Road. No hiccups.

Here are some photos from the journey.

It was fun. We had plans to stop in Pascuales, but Trisquit’s grandmother is sick and his mom–who is traveling with us–needs to be close to an airport. Thus, the long drive. (And yes, we were right next to Manzanillo, but Trisquit doesn’t do logic, dig?)

Anyway, more photos coming soon. And more misadventures are a guarantee!

I rose in the morning before sunrise. Walked onto the beach, plopped down and pondered my Buddha-nature. I attempted to calm the mind. Breathed in and out, counting each intake, beating out a timeless moment between. Tasted salt on the breeze. Heard the crunch of sand beneath me. Waves crashed, receded, built and crashed again.

I opened my eyes–the source of all madness and confusion, as Master Ma would say–and used the grains of sand, orange, white, golden, yellow, as a mandala. Countless grains in a sea of their own, bordering another ever more endless one. Mind alive to potential. Discursive. Random. Associative. Looking for order where there is none. Meaning where it does not exist. Not to be tamed this morning as it circled a problem from several days before.

I’d just been tossed from my board. This wave was a big one. I was turning reverse somersaults in the undertow. As I curl up and rotate with the energy of the wave, conserving my own, I hear Master Ma’s voice:

“Breathing is the essence of life, Sean Paul,” he says, sitting serenely amidst the chaos of Singapore’s Guan Yin Temple. “Breathe, Sean Paul, and the path reveals itself. The path is the light. And the light is breath. Breathe, Sean Paul, and all will wash away.”

I twist back one more time with the wave, fighting against my lungs, screaming for air and ask, “Wise Master, how does one breathe underwater?”

“Carefully.”

I’ve got nothing today except shoulders that feel like rubber bands, arms floppy like the tentacles of a dead octopus and chest muscles so sore it’s hard to lift the coffee cup.

I did get a text from ‘Trisquit’ this morning. It read: “Found crew with tractor. Truck is out. See you soon.” He goes on to mention something about an RV. An RV? God help me.

I did have a Crash Davis moment last night. But that would be too colorful for a family blog, no?

From the Travel Journal, dated July 28, 2009:

Meditated on the beach this morning. Nothing quite like the sound of the surf coming in, each whoosh, slurp and crash, the ripples of the water on sand, the scratching sounds clear the mind. After four decadent days finding my center was critical. The waves came in threes: swell, curl and crash. Swell, curl and crash. Swell, curl and crash. Soon I was walking down a road in China or maybe India. Then I was worrying about problems at home. Breathe, I heard Master Ma tell me. The images dissipate. Breath. A bit of water sprays me, I sit motionless. The sun is rising and I feel the warmth. The sounds of the morning grow louder as I breath. Now like the waves, breath, hold, exhale. Swell, curl and crash. The moment ripples out like the water. All is quiet.

Then Reyes slaps me on the back.

“Guero, time to surf!”

I inhabit the moment, smile at him, my anger fades quickly. Swell, curl and crash. Grab the board and paddle out.

Reyes disappears, again.

And yet, after breakfast–a delicious breakfast of chorizo and eggs–I sank back into self-pity. I had meant to work yesterday, but got sidetracked. (That’s easy to do here and I was a willing participant.) What would Master Ma say to that? Might he say, “it’s good you got sidetracked! Now you can get back on the path.” He takes all things as they are. When will I?

I went back to the hotel room. Tried to write. Read for a while. Went out to check the surf. Wow, waves in mid-day? Saw a swell half a kilometer long, swell, curl and crash.

“Fuck this,” I thought, “I would rather chase my demons out there than sit here and have them chase me.”

There is no better cure for self-pity than getting battered, keel-hauled, twisted and pounded by two meter waves.

*****

Afterwards I sat on the orange-golden sands of the beach and watched a blond in a tiny string bikini wade into the surf. She’s going to lose that top in these waves, I thought.

Three minutes later she emerges from the water without her top. The joys of Mexico.

The beach is mostly empty today, however. It’s Tuesday. Everything is closed today. Six pelicans glide over the swells, wheel and then settle in the water. How can such an ungainly looking bird land so elegantly?

Reyes showed up around two.

“Hey man, you should have seen me out there today,” I said, “I was Greg Louganis: all cartwheels, somersaults, flips, belly-flops and back flips. I owned the waves in an hilarious way.”

He looked at me with irritation in his eyes.

“You are a clown!”

“And?”

“You’re not taking this seriously, Pablito.”

“Why should I? It’s not like you are, either, running up and down the Jalisco Coast like a randy goat.”

The crack of a smile emerged. “Hey,” I said, “I saw it. You’re smiling! Look, Reyes,” I went on, “Trisquit will be here tonight or tomorrow. And let me disabuse you of any seriousness from that point forward. When he arrives cataclysmic mayhem will erupt. You know it’s true!”

“La puebla es jodido.”

“You already said that.”

“It needs repeating,” he said.

“True.”

“You realize, Pablito, if he an Barton get going we may very well never leave Mexico!”

“Oh hell,” I said, “if Barton shows Trisquit his collection of guns we’ll probably end up joining SubCommandante Marcos down in Chiapas.”

“I should call the Federales and warn them now, no?”

“Maybe,” I said shaking my head at the thought of those two together, “it’s best if you and Barton head down to Pascuales before Trisquit arrives and stay until he leaves. I’ll join you after. Just say Barton’s stuck on the plantation.” I winked at him.

“You’re bad, SP,” Reyes said, getting the hint.

“But good too. There isn’t an excuse in the world I can’t conjure to delay the inevitable, no?”

“Let no man ever say your bullshit could not be put to good use,” he smiled.

“My father taught me well. He should have been a politician. He can wiggle out of anything.”

*****

“Reyes” I said seriously, “remind me. . . ”

“What, Pablito,” he said, a wave sliding over our feet.

“Remind me to do this more often, okay? I spend too much time being serious, lost in my head. It’s good to act like a child from time to time.”

Reyes looked at me with sympathy, sympathy born of many tragedies and joys shared.

“Sean Paul,” he said, “I can read your moods like these waves.” He pointed out into the bay. “I’ve never seen someone so free and confident about his place in the world, as when you returned. But I’ve never seen someone so bewildered by the loss of a dream well-lived, either.” He grasped my shoulder. “You needed this,” he said and pushed me into the water. But not before yelling, “and if you don’t finish that book I’ll kick your ass!”

The skies are blue. The weather is cooperating. It was supposed to rain. But it hasn’t. I’m pretty beat up today, but I’m going to walk around the bay, probably over to Barra, the village on the other side and take photos. So, hopefully there will be another photo dump this evening. The waves haven’t been so good the last two days and they weren’t swelling at all this morning. Well, enough to wake me up, but that is by the by.

I don’t know where Reyes is. But I imagine he’s okay.

Our buddy ‘Trisquit’ is lost somewhere between Hermosillo and Culiacan. He’s driving down from California. We expect him tomorrow. He did call. It was filled with nasty curses about Mexican drivers and something about a donkey. He probably ran into one on the way and had to pay the farmer off. I’d not put that past Trisquit, ever.

We’ll spend two more days here, then head into the jungle for a night or two at another friend’s papaya and banana plantation. Then it is off to Pascuales. I hope I am ready. But if the waves are too big, I simply won’t surf. Reyes says I’m a wimp. Maybe. But I don’t have a death wish. The idea of a cement truck full of water crashing down on my head doesn’t thrill me terribly much. No?

I did note the headlines of the local paper this morning: all Mexico is in an uproar about the “programma austeridad (sp?)” the government is pushing through. All is fun and games here on the beach. But there is a very real economic crisis ongoing in Mexico, as Nat’s posts have made abundantly clear. I’ll try to follow the news a bit more closely and talk to some locals about it. One cannot surf all day long.

Que suerte, no?

By one o’clock the clouds began to burn off. The waters, chameleon-like, morphed from gray-green to turquoise. The camel back island in the bay radiated orange and white. A sailboat slid into the mercury waters of the bay like a triangular ghost. It was Sunday. Many families had packed up to head home–ending their weekend getaway. But then the beach filled up again.

A bikini clad woman runs across the beach. Reyes hoots. “You are such a cad,” I say.

“Soy Mexicano,” Pablito. “It is my right to be a cad.”

A lone mariachi robed in linen sings, “no mas para mi,” to the family sitting next to us. A song about how he lost his heart (and his money) in the barrio of Monterrey.

The father of two lovely 15 year-olds asks him if he knows this song, or that song. The mariachi sings anew. The father and mother are singing along. The daughters blush, like teenagers all over the world, as the father lifts his cerveza in the air and tips it back. They ’shush’ him, but are clearly enjoying it too.

“Reyes,” I said. “Trisquit just called. He’ll be here tomorrow.”

“Madre de dios! La puebla es jodido!”

A raven headed goddess walks down the beach. (Something one does not see in Turkey.) “It’s a good thing you’re sitting down, Pablito,” Reyes says. “No iron poles to smash into.”

“I’d find one. Trust me.”

By three o’clock the sun was giggling at me. The clouds blew out into the Pacific as cerulean skies returned.

“Pablito,” Reyes exclaimed. “Stop drinking. Surf is gonna be mas bueno this evening.”

“No shit?”

“Es verdad.”

“Carlonia,” I yelled at the waitress. “No mas tequila para mi. El mar llamate me!”

“Claro,” she yipped. “No mas tequila por Juan Pablo y Reyes.”

“Hey, what the fuck?” he said. “I’m the one who is allowed to drink and surf.”

“Not today. After the crap you pulled last night? Your privileges have been pulled.”

“Oye, pendejo, la Virgen de Guadalupe, I swear you will pay.”

“I just did.”

“Huh?” said Reyes, swaying a bit too much, reaching for his board.

“I paid the tab,” I said.

“Good idea.”

But Reyes was wrong, so we returned to the bar early in the evening. Carlos, a gray-haired, short, fair-skinned Mexican and I got to talking about life in Turkey and Mexico. He’s known as the ‘philosopher of Melaque.’

“La vida cara in Turciya?” he asked.

“No, not expensive. In the mountains and the countryside it’s like Mexico. But in Istanbul? Poquito cara,” I said.

“And the water? What’s it like?” Carlos asked me.

“El mar des Turcos es azul ondo como los ojos de Russa,” I said. (The sea of the Turks is deep blue like the eyes of a Russian woman.)

“Holy shit,” said Reyes, “that was good.”

I turned around, raised my glass and winked.

“But you still can’t surf, gringo.”

By ten that evening my Spanish had improved immensely. Carlos and I were discussing the relative merits of which conch shell makes the best horn. We were trying three different ones out.

“How you feeling Pablito,” Reyes yelled from across the bar, arms wrapped around a bikini clad Latina. How does such a revolting looking man do it? I think to myself, and then reply:

“Yo nado en el mar de tequila y cerveza. Y tu?”

*****

It’s now Monday morning.

“Cut it with the water,” I moaned at Reyes. And then the surf washed over me and I realized that I fell asleep on the beach. Then I remembered everything else.

I stumbled up the steps into the hotel. The owner greeted me, “Como estas Juan Pablo,” he said.

“La buena vida, Tio,” I said and walked off in search of my room.