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Abajo de la Costa (Part 2)

And just like that, the days carried on. In the water before sunrise, difficult to tell if it’s dawn or dusk, the water warmer than the air.

Huevos a la Mexicana on the sand, conversations with new friends from Oregon and Northern California about just how unique the Pacific Northwest is, feels like there’s too much we’re yet to see. Luck. Already flirting with travel in Mexico and picking another man’s brain about how to go about the next trip. Before long the sun is high; there’s nothing like the walk back to town, barefoot on a dirt road to get you to thinking.

I listen to a lot of country when I’m on the road, the likes of Lucinda Williams and Gillian Welch; although it’s a couple of years old, I think “Harrow and the Harvest” is the best album I’ve heard this year. A similar vein but maybe a different limb, I’ve been trying to recall dreams while I’m here. Waking in the pre dawn, fumbling in the dark for a pen and scribbling before they grow legs and disappear through the gaps in the timber walls. Many about home, what might be, rambles of a supposedly sleeping brain.

The only real change in the three-surf-a-day routine was the morning I carried a camera instead of a board. The light is harsh and flat throughout the middle of the day but there’s the golden hour early or late.

Detour to Zipolite on the way home, the intention was some yoga at Loma Linda to stretch out the shoulders stiff from paddling, but as luck would have it there were a couple of days of fun waves at an empty beach break. Stiffer still. Back in civilization and in range of wifi, I touched base with home in the North. The ladies of the house’d spent the day playing hooky, island hopping with bikes and foraging for cherries and thimbleberries without me. I felt left out for a moment but remembered that we’d already sautéed found morels and wild asparagus, dug ramps from the undergrowth of the woods, borrowed rhubarb as thick as your wrist and tip toed between wild strawberries thick in the back field while filling paper bags – all of which there’s excess carefully stored in the basement or freezer. And hey, cider and pie there’s still apples in the fall.

Took the ‘tin can’ home to Puerto before the heat on a day without a number or name.

Maybe it was a thought, maybe it was a dream


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