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A Morning Walk In Paradise
by
Bruce F. Barber
It was 5:53 a.m. January first
and I had overslept. No, not because of Amateur Night. On the contrary,
I had fallen asleep reading about Native Americans and missed the party.
But now, another had begun: A party called sunrise. The lights were prettier,
the mood serene, the caw, caw, cawing of the gulls drew my attention to
the mirror-like sea.
Spreading like syrup across the eastern horizon, a fluorescent-orange overcast
announced the coming of the sun. The sky was flawless, the air still, the
temperature fifty-three. My God, I thought. The shortest day has come and
gone and summer is on its way.
Donning my sweats and walkers, Peso and I departed for our morning walk.
She to sniff and me with my mind on the natives of the night before. I vacillate
between the post-Columbian Indians and the prehistoric… but always,
as I know they were, I am here in San Felipe.
Living among a people of a different culture gives rise to an opening of
the eyes for it is only through that opening that each of us is placed in
perspective. We eat and think differently and, although goals are similar,
we tend to pursue them differently. But, as a Frenchman once said, 'Vive
la difference.' So long as we respect each other, there is no reason we
cannot get along together.
Vini, vidi, vici. I came, I heard, I saw. It implies comprehension and I
think of that now as Peso and I pick up the pace. The joints are loose,
the blood is flowing, heart rate a hundred ten while, from above, come the
strains of an age-old opera. You may not be into Aida, Verdi or Turandot,
but who can deny that those who are find beauty in every note.
(At sunrise)
A thousand birds will chatter and sing
Before the first will ever take wing.
San Felipe is in a flyway where visitors are so varied they are too numerous
to list. The surprising ones, however, include a bird that looks like a
magpie, bluebirds that come for a week, and a variety of hawks the size
of a California Jay.
Two cats romping on a dew-moistened lawn. One sees Peso and flees. The other
humps its back and hisses while my dog, holding her head aloof, continues
nonchalantly along. She is here for the pleasure of our walk, not the momentary
thrill of an idiotic chase.
I see an Aerostar with a couple stirring inside. The man is up, the tailgate
opens, he snaps a photo of his sleeping wife. Sleeping bags tell a story
of a couple who came for a weekend. Their hobiecat explains why. Feeding
dishes betray the presence of a pet. It is the exuberance of youth and a
family in the making.
Two women sip coffee under a palapa. Are their men asleep or in a panga
seeking fish? A man and his dog are walking along the shore, his fingers
enmeshed at his back. An early riser, his companion a dear friend. Whatever
his thoughts, they are not for us to know but, like the kids in the car,
and the ladies with their jar, he drove a helluva long way to think.
There's method in their madness, you know. For as solitary as they are,
not one of 'em is alone. It's like the recipe for biscuits, or a cake, or
even a down-east clambake. You start with an occupation that creates a need
for rest. Add knowledge of Heaven, the time it takes to get here and, suddenly,
you're in San Felipe.
It's like putting on an old shoe. It's not pretty, certainly not modern,
but you know beforehand nothing feels quite as good. I mean, we're talking
about comfort, the kind you find at home - or a home away from home.
The Arches, the stores, the restaurants and more.
Abarrotes, Licores, Cantinas we adore.
Whether Pescador or Palmas, there is something for each,
Places to shop or stay by the beach.
The Beach?
Half covered with water, the other with air,
Who knows what lives down there?
The Tide?
The magnetic attraction of moon on earth
A rise and fall, for all its worth.
San Felipe?
The magnetic attraction of Paradise on soul:
Moving from the negative to a positive pole.
Paradise?
San Felipe de Jesus is a place of bliss.
With winter temps at sixty and six.
A place of bliss? No. Bliss is a function of the mind some have never enjoyed.
For those who have, however, let us review what we know:
Created by a Master Hand,
the western edge of the sea meets the eastern edge of the land.
In the north, Machorro:
An ancient volcano we've come to know as a landmark for the San Felipe show.
To the south, the cove:
A ten mile crescent forming beach and bay upon which the people have come
to play.
To the east, the Cortés:
A magnificent sea, like none on earth, filled with fish and all they are
worth
To the west, the Desert:
Where the treasures above the sea are as prolific as those within it.
North of north:
A ten mile stretch of beach where whatever you seek is sure to be found.
South of south:
Forty more miles of sand, history, and a future with room enough room for
all.
San Felipe is what you make of it. The sun is warm, the sea rich, the sands
are the sands of time. Because Peso and I are surrounded by the stuff, I
pick it up, look at it and ask from whence it came. Among you, there are
those who know there's a story in every grain. Less fortunate are those
who see the stuff as sand, a billion grains of silica wasted upon the land.
"Where are you?" I shout to those who went before.
"I am here, and here and here," said a million men and women who
enjoyed these same sands, basking, harvesting, lounging as we do today.
A function of the mind, they are the men and women I sought in a book last
night. We are surrounded by them now as Peso and I turn at last for home.
I see them as surely as I see you reading this story about them. Whereas
you can see them too, they are, for you, the citizens of San Felipe for
it is they who are the magnetic attraction of paradise upon the soul.
Vini, vidi, vici. And you may, too, during your own horizontal movement…
A walk in paradise
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