IV. Lo Que Pienso a las Tres de la Mañana

“It’s colder than a penguin’s penis” out there by the beach at the edge of the waves coming down from Admiralty Inlet and across a frigid Puget Sound. Or at least that’s the way my lingually adventurous spouse would put it. 

I saw a gull picking at some detritus on the shore, and when I approached discovered it was a good-sized fish, an orange roughy I believe it’s called. That’s a fun name. Evocative. You might imagine a renegade artist or member of a Scottish biker gang.

There was a rosy sunset view, this evening, over Mount Baker’s broad and snowy-white southern flank.  

I’ve grown so accustomed to this place, up here in the corner of the country, just below Canada--lived around here for over forty years. This move we’re planning to Mexico will be the longest time I’ve ever spent—during all that period—away from the tall, dripping green firs and ferns, rocky coastline, and mountains. 

Center right: the pier at Playa de los Muertos. That's where we'll load onto
a water taxi--tomorrow-- for a 45 minute ride from Puerto Vallarta to the
little fishing village, Yelapa, where we'll relax for a month. 

Tomorrow at this time, that beach I’ll be walking on will be called a playa. We’ll be in a little village in Mexico, and, instead of shivering, our skin will be opening to weather that will be un poco calor, pero muy amable.

Such a sea change, in such a short time.

It’s been six months since we last came home from Mexico back to the Pacific Northwest. My first impression upon return was how sedate life here seemed, how far apart everything was—houses, buildings, cars, people. How few people were about, and the ones that were, seemed to be either in cars or scurrying down an incredibly wide and almost empty sidewalk. 

And that was in the summer. On a freezing day like today everyone holds their coats around them like armor against the cold. Once you come home, after you turn up the heat, all you want to do is stay home. 

Some time in the next week or two, if recent history is a guide, I will be out with Ronco in his little fiberglass outboard, hugging the palm-covered shoreline, bobbing in the Pacific swells as we troll for bonitas. 

And, in exactly a month, we’ll still be in that pueblo, but on the eve of departing for the lakeside village in the Central Highlands where we plan to move. We’ll spend a week there, talking to rental agents, and viewing some casas, searching for ones we fancy. 

Wouldn’t you know it though? I’ve begun feeling nostalgic, already, for this place I've called home for so many years. 

What’s familiar can sure get comfortable. And we have good neighbors here—The Young Man, Joyce, and The Little Family plus one. Full-tilt Joe, even Casanova. Gym Bob, friends from work. Not to mention the sweet daughters. Or water you can drink from the tap; toilets down which you can flush the paper…Maybe sedate and complacent don’t necessarily have to go together…

Anyway, that’s the flavor of the thoughts I’ve been having lately when I awaken at three in the morning and contemplate this extended vacation, let alone our year-long (at the least) move.