Saturday, January 20, 2007 - 02:10 PM | 204 Reads

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Last month, the perpetually churning cogs of nature’s celestial time clock flipped the switch that propelled us into winter. It was as though the weather gods were timing their moves to correlate closely with the winter solstice, the shortest day of the year. As the lunatic fringe that lives above 60 degrees north were experiencing over 20 hours of night, we here in Mazatlan were dragged, kicking and screaming, into the first days of this frigid season. As if somewhat precisely cued, on December 20th the sky became overcast and the daytime temperatures plunged into the mid seventies. Sporadic showers of 71 degree rain hounded the natives and drove the sun seekers to cover; winter was upon us.

I awoke on the morning of the solstice and quickly dressed for my ritual beach walk with the Wonder Dog, the air was decidedly brisk. We were on the sand at about 7:30 and the sky was more cloud than sun, a little breeze, 62 bone chilling degrees, damn……first day of winter. About a quarter mile into the morning trek, I was suddenly comforted by the presence of the mighty Pacific, eternally there, a vast living thing that stretches all the way into tomorrow. I was actually more comforted by discovering, after wandering into the tail of a receding wave, that the water was at least 17 degrees warmer than the surrounding air. I now knew that if the icy fingers of hypothermia started their deadly crawl up my extremities, I could plunge my stiffening body into the surf and wait out the cold. I am an old hand at winter survival.



Later, in the shortest afternoon of the year, Snickers and I drove through town headed for the taxi de agua to Stone Island. All through Mazatlan, from Cerritos to the docks, people were in long sleeves, long pants and some with jackets. Even the Pulmonias that day seemed to be living up to their quaint moniker. The drivers were bundled as if on an artic expedition and in the rear seats, the shivering passengers were huddled in tight knots.



As Snickers and I enjoyed the tranquil harbor crossing, I watched white puffy clouds scurry south, like nervous tourists perpetually seeking the next attraction on the itinerary. By now there was more sun than clouds and the afternoon was turning out to be quite pleasant. As we walked the beach towards Victor’s palapa, I watched the gentle surf methodically caress the sand and realized I would not need to throw my body in the water for survival purposes; maybe this winter thing will be OK.



Stone Island, for me, is like a Mexican time warp. I have always loved the funky beach front cantinas, especially the ones that strive to produce, ultra fresh, high quality, fire cooked sea food. Victor’s could be in 1966 Mulage, 1978 Zihuatanejo or right here on the primal margin of twenty first century Mazatlan, within easy reach across the harbor; oh ya, life is good. As I settled into a chair with a beer (that was almost too cold), I kicked off my sandals and buried my feet into the warm sand while contemplating the significance of winter. With the temperature hovering around 74 degrees, I realized that the only thing that would suffer at the height of this brutal season, was my significant tan; so it goes. While Snickers was out and about doing her dance with the local beach dogs, I inquired about the freshness of the fish on hand. I was told that the fish in the fridge was from sometime late yesterday, however Victor was due back any minute with something that would be only 3 to 4 hours old, I would wait.



I was half way through my second beer when, as promised, Victor arrived with 20 or more pounds of very fresh Dorado (Mahi-Mahi). Soon I was face to face with a large slab of fish, cooked to perfection over mesquite coals. This might seem like a bit of an exaggeration, but what the hell it’s not that much of a stretch, I was seriously enjoying some of the best barbequed fish in the western hemisphere, bar none.



After a world class lunch, with a time warp atmosphere (for less than 100 pesos), I spent a few hours with a couple of friends in the village. After enjoying some exceptional home grown music, I reluctantly departed around 7:00 and took the water taxi back to modern Mexico. As the super ponga sliced its way across the undulating surface of the 80 degree water, I watched the many lights of Mazatlan play their distorted reflections across its surface. In retrospect, I realize that this day was truly something gained and not lost; I am finding that to be true about many of my days in Mazatlan.



When the Water Taxi docked, 12 passengers and a dog clamored to the dock then headed for various forms of transportation waiting in the parking lot. By the time I reached the lot, another group of people had joined the 12 from the water taxi and there were about 30 people fanning out in search of transportation. As Snickers and I made our way through the crowd, I noticed a small black form scampering across the pavement, dodging the feet of the dispersing group and heading our way. When this small black fur ball skidded to a stop in front of us, I was surprised to see a very tiny kitten. Completely ignoring the surrounding crowd, this little guy looked up at me and let out a rather pitiful yowl. As I glanced around, I found that no one was paying any attention to this kitten and conversely, the kitten was totally focused on Snickers and me. P.T. Barnum would have been very proud of this feral feline for picking out the only sucker in a group of 30 people. I reached down and picked it up and of course it started to purr very loudly and looked to be right at home curled in the palm my hand; this sucker is small. At this point The Wonder Dog gave me one of those looks that said, “Just what do you think you are going to do with that?” Snickers, possessing acute prescient abilities, knew what was about to happen even before the inevitable crossed my aging mind.



Since this kitty was way too small to be away from its mother, I decided to start a search; it couldn’t have come very far on its own. So I mentally assessed the terrain, divided it into quadrants, and set out on my mission. I think the dog caught on quickly as to the nature of my quest and eagerly joined the hunt, now being acutely aware of the outcome if we failed to find mom. Around 20 minutes into the hunt, Snickers found a very frightened coal black kitten amongst a small pile of rubbish; this is just great, now there are two of the damned things. This one was hissing and spitting, not purring and did not want to have anything to do with me and certainly not the dog. After canvassing the surrounding neighborhood for another 25 minutes, the only thing we had to show for the trouble were two tiny cats; one purring, one spitting. Nothing, nada, no mom, no family or folks claiming familiarity with the kittens, nothing but the darkening of the longest night of the year.



When the cunning canine watched me place the two black fir balls in the passenger seat of my truck, her ears went back and she conveyed her feelings with a disgusted stare, “cats? I have to deal with cats?” Its not that Snickers would ever harm any creature perceived to be under her care and protection, but cats are things sent from the dark side with the singular intent of complicating her life. The only cat The Wonder Dog ever bonded with was Maxine.



Maxine was found, by my daughter, wandering the centerline of a western Montana highway, hungry, scraggly and homeless. When Rachel presented me with this small gray and white refugee, I immediately said, “No way! It’s not going to happen! We already have two cats too many!” Undaunted, she put it up to my face and said, “Listen to how loudly she is purring. I think she loves you dad”. Needless to say, Maxine had just found a home. Within the first week this kitten developed and refined the game we started calling hide and stick. Maxine would find very creative hiding places where she would lay in wait for Snickers eventual passage, then leap out and literally stick to the side/butt/back/face of the bewildered dog. It didn’t take long for the dog to understand and join in the game and thus began the bond between the two pets. When Maxine’s short life ended last year, we were devastated, but Snickers took it especially hard. I buried Maxine on a little rise overlooking the river and had to cover the grave with a sheet of plywood to keep Snickers from her constant attempts to exhume the body. It was right after that when Rachel made the comment, “If Maxine ever comes back again as a cat, you just know she will find Snickers.”



Later that evening my mind drifted back to Maxine while I entertained thoughts of reincarnating cats. If you are really a good cat, can you come back as two cats? Why did the first kitty come directly to me? Or was it directly to Snickers? Do any of us come back? Is this just a one shot deal? Am I totally nuts? What am I going to do with these two fur bearing freeloaders? Will Snickers ever speak to me again?



As I struggle with these persistent questions of the nature of our existence, winter trudges on. As of this writing, January 20th , the ocean temperature has dropped to 77 degrees and nighttimes can be in the fifties. Days are still mostly in the upper seventies but we have had some cooler days with a few showers. My tan is almost a memory, but as of yet, I have not dipped a shovel into any solidified precipitation at any time this winter. I am now looking forward to the hot, humid days of summer that will include a hospitable water temperature; I miss my time in the ocean. And of course, the cats are happy, healthy and growing way too fast. I am in no doubt that they are a cosmic remnant of some type; however The Wonder Dog has not quite come around to that point of mind………………. yet.