Last night was extraordinary, in the full sense of the word. Bradford and I went for a stroll around 10 pm. We watched the fruit bats winging around the trees for a while and then headed to the beach.
At the shoreline, we took off our shoes and stood perfectly still experiencing that eerie sensation of the ocean at night, the blackness and the unknown. We moved in closer to let the waves lap at our feet; the ocean felt alive and it seemed to be teasing us, like a puppy does, wanting us to play. I let the fear wash away and replaced it with an openness to just be there in the moment. We stood for some time, enjoying all the sensations; the fine grain of the sand, the tepid saltwater, the fresh night air and its cool breezes, the sound of breaking waves and the lulling chirp of a jungle filled with crickets.
The sky was clear and jam-packed with stars. To add to our delight, there wasn’t a soul around. Taking advantage of the privacy, we played in the sand like children, creating designs with our feet and building shapely mounds of sand. I made one that resembled a tractor tire the size of the ones they use in the Alberta oil sands and Bradford made one that looked like King Tut’s tomb; something for the restaurant workers to rake flat in the morning. Would they mind or would it be a pleasant surprise?
I left Bradford to his sand play when I noticed some lounge chairs left out on the beach by one of the restaurants; no worry of theft here.
I felt a little uneasy as I lay down on one of chairs and gazed up at the star-filled black sky. I hadn’t done that in years. At first, I was a bit nervous lying there in the darkness. I mostly worried about strange insects that might be crawling around, under the chair, on the chair, on me. Eventually I let it all go, allowing myself to be completely absorbed by the night sky. It’s an incredible feeling to stare as deep as possible into the infinity of space; it was awe-inspiring.
Bradford eventually joined me and there we lay for some time in silence, at peace with the world.
Then came the sound of the tuba, blasting through blown subwoofers. Then the dogs joined in, behind us, above us, across the bay from us, up the river, down the street—how many dogs are there in this tiny village?
Silence in Mexico is ever so fleeting. What is it with Mexicans and their love of, or is it an inherent need for, excessive noise. Just when you realize you’re enjoying the peace and quiet along comes some god-awful racket to destroy it. And so continues my love-hate relationship with Mexico. Love-hate should be a verb. I love-hate it here, I really do.