When in Mexico you may find in the town square those of their golden years seated on a bench, they’ll be there all day, at peace, muttering this or that to their peers on benches close by, but mostly just taking in the world as it moves around them.
All we’d gone for was a wave check and a smoke. The barrel of the joint burned longer than any we saw at sea. Before the spark was applied we passed a female trio gathered around a telephoto lens pointed toward boyfriends hunting waves. From our driftwood seat a figure gains proportion down the desolate beach, a woman carrying a stick on a return journey from nowhere. She’d raise the stick then smack the sand without interrupting her conversation with God knows what. Continuous chatter with clothes of taters accented her unacknowledged pass. Best let her be. Suspicions raised, the joint passed, we heard the first cry.
Heads twist to find beach lady in the faces of tripod girls. A second of assessment then, action! Going as fast as we could through the deep sand, one girl defended the camera as the others covered up from the stick she now lashed at them screaming profane nonsense. We interrupt her world ending rant by inserting ourselves between beach lady and the trio, offsetting the situation. We tried reason.
“They weren’t bothering anybody, why don’t you just carry on.”
“You come to my town my beach with your fancy equipment and what do you do for me? You take your photos to show everybody but what happens to me?”
The girl responsible for the camera spoke up, “we won’t take anymore photos we’ll put it away.”
“Oh sure, I don’t care about you, I don’t care about your camera, you people are all the same, you stay for a few weeks then you go back to big cities and jobs the hell with you.” She raised her stick and brought it down on our flank.
One of the girls reached out and grabbed my elbow as she stepped behind for cover. I felt the tremble in her grip, the fear present in her touch. A pure and pulsating fear, a kind I’d known myself but never felt in another person. I looked down at my elbow caught off by the intensity her still gentle touch communicated. I knew exactly what she was feeling, the uncertainty, why won’t she just go away already?
I put on my best smile for beach lady in hopes of easing her fury. She returned a mocking smile, her teeth few and far between, some pointed up the beach some down.
“It’s all one love right, no worries, well fuck you.”
Just then her husband passed by machete in hand and yelled for her to leave us alone. This brings tears to her eyes, she blew him a kiss then continued her verbal assault.
“Maybe for you my husband left me and now he won’t share his crystal with me no more.”
Okaaaayyyy, time to go, with the tripod shouldered we gave up our position. Her curses followed us the few hundred yards back to town with vague pursuit. Finally one of the locals came to our rescue denouncing her actions and apologized, “she used to be normal, plump and happy then the devil drugs corrupted her.”
Things were still tense, we were lucky no one was hurt. We learned that she and a few others lived in the jungle down the beach a ways and caused minor trouble from time to time.
During our trip three of our five got sick from the water in Mexico, as you do. One day we drove South into Michoacán, clocking kilometers on the infamous Bandido Highway where many a tourists turn hostage if they’re lucky, the unlucky ones are never heard from, to a surf spot called La Ticla. A 20 minute hike through a river mouth, prickly grass trails, and across blistering hot rocks lead to a natural bay, coaxing south swells into its cove creating long wrapping lefts. Within an hour in the water one of our crew was overcome by waves of nausea retiring him the beach.
In a fever he sought shade under the only structure on the beach, a small palapa made from materials in the abutting jungle. Our welcoming party was a mixed bag of travelers from France to New Zealand cracking coconuts and cheersing beers. A space was made for our sickly to stretch out, two of the girls left down a different path on a beer run. They returned and handed out crisp beverages which we applied to the neck and forehead of our sidelined surfer. A testament to Victor Frankel, it’s not where you are but how you are, some magic of the 8 ball, the internal supersedes the external. We smash open coconuts and savor its juicy flesh. A bunch of strangers brought together by a sense of place, bound by its beauty, cast under serine spell, why did it have to end?
We left for the airport down a too straight road with nothing but palm trees on either side, the lone female of our group said what we were all thinking, “I can’t get over how big the shopkeeper’s breasts were, she must not be able to see her toes.” We all agreed on that. “You never know my muffin.”
I started a journal back in May of 2011, it was just a way to get my thoughts down and spend time reflecting. Little did I know it would turn into one of my favorite hobbies, as well as having it’s therapeutic attributes. Consistent at times, along with duties of life I always came back to it; now it’s over 2 years later. Just a word doc. simply titled My Journal (If anyone wishes to go find it) for me it’s a journey through time, taking me back to that day or period. Rediscovering what I was into then or what I was obsessed about and how it’s mostly irrelevant now. My favorites are the good times I wrote about, words trigger fond memories, Language, the infinite time machine.
So today for the first time I will share a journal entry, it is jumbled but it is pure. 95% Blue Meth #Breaking Bad. (had to) Maybe you can follow my though process.
Here it is……
Each day it rains I am thankful, for it was a good day, sick but not to bad, food is always good, Concert of decisions I made the right one, fun music, fun people, crazy to see all those people at bay front, it was the place to be. Rainbow falls was epic, jumping and swimming made me feeling shitty. Climbed so high in that tree, at least 40 feet up with only branches to hold on to, boy what a rush, Found 2nd bay surf spot in Puna, I like Clint he is a good man, Picked up a hitchhiker named Cody, he was working on a farm in the Woofing program, he’s from Denver. Had some real Hawaii surf finally, landed a clean air super stoked. Can’t believe it’s almost October, days soar by gentle and fluid. I was born to love you, I was born to kiss your face, I was born to rub you, but you were born to rub me first. Chevy. Transitional thoughts cloud my thinking, directing it towards filthy waters, cris cross, I’m all turned around, sleepless and hungry a platform emerges from which sure flow of though is achieved, Words to evoked, evoking trees to be trees and waves to crash around me as if I am the center of all that I understand. Distractions are my enemy, today was unproductive and productive all the same, it was a day that I will never get back, it is real to think that all life is a end, No because we have multiple emotions and in the end to judge which did I have more of, the good or the bad, will you be objective.