I’m lost and alone in Mexico. My Spanish is far from fluent and I don’t understand all the directions from the senorita. I think she has told me to turn around and go back. Back the way I have come. This is a poor way to start a trip of a lifetime.
I’ve come in search of deserted broad beaches that have never seen the footprints of a gringo, let alone the footprints of a surf fisherman. I’ve only found sketchy information on my destination. Mostly, I’ve used high-resolution satellite imagery to fly over the remote Pacific coast looking for the kinds of things that draw the exotic roosterfish. How is that a boy from Minnesota has come to this? Why have I spent months learning to cast missile-like three ounce lures 130 yards with a 12 foot surf rod? Why have I spent a year learning as much Spanish as my mind could absorb? Why have I burned maps of the Mexican countryside into my subconscious? Why am I alone? I’m not sure. Maybe I need an adventure all to myself. Maybe at the age of 51 I need to prove something to myself. Maybe I can’t bring myself to entice someone else into an uncertain trip. Maybe I’m loco. I won’t try to analyze it. This is just what my heart said to do.
The senorita flags down a policeman on a motorcycle. He almost wipes out trying to stop. Great. This is all I need. The officer recovers and I think that he repeats the same instructions that the fruit stand lady has given me. Go back the way I have come. But, when I rented the sturdy looking little red jeep a few minutes ago, the rental lady had sent me this way. I’m not relishing getting back on the crammed highway. The drivers are aggressive and not shy about driving right up your muffler with horns blaring. But I haven’t come this far to be intimidated. So I go back the way I have just come. The landmarks are beginning to match those I’ve spent countless hours memorizing. The red jeep takes me through the rat race of Puerto Vallarta and soon I’m entering the countryside. What a relief. I’ve never been comfortable in cities and prefer to take my chances in the open. I stop at what may be the last gas station and try to chat with the attendants. I tell them that I’m going to Carito to fish and I’m staying at a small hotel owned by a man named Candelario. They excitedly tell me they are also fishermen and they know Candelario. I’m relieved to know the hotel and the man exist.
The thick moist tropical air floods through the jeep windows as the blacktop road snakes up the green mountains. As I pass by scattered dusty and crumbling homes I get whiffs of animals and humans. A banana truck has tipped over and I slip by as locals scurry to clean up the mess. I travel through thick jungle and over high bridges with whitewater crashing far below. Trying to rubberneck and stay on the road at the same time is difficult. The damned odometer is broken. I’m looking for a right turn onto a 30-mile jeep trail near the town of El Tosido. It’s going to be tough to find it with no odometer to help me keep my bearings. Just as my nerves start questioning my machismo, a sign declaring El Tosido appears. I make a right turn and in a few minutes I find myself wandering through what looks like a Clint Eastwood movie set. Narrow dirt passages crowded by crumbling adobe buildings. People butchering pigs in the street. Men drinking in the shade. Children staring at me. Sometimes one has to use the Force as a guide. The Force is with me and at the south end of town I find a small dirt road. I ask a chico if this is the way to Carito. He answers, “Adelante.” This is it. The ocean is ahead. I’m on my way.
This is a road that needs a jeep. I hardly ever get out of second gear. Confluent washboards, potholes, steep grades up and down, washouts, loose gravel, creek beds, and rocks. Also confluent verdant vegetation, blue parrots, limes hanging on trees, masses of butterflies, dashing lizards and soaring hawks. At times, massive saguaro cactus and prickly pear poke up through the brush. Occasionally the foliage retreats and a small ranchero appears. Everything is in deference to the horses. Beautiful steeds wearing silver trimmed saddles are tethered in the shade. Dignified bronze men stand by wearing straw cowboy hats, pencil moustaches, and western clothing.
Occasionally a hillside field is planted in corn. The fields have not cleared but instead the corn is being grown in the same way that fields were planted here in the colonial days. Corn has simply been randomly planted between girdled dead trees, stumps, rocks, and whatever. Also, I see small agave fields being grown for tequila. At unexpected occasions, there are giant Brahma cattle standing in the road. They seem to be the size of buffalo and have great spreading horns. Obviously this is free-range country and they are free to graze the roadsides and hills. Luckily, they are well behaved and politely move to the side. I can’t imagine what a belligerent one could do to my jeep. Hitting one by accident would be akin to smacking a brick wall.
The houses are shockingly crude. Most are sticks, old boards, and refuse tied crudely together. These walls could only keep out large animals. At first glance you would think it shameful. But soon I realize the truth. These people live in a very warm climate. They have no electricity. If they built solid walls, without fans or air conditioning, it would be like an oven inside. They live outdoors in the shade and breeze. The walls are indeed there just to keep out large animals and to support a roof for protection from sun and rain. The dirt floors and yards are preferable to insects and thorny vegetation. The livestock are kept in the yard to maintain it this way.
Thirty miles in two hours. It is a bone rattling and wondrous two hours. I am getting eager to find the ocean. I am anticipating it at every bend. Suddenly, I sense it more than I can see it and then……the vast Pacific!
I am finally there! I am on the top of a headland cliff looking at Carito! I suck in the view and creep down the steep scary downhill grade in first gear. I am greeted by a good degree of squalor. There is a single narrow dirty street that leads to the shore. The flanking buildings are crumbling adobe. The street is severely gullied and the damned chickens think they own the road. I guess one man’s litter is another man’s treasure. A few dozing folks awake and gawk at the strange bearded gringo in the red jeep. There is a concrete pier/ramp with a two-story white stucco building and a shaded eating area.
I flex my aching bones out of the jeep. There are a couple of guys lounging in the restaurant. I go to the counter and ask for Candelario. He is right behind me and sizing me up. Candie is a giant among men. All the way from from the airport, when I asked for directions to Carito, I was always reverently asked if I knew Candie. Candie welcomes me. He knew I was coming and he asks me to have a seat with him and his son while my room is being readied. Candie knows about as much English as I know Spanish (just enough to make an attempt). He wants to know about me and when I start talking fishing he immediately senses a bond. The bond of fishermen. I brought him an aerial map of his 20-mile stretch of heaven. He is very impressed and spends 20 minutes showing and discussing the map with his sons and friends. I tell Candie that the map is for him and he smiles and nods.
We discuss fishing. He says there are roosterfish (pez gallo), jacks (toro), red snappers (huachinango), mackerel (sierra), black skipjack (bonito), billfish (velo), dolphin (dorado) etc. He does not seem to think that catching fish from the beaches is possible. He says he can take me out in a boat for reasonable fee. I think he will be mightily impressed if I can succeed from shore. Candie is very proud of his family. I meet his wife Silveria, son Juan, another son and their wives and children. They are impressively attractive, intelligent, and cordial. We attempt to chat with difficulty and fishing is foremost. They are a family of fishermen. Candie and his sons dive from boats fitted with compressors and hand collect oysters, octopus, and lobster. They are a part of the sea. I am shown to my room, which is clean and basic. It has a welcome ceiling fan. I’m VERY eager to hit the beach so I quickly get my gear together and head for the car. As I look at the beach, which is two miles down the coast, I see massive plumes of white spray and I can hear low rumbling like thunder. The boy from Minnesota is going to find out what surf is all about.
Candie sees my 12-foot surf pole and big spinning reel. He throws his head back with a gesture of “Ah ha. I am beginning to understand.” I get in my trusty red jeep and head up the cliffside. The beach to the south is about 4 road miles away. I am learning that even though the road looks to be near the shoreline, a cliffside or 50 yards of dense cover is a barrier. I am nearing the pueblo of Arena. My aerial photos show a river forming a large lagoon there. It appears to be separated from the ocean by a ribbon of 50-yard wide sand. I cruise into Ipala and see the river bridge. The river is completely dry! It must only flow when it rains. So much for fishing the river mouth. The lagoon is static. There is no flowing connection with the sea. It’s getting late so I turn back north and find an access point at the north end of the beach. I strap on my gear - a hip belt with carabineers attached. Clipped to this are a small tackle box, forceps, a large hook-out, fillet knife, and a 21-inch piece of aluminum tubing with a camera mount screw in one end. The hip belt pouch holds a small first aid kit, an energy bar, TP in a zip lock bag, and a camera in a waterproof diving case. On the sides of the pouch are two one-liter bottles of Gatorade.
I ready the pole. It’s a 12-foot graphite rod rated three to eight ounces. It’s mated with a large saltwater spinning reel with a screaming fast retrieve rate. I’ve removed the bail closing mechanism because it had a strong tendency to slam shut while casting. I close the bail by hand. There is 500 yards of 50 lb. spectra line on it. That is tied to a 250 lb swivel with a double San Diego Jam knot. Then there is a three-foot length of 50 lb. fluorocarbon tied with a single San Diego Jam. At the end of this is a lure clip tied with another San Diego Jam. I choose a catch all lure, a thick 3 ounce hammered silver spoon with a red and white hook dressing. Then I slip on a three-fingered leather archery glove. Two of the fingers are taped back (spares) and one goes on my trigger finger. It is soft and supple with great feel but excellent protection from the saber like line.
I cross the rise of the sand bar and am humbled. I had looked up the weekly surfing report before I left and it said nine-foot swells would be coming directly into the coast. They were there and when they rose up on the shore they became half again taller. Thundering. Violent. Dangerous. Seething foam and whipping spray. A huge parallel rip. Yikes! I’m inexperienced with big surf. Caution is needed to put it mildly. I think I can cast the big tin beyond the breakers so I let it fly. YES! I can get it out there! One cast. Two casts. Three casts. Fo..... Hey! Something big and strong is on!! My heart jumps and my drag starts to scream. I crank it down and ........NO! The line goes slack. The hooks have pulled out. Damn the luck. One cast. Two ca......Whoa! Another fish! The drag starts spinning and then slack. I can’t believe it. The hooks have pulled out again. The treble hooks on the three-ounce tin look big but now this has happened twice. I switch to a two and one half ounce pink and white surface popper. It has two sets of big trebles. Two more casts and something slashes at it on the surface. It’s on and by god it’s NOT coming off. What a strong fish! It can pull out against very heavy drag. I can feel it shake its head. Even in the violent breaking surf it has power to burn but it’s not prone to head to open sea. It wants to slug it out up and down the beach. I think I’ve got it licked and almost on the beach and it just goes back out again. About 20 minutes later I have my first rooster on the beach. It’s exotic looking and big enough to excite me. What a fish! And I probably had two others on the line!! I screw my camera on the aluminum pole, stab it in the sand, set the shutter timer, grab the fish, and dash in front.
It’s getting dark, the day had started in Minneapolis at 3:30 AM, and I’ve not really eaten much. I’m tired but I’ve broken the ice. I go back to Carito and Silveria makes me a plate full of huge butter and garlic-sautéed shrimp. There is a tomato/onion/pepper relish on the side. Warm corn tortillas are in a covered earthenware dish. A Mexican beer. Heaven. Candie's family chats and plays while I eat. Mexican canciones drift out of a large classic jukebox. I have to go to bed. I need to get up early to fish. I have a ripping headache from the beer on top of a dehydrated brain.
It’s been a fitful night. The excuses are 1) It’s hot. 2) I have a beer headache. 3) Cande’s grandchild must have colic and cries all night. 4) They are blasting Mexican polka music on the jukebox until 1:00 AM. A little Mexican polka music is pleasant. More is tolerable. Too much is like Chinese water torture but I must say those Mexican tuba players are excellent. The reality is I’m just too jazzed about fishing tomorrow. Visions of huge fish slashing and powering through the surf permeate my sleep. I keep checking the clock. It crawls.
Suddenly I bolt awake. It’s light. It’s 8:30. I’ve slept longer than I intended. I throw on a long sleeve vented nylon flats fishing shirt, long nylon fishing pants, a pair of neoprene wading boots and a vented large brim hat. The sun is going to be brutal. Candie has told me of an area to the north that he calls Prido. He says it has small beaches framed with rocks and the fishing is excellent. I’m eager to go there but first I have to try yesterday’s spot so I drive the red jeep south four miles and try a few casts. But, my heart and focus is not there because I desire Parido. So, I pack up without a fish and head north about one half hour. I come to the Tedocin River. I had read that you could cross it by car if it had not been raining but I see a brand new bridge. It looks mostly done, but there are some workers finishing the railing. I dismount and ask a sweaty guy if I can cross. I think he says no but I don’t see why not. I walk half way across the bridge and ask another group of sweaty shirtless guys. I think they say yes so I hurry to Big Red, throw it into low and bolt past the guy that said no. Made it. On the other side is the village of Tedpcin. This is another disheveled but functional pueblo. I’m getting mucho stares. I get the feeling that the locals haven’t seen the likes of me before. There is a soccer field in the middle of town next to a low swampy area. As I drive the four to six blocks through town I see five possible ways to Parido. All are small rutted tracks. There is a group of men idling under a thatched sunroof. I ask them if this road goes to the ocean. I think they say no and the road is very rough. They point to the north side of town so I turn around and find a little larger road there. I pass scattered houses, cattle, and a beautiful palm grove with grazing horses.
The road divides and I’m not sure which fork is correct. An old lady gives me confusing instructions. I go straight ahead about a kilometer and come to a dead end. A couple of wary-looking young hombres are squatting in a littered yard. They say this is not the way to the beach so I swiftly turn around. They don’t seem real friendly. I take the other fork and it abruptly turns up a very rutted incline between the buildings of a ranchero. I see two young girls making tortillas under a sunroof with their mama. I stop and try to ask the way. She says “Parido?” I say “Si, si, si.” She says to keep going straight ahead. As I proceed, the road becomes very bad and even Big Red is challenged crossing washouts. I decide this may not be the way and turn around. Dang. I’ve wasted a couple of hours of fishing time with no pay off. I decide to go back to regroup and grab a bite to eat at Carito. When I get to the Carito turn off I decide I am wasting too much fishing time. So, I choke down an energy bar and wash it down with warm Gatorade. Yum.
I keep going south past yesterday’s fishing spot, past the dry riverbed, and past Arena. The road strays a little from the shore and is high. In about five miles it drops lower and I think I’m getting close to an access spot. I pass a man on a great looking horse. He is just off the road in a field. The guy looks like a painting. Very impressive. The girls back home would go nuts. A quick glance down the road reveals wheel tracks that may lead to the beach. When I ask, the horseman says “trabajo” which I take as “go to work”. So I do.
There is a family on the beach frolicking in the surf. I wave and they are friendly. I get geared up and move south along the beach with a red plastic skipping spoon-like lure. Nada. I switch to the surface popper and immediately hook up. This fish wants to go to Hawaii. I put the rod butt in my crotch and snug down the drag. I start to worry that he won’t stop but he does and the long work of retrieving line begins. Wow, these fish are strong, and they just don’t quit! It seems like a long, long time before it’s on the beach. My arms ache and sweat is pouring off me. The boys from the family run over and get very excited. I tell them that if they take my picture, they can have the fish.
They run off happily dragging the fish through the sand. I catch several more roosters. One must push 40 pounds. But I simply can’t get my camera to work right. The self-timer won’t work. In the glaring sun I can’t see the settings through the Plexiglas waterproof housing. I squint, fiddle and fuss. I can’t get it to work and I’m wasting fishing time. I decide to give up and take a hand picture of one more on the sand.
My arms ache. I’ve swilled over two gallons of warm Gatorade today. I’ve eaten little. It’s 100 degrees with a 120-degree heat index. The sun is directly in my eyes and it is sweltering. I think I’ve had my limit. So, I do the long trudge back up the beach to the jeep and go back to Carito.
Silveria prepares some wonderful grilled marlin steaks for me. I lay off the beer and have a couple of delightfully cold Squirts. I have a nice chat with Candie and his sons. They are excited that the American has done what they thought not possible. They pass around my camera and view the digital pictures. My position has risen considerably. They are freer in their fishing talk. These guys know their turf! I must go fishing with them. They will take me out in their panga tomorrow morning for three hours. I will meet them at 8:00 AM. I drift off with the sound of Mexican polka music banging off the back of my skull.
I wake up early to fish around Carito Bay before I go trolling on the ocean. The evening before, a young chico had shown me a beautiful fish of about five pounds that he had caught in the bay. It was similar to a largemouth bass, a deep bronze color but with multiple iridescent oblong spots along the sides. Maybe I can catch one. It is very dark at 6:30 so I strap on a headlamp and take my nine-foot rod. The small beach is stony and littered with empty oyster shells. The waves are breaking in strongly. There are a few thatch roofed open-air structures near the water and I discover people sleeping in hammocks under them. Despite trying hard, I can’t interest any fish. It suddenly becomes light as if someone threw a wall switch. The mountains, which descend directly to the ocean behind me, must block the rising sun and eliminate a gradual dawn. I glance toward the hotel and see Candie puttering around. I walk to him and he seems very glad to see me. We have become friends and have the bond that mutual maturity gives. It’s almost 8:30 so Candie says he will ready a boat and find my captain. A small group of fellows materialize and they slide a narrow 30-foot fiberglass panga down the ramp on palm fronds. A 60-horse motor hangs from the transom. Juan will be my guide. He is the 23-year-old son of Cande. I have chatted with Juan over the last couple of days. He is a very astute, handsome, and honest man. Truly the son of his father.
Juan seems eager to show me some good fishing but he also says that the ocean will determine what we catch. He asks me to hand him the tackle box in front of me. When he opens it, I am surprised at the tangle of line and rusty old lures. I remind myself that I am not in tourist country and client fishing is not their way of life. He readies three old looking short stiff trolling rods. They have trolling reels on them with what appears to be 80 – 100 test pound mono line. Juan rummages around the box and ties a couple of diving plugs on the outboard poles and a squid lure on the center one. We start trolling for dorado around some offshore rocks that have violent water around them. Something smacks the squid but doesn’t get hooked. One of the diving plugs won’t stay down so Juan spends time trying to tune it. We laugh when I suggest that he just throw it overboard. The talk turns to his way of life and my own.
The scenery is dramatic. High multi-colored cliffs. Huge boulders tumbling down to the sea. Spray leaping from offshore rocks. Secret sand coves. Sea birds overhead. Leaping porpoises everywhere. The sky and the sea are an oil painting.
We have several more short strikes and Juan suggests that we go to the river to the north. I am eager to do this as I plan to drive to this spot this afternoon to fish. Perhaps I can get the lay of the land from the ocean. Also, Paido is in that direction and I am determined to find it today. The river has no mouth. It terminates in a large lagoon that is separated from the ocean by a high sand bar. Juan starts trolling right next to the
breakers. It’s a little unnerving to be picked up by a wave so close to breaking but I remind myself that no one knows these waters better than Juan. One of the rods starts dancing and I pull in a 14-inch sierra mackerel. I’m pleased with this because I have heard that they are very good eating and Juan says I will have it for supper. Then a bigger fish. The drag goes out and I have trouble getting the rod out of its holder. This is a good fish and it puts up a strong fight. It looks kind of like a small tuna of about seven pounds. It is a black skipjack. Juan says his papa will be disappointed if he does not bring home fish, so he gaffs it and throws under the seat. Good sport! We go back to trolling. Very quickly, we have a BIG strike. Juan is excited and says it’s a big fish. I grab the pole and feel some real power on the other end. This fish refuses to succumb to the rod. It peels line at will. Occasionally it turns toward me and I swiftly crank in line only to have it hiss back out. I’m reefing on the pole hard. Juan says it might be a very big toro. The bull. A big jack. Slowly, I get the best of the fish with the waves breaking just yards off port. Truly, it’s a big toro.
Juan gaffs it in the brain and it is instantly dead. I have no argument. Fish are abundant and useful here. We whoop it up a little and head for some pelicans that are feeding nearby. As we approach, I can see they are above a school of sardinos and game fish are tearing into them. We instantly catch more skipjacks. It’s great fun to fish so close to feeding pelicans that you can almost reach out and touch them! I look to the north and I see endless beaches. Juan says we should troll back to Carito. We catch a few more feisty skipjack and we troll so near the cliffside that I fear that we will be swallowed up. Back at Carito, Cande is pleased that we caught fish and Juan and I have had a grand time. Silveria makes me a ham, cheese, and tomato sandwich, which I wash down with cold Squirt. Silveria and I joke about my addiction to Squirt.
It’s still before noon. I am determined to find Parido today so I head north again. I cross the bridge over the Tedocin River once more. The riverbed is broad and sandy but has only a few rivulets of clear water flowing down it. I’m back in Tedocin again and ask several locals about the way to Parido. They all direct me the same way that I had gone yesterday. So I go and I come to the rough grade between ranchero buildings again. But I refuse to turn around this time and the road becomes better. In about four miles I see a small group of huts with Parido scrawled on one wall. I park Big Red and walk down a long footpath between shacks. MY GAWD! I find the most gorgeous spot on earth.
A sublime crescent of sand flanked by towering smooth granite boulders. Huge Pacific waves are crashing into the cove and spilling white froth across the rocks. I am stunned. I forget to fish. After a moment with my creator, I need to see more. I scale the flanking rocks to the north and am rewarded with more than my eyes can take in. I become aware of dark shapes flying around me. Quickly they darken the sky. Bats are pouring from their roosts in the boulder crevices. Soon, I am standing on the top of the world engulfed by the wings of Mexico. I descend to the next beach and scale more rocks to the next beach beyond. I try fishing but the small bays are simply too shallow and violent for fishing from shore. I walk to Big Red knowing Candie has sent me to see something that no other gringo may have seen before. Thank you, Candie.
Juan and I saw a lot of fish activity near the Tedocin river lagoon from his boat. I think I can access this beach from Tedocin. There I find some boys carting coconuts in wheelbarrows. I ask them how to get to the ocean. They tell me to take the carretera near the soccer field and go around the slough. I find a small car track and pick my way through water filled holes and wayward livestock. I have no idea if I am going the right way. Slowly the road turns sandy and the brush grows lower. I think I hear thunder. Suddenly, I am facing a broad sand berm with a long lagoon to the left side. I have found it. Broad sand beach as far as the eye can see.
Hastily, I strap on my gear and cross the berm. The thunderous Pacific leaps at my feet. There are miles of beach to both sides of me. I tie on the pink surface popper and instantly I am into fish. Between 3:00 and sunset I land ten large jacks and nine roosters. I can barely stand. I can’t lift my arms. All the fish are between 20 and 30 pounds. I have also hooked a freight train that I could do nothing with. I had to break it off before all my line was gone. I sense eyes and turn to see a young Mexican boy. He is spell bound by what is happening. I motion him over as I hook a big rooster. He whoops with excitement. I ask him to take my picture and I give him the fish.
The next cast is an instant big jack. El chico lands it for me, takes my picture and receives the fish.
I am spent. I can fish no more. I give the boy a two ounce silver spoon and he thinks it is magic. Big Red is waiting for me as I stagger across the dune. I head for Carito knowing Silveria will give me a cold Squirt and laugh about it. Tomorrow I’ll come back.
Back in Carito, Silveria gives me my Squirt and smirks. She grills the sierra mackerel I caught with her son Juan. There is a vegetable relish on the side and something that tastes midway between rice and potatoes. The ever-present warm corn tortillas are in their covered earthen plate. Everything is right in the world. Good food. Beautiful land. Heavenly fishing. Best friends. I go to sleep now fond of the blaring Mexican polka music.
I’m up early. If the Tedocin beach was good last night, it could only be better in the morning. Another energy bar gets washed down with warm Gatorade. But, I only eat one half because it just doesn’t taste good. I seem a little unalert but who can blame me after battling fish and sun yesterday. I now know where I am going. The roads are no longer a mystery and I pull up next to the Tedocin lagoon.
Yesterday, I walked down the beach one half mile and saw a low spot in the sand berm. When the river is high it must flow out of the lagoon directly into the ocean. At other times the fresh water must seep through the berm into the ocean and this is what draws the fish. The morning sun is thankfully at my back so I don’t have to wear sunglasses. The salt spray messes them up every 15 minutes so I’m glad not to have to constantly clean them for a while. I start casting. It seems like a great effort. I cast for about 2 hours. Nothing. My mind seems blurry. I can’t think well. The sun gets higher and so I put on my polaroids. Instantly I see it. There is a mud line several hundred yards off shore. The surf is muddy. That is why there are no fish. I kick myself for not seeing sooner. I feel trashed. I’m stumbling around. Something inside says I should go back to my room and rest. Big Red looks real good to me.
As I cross the Tedocin River I kick myself again. It has rained in the mountains and the river is high and muddy. It must be flowing over the sand berm and the muddy water is being carried north where I was fishing. If I had been alert and seen the river when I crossed it this morning, I could have walked to the other side of the berm break and probably killed the fish at the edge of the colored water. Chalk it up to experience.
When I get back to Candie’s, I collapse in my room. I don’t feel well. I fall asleep for an hour. When I wake up I realize I have a fever. It grows for several hours. I’m in trouble. I wobble down the stairs. Silveria sends me up the road to the tienda for aspirin. I must look bad because she looks concerned. They sell aspirin by the tablet at the tienda. The lady there also looks concerned. I wobble back to my room and down a couple of aspirin. I know I have to cool down so I get in what was a tepid shower. It now feels icy cold on my hot skin but I force myself to remain in it. Dehydration from fever kills. I try to force myself to drink some Gatorade. I’m now nauseous and I vomit it up. I force myself to take a few more sips. For the rest of the day I lay on my bed semi- delirious. My thoughts come in repetitive Spanish phrases. I try to drink more but now I’m puking from both ends. I need to let Cande and Silveria know that I am still alive. I go outside and sit at a dizzy fuzzy table for a while. I go back to my room and force myself into the shower again and take more aspirin. I realize that my flight leaves for home tomorrow. If I am not better, I’m not sure that I can drive myself out. Juan knocks on my door. “Amigo. Your tire is almost flat. I have a friend in Maito who can fix it. We must go now!” The tire is almost on its rim. I need to reserve the spare for the road home. Juan and I head slowly down the tortuous road while I puke out the window. We make it to Arena and pull into Juan’s friend’s backyard garage.
The 30 minutes that Juan’s friend takes to fix the tire seem like hours. I sit on a low stonewall next to some sick looking raccoons in a cage. Maybe I look sicker? When Juan and I get back to Tehua he refuses to accept money for his help. I go to my room and gather a few large diving plugs that I do not need and give them to him. He is gracious in accepting. I lie in my room until sunset. My mind gathers itself a little and my fever breaks. I think I am going to live. The nausea is slowly replaced by severe diarrhea. Thank god I’ve brought a supply of Imodium. Juan knocks on my door. He is going south to the larger town of Gatos and he asks if I want to come along to see a doctor. I’m glad to tell Juan that I’m doing better. I go outside and Candie looks concerned. I try to tell him that I’m a little better. I’m afraid that Silveria will think her food has made me sick, so I say the sun and efforts have made me ill. She looks a little relieved. I go back to my room and try to stay hydrated.
The next morning I need to leave. As I gather my things I lay my Imodium and TP on the top of my bag. It won’t be pleasant if I have to drop drawers on the road. I say good-bye to Candie. I tell him that his family is beautiful and good. His chin tilts up and he is obviously proud. This man that has forged a small hotel from nothing, built a fine family commercial fishing business, and brought a little of the outside world to his village is most proud of his handsome, intelligent, kind, and generous family. I tell Candie that I will see him next year. He looks at me with the eyes of a friend who will miss me. I return the look and drive away.
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