Blowing
In The Wind
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This morning a rainbow arched over
Bird Island and plunged into the rocks at the southern edge, the most intense
rainbow I’ve seen in years. I sat at the window-wall in our 21st
floor suite at the resort and watched for half an hour, just watched the
rainbow. Eventually the rainbow extended a perfect reflection onto the Pacific
mirror, creating a three-quarter circle.
Sandra, the current hurricane of our
prolific Pacific series, huffed and puffed off the coast earlier this week. We
in Mazatlan yawned with complacency. Every other storm, in this summer of
hurricanes, landed either north or south or fizzled out mid-ocean. The long arm
of Baja protects this part of the Mexican coast.
Sandra romped through the numbers to
a Category 4 Hurricane and back down again to a blow-hard tropical storm when
she hit mainland, dead center at Mazatlan. She wasn’t supposed to do that,
fickle woman.
Kathy and I stockpiled water and
kept our passports handy in case of an evacuation order but we were never in
danger. A little wind, a fair rain, and Sandra fizzled into the hills. The
worst effect for us two vacationing women was having no beach time. This is day
five of no beach and the first day the resort has taken down the barriers
denying guests beach access.
The waters are dangerous with
under-toads and extremely strong back wash. A handful of invincible young
people, fueled with joy juice, venture into the foam, only to be whistled back
to land by the life guards.
Yesterday a school of large fish
were feeding a few hundred yards off the beach. Today hundreds of manta rays
roil the water in a frenzy, right up to the edge of the surf. We watch from
above. Manta rays are huge, from five and a half to seven meters across. It is
a rare treat to see one. This feast for our eyes is a direct result of the
hurricane bringing deep water species into shore.
On my first vacation in Mazatlan,
Elias, a parasail beach vendor, dubbed me “Mexican Sandra”, given the Spanish
pronunciation of my English-origin name. He said Sandra is a Spanish name. This
bit only marginally relates to the hurricane, to explain that I felt like we
shared both name and characteristics of being quick to action but easily
gentled.
Even at high tide the water
separating the mainland and Bird Island is shallow. From above this morning the
sea is tropical turquoise. The rocks I know to be there leave dark patches of
shadow. In very low tides, the rocks are above water. We haven’t seen these
rocks in three or four years. Low tides
have ventured elsewhere, maybe on holiday in India.
Though sitting on the beach under
the palapa is not an option, there is plenty to keep us entertained. This
morning, along with sight-seeing the rainbow and manta rays, we watched runners
in the Gran Maraton Pacifico, an annual event since 1999. The Mazatlan race is now rated among the top
ten in the world and is limited to twelve thousand contenders. It is joy to watch
both athletes and ordinary runners, even people like you and me. The
participants rolling wheel chairs, others shambling on crutches, blind runners
led by companions, all bring tears to my eyes. We clap and shout encouragement
from our vantage point on an overhead bridge.
Tonight we returned from a jaunt to
Cerritos Point where we selected a corvine fresh from the ocean. In half an
hour our fish was plunked between us, tail hanging over the platter, on a bed
of lettuce, surrounded by tomatoes, cucumber slices, limes and salsa, served
with a pile of tortillas. It doesn’t get any better than this. We watched the
sunset and returned home full, tired and covered with grit of sand and salt.
Sondra
Ashton
HDN: Looking
out my back door
December 3,
2015
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