Los Barriles, B.C.S., Mexico

2021.08.04

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The champagne sat on the hood of the Daihatsu Rocky, not exactly in danger of warming up even so near to the engine; it had already sweat out on the dusty drive over.  It was my first time seeing the site in person, gazing at the pink-tinted intersection of mountain and ocean just downslope.  Land surveyors, we beamed with elation, sending the cork tumbling into the prickly brush that rooted staunchly just beneath our granite perch.  The stars winked on, and we were forced to navigate out of the cactus while we still could, unscathed.  Truck doors closed softly, sadly, reverently.  We bumped along toward town in search of icy mezcal.

 

Fresh water is scarce here, and it makes sense that so much of your time revolves around seeking it:  drinking it, cooling off in it, storing it, praying for it.  Hot in the morning, hot in the day, hot even in the night breeze sitting at a quiet bar, trading stories 20 meters from the salty sea.  We were told that August would be a strange time to visit:  empty streets, closed hotels, the omnipresent threat of a storm.  Baleful clouds loomed over deserted dirt tracks for days, teasing a downpour.  And, finally, they released. 

 

We stood on one side of the gushing arroyo with town squat and distant on the other.  Nothing to do but wait.  We traded bites of ripe mango and then let the rain rinse our sticky hands clean.  All traces of the deluge would be gone tomorrow, with only impossible memories and a fleeting summer green left behind.  

 

Strange, sure, but no less magical. Soak it in and store it for another day.

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