Summer is traditionally the time where things slow down for us, but that just hasn't been the case this year. In fact, I am finding it to be quite the opposite. I am actually quite ecstatic about it, but it the influx of new business has left me with little time to do things worth writing about, let alone write for pleasure. Rather than leaving the blog stagnant, I thought I would try reposting some of stories that people talk about most when they meet me. Even those of you who have read everything from the beginning might find these worthy of another read. This post dates back to just a few weeks after we moved here in 2007:
The Monday before last, the cleaning lady was coming for our “move-in” cleaning. She is terrified of dogs, so we decided to pack them up and take them somewhere. We had been wanting to take them to the beach, so we opened up the map to look for a location that appeared suitably isolated.
We located an area north of the airport that appeared to have beach access and very few roads. We figured few roads meant few people, so we went for it. The area on the map was labeled Isla de la Piedra. It's across the waterway where the cruise ships come in, so we had to drive north and east to get off our peninsula and inland, then go south, then go west and north to get onto its peninsula. We ended up about 2 kilometers from our house. It just took us an hour to get there.
We were about 5 kilometers down a 10 kilometer road that is the most rutted, hard-packed gravel, washboard road you have ever been on and talking about how people said the road to Stone Island was so bad, we REALLY didn't want to drive THAT one when it hit me. I sweetly asked Chuck, “Darling, what does piedra mean?” He whipped out the handy dandy translator, punched in piedra, and said, “stone”. We have GOT to improve our Spanish.
I didn't dare drive over 10 MPH, which gave us plenty of time to admire all of the coconut groves we were passing. The thought of a coconut plantation had never crossed my mind, but I guess all of those cocos frios we see for sale along the malecon have to come from somewhere. It was really impressive to see all of those palm trees growing in regimented rows.
We finally arrived in a small village and promptly found the landing spot for the ferries that make the regular trip between our side of the waterway and this one. We also found a quaint community geared for tourism with restaurants, hotels, horse rental, ATV rental, and all of the signs in English. Not an isolated stretch of beach to be seen. We had noticed a sign pointing toward a restaurant down a desolate road a few kilometers back, so we decided to go back and try it. I hit that washboard road again, a little faster this time, causing the sleeping iguanas sunning themselves in the road to get up on their rear feet and run for cover.
We found the turnoff and headed down a soft, sandy road toward the beach. The steering was a little mushy, but I persevered. We were rewarded by coming out on an empty road running parallel to an empty beach. Success! I turned right and looked for an appropriate place to park the truck. The road got softer, so Chuck told me to pull over and let him drive, for fear that with my lack of experience driving on sand I was about to get us stuck.
I found a firm-ish spot and dutifully stopped and switched places. Chuck got behind the wheel, turned us around, and started back the way we came. He started to pull off and park – and promptly got us stuck. To my credit, I didn't laugh. He didn't look much in the mood to hear anything, so I sat still and remained the cutest, quietest version of myself.
After a few moments of what I am sure was mentally screaming invectives, he got out and surveyed the extent of our stuck-ness. He told me to get behind the wheel. I listened closely to his instructions and executed them to the best of my ability while he shoved palm fronds under the rear tires and pushed.
After 15 fruitless minutes, I suggested that we go ahead and get the dogs out of the hot truck and under the nearby palapa of the restaurant (which was thankfully closed and deserted). So we gathered up some water, the cell phone, leashed the dogs, and headed the 50 or so feet to the palapa. Man was that sand hot! My flip flops were not up to the task of running through deep, sucking sand, especially when being pulled along by a dog that didn't even have the benefit of bad flip flops to protect her tender little feet. Once under the protective roof, I thought, “okay, we can sit for a minute and gather our thoughts.” Not so.
The moment the dogs saw the ocean, we were going there, and nothing was stopping us; hot, sucking sand be damned! I was immediately propelled along by 82 pounds of very determined dog. So we went running/stumbling to the wet sand line, where the sand was cooler. I even managed to make it with both of my shoes.
The reactions of both dogs was surprising. Tasha, who has always loved the water, was freaked out by water that attacks and refused to go in. Reku, who has always despised water, attacked the ocean right back. He dove in without a second thought. Problem was, that was before we got their leashes off, so Chuck went right in with him.
The dogs had a ball and got to run free for the first time since arriving in Mazatlan. Tasha stayed pretty close to me. Reku, who I had always known was fast, just not how fast, took off down the beach racing flocks of birds, easily outpacing the flying creatures.
About this time, Chuck and I wondered again what we were going to do. We were on a deserted stretch of beach in the middle of coconut groves. We had the cell phone and it had signal (wonder of wonders), but honestly, who were we going to call? AAA?
Just then the phone rang. It was Nacho, the caretaker of our house, calling to say the maid was done. Nacho knows a lot of English, just not enough in this case. I told him we were on Stone Island and the truck was stuck in the sand. He said, “Oh, Stone Island is a very nice place. You will have a good time.” Well, crap.
I asked Chuck, “What's Spanish for stuck?”. We left the translator in the truck. Double crap. I thanked Nacho and hung up.
We decided the first step to getting help was getting the translator. Chuck left me and the dogs in the nice, cool sand, and made the trip across the hot sand that, I swear, was going to turn into glass at any moment.
I played with the dogs until I saw a couple of 4 wheelers coming down the beach. Thought 1: leash the dogs. Thought 2: flag them down. I scrambled to the leashes, called the dogs to me, and got them clipped on just as the 4-wheelers passed me without pausing, slowing down, or even looking back.
It occurred to me then that Chuck had been gone for awhile. He was supposed to be bringing back water for me and the dogs. I decided it was time to go check on him. The dogs and I started back across the sand. This time I had two determined dogs pulling me along. They pulled so hard I fell. You know what? That sand is a lot hotter when it gets inside your bra.
We made it up to the shade of the palapa. From there I could see Chuck trying to free the truck. Poor guy. He saw me and came up to the palapa, bringing water and the translator. The truck was now so buried the rear bumper was sitting on the sand, and he managed to look dejected even while doing the hot-foot watusi across the sand.
We sat drinking water for a minute when Chuck looked out through all of the palm trees. He said, “Look over there. Do you see that red? Is that a tractor?” Not only was it a tractor, but there was a farmer on the tractor. Salvation!
Chuck quickly learned how to say, “I need a tow.” and set off in that direction. This was not the farmer's first time. As soon as Chuck got near him, he reached down and began straightening the coil of rope between his feet. Chuck uttered his rehearsed phrase and the farmer jerked his thumb over his shoulder – the universal language for “hop on”.
While they were driving back to the truck, the owner of the palapa came bicycling down the road. How he managed to bicycle down the road that sucked the truck under I still have yet to figure out. And he did it steering one handed; he carried a large machete in the other hand.
As he cycled past, he looked over at the farmer and pointed at the truck. The farmer pointed over his shoulder at Chuck. They nodded at each other, and the cyclist continued on to the palapa. You could easily read the silent conversation that went on:
Cyclist: Look. Another idiot.
Farmer: Yep. Got him right here.
Cyclist: OK. See you later.
The farmer quickly and expertly pulled the truck out of its sandy grave and onto firmer road. Chuck thanked him heartily and tipped him well. The farmer want back to his farming, and the dogs and I jumped into the truck, happily returning home.
You can see the pictures from this adventure in the photo gallery.
Mostly Cloudy 64 oF • 18 oC
Such a sweet story!!!!!! Thx for telling us as only you can. U R SO GIFTED AND SMART GURL.
How women put up with us fellas sometimes is beyond me.
U ROCK GURL!
THX. Was so funny, especially the hot sand, the dogs pulling, the farmers no word conversation.
JUST ANOTHER DUMB FRINGO. JAJAJAJA
Bet ya didn't tell em YALL were TEX A CANS? Jajajaja.
MORE, MORE, MORE!