Hornitos Reposada & Sea Shells

Tile work in the Soggy Peso bathroom.

So we are down on the beach this afternoon recharging Julie’s solar cells, perhaps imbibing somewhat too, and I am giving some serious thought to the increasing load of sea shells gathering on the porch. I can see the porch from my recliner on the beach, off in the distance. Until this morning I did not realize the full extent of the collection. It is more than just “large”. When we eventually cross the border heading Norte, among the many tools used by the U.S. Customs folks is, I believe, a scale that weighs the vehicle and compares it to norms for the make and model. Right now I think there would be sirens, whistles and other alarms aplenty because we are tiny bit overloaded. Now, I am sure these good people protecting our borders have seen just about everything, including mucho sea shells in a car, but not on such a large, almost commercial, scale. And to tell you the truth I am not sure that the Suburban can take the load. That is a monstrously huge admission for a man to say that El Trucko is not big enough. We like big, manly things. (Can you hear the grunting sound?)

With all of that said, and threats to my manhood exposed, I am thinking that we need to emulate the tile work at the Soggy Peso somewhat by utilizing the very Mexican skill with cement and/or grout to create a phrase or words to live by while in San Carlos and have the shells permanently, chemically bonded into the rented house above the doorway, so that all who follow will have a sort of roadmap to guide them, the wisdom of history and prior travelers. Such a phrase would have to include reference to Hornitos Reposada, or similar agave distillates, and perhaps empty shot glasses awaiting the uptight visitor from the north. It could even refer to the romance of the sunlight upon the Sea of Cortez and friends sharing a special, eternal time looking toward Guaymas and the pelicanos doing their work. But I am at a loss and need some help. So if you can think of anything lofty enough, of such pure, high purpose that it would make grown men fall to their knees and weep, and women cry at the vision produced by mere words, then please send me a note or give me a hint at the direction I may look for such inspiration.

¿ Que no ve que soy gringo? (This is fast becoming my favorite, all time, best Spanish phrase.) “Can’t you see I’m a gringo?” We are not equipped to handle such a delicate flower of thought and inspiration with proper respect and passion.

Seventh inning stretch - If you think that I may be drinking while tapping this out on my keyboard you would be partially correct – I am sipping. There is a significant difference between drinking and sipping. Ask anyone except an AA Sponsor and they will tell you there is a difference – even if only slight.

Even though I know in my heart that it would have been impossible to keep up the pace established the past week and a half without resulting in my own death, probably from lack of blood oxygen since alcohol carries so little O2, I am still missing the fun of it all and the amigoness of it too. (I like making up words, don’t you?)

[Discalimer: My truck can haul anything, including the puny collection of shells on the porch. And since I am such a MAN and have no need for anything more than a weapon, meat, fire and a procreation partner, I can handle the fussy, wimpy nod, written above, to things feminine and passionate without fanfare. It’s a joke, and yes, I am still a gringo. Sometimes even gringos cry in their beer.]

Back on target and time to start the 8th inning (if there ever was a target) - Ok, so maybe I need to rethink the whole sea shell thing and just plan to go commercial importing Mexican shells. There are so many more places without beaches than with, and the folks in those places might really appreciate having reminders of what they are missing. It might take off like the Pet Rock thing. The one year retirement plan.
Hasta Luego