BIG BLOW HARD
BIG BLOW HARD (932 words, 7 minutes) As Performed
I lived aboard my restored Airstream at a Canadian Family Nudist Resort through another frozen winter. Of course I saved on laundry and carefully avoided frost on my frolic. A fellow camper and former Cabo San Lucas extranjero confided; “The Baja California Peninsula is Paradise. A languid siesta driven Gringolandia. No pistole toting Banditos. Road rage is limited to hitting vacas and vaca-a-versa.
Sounded like my place in the sun where I could afford to live on a minuscule pension.
Dragged my vintage traveltrailer down here to live those irresistable dreams. I fully intended to master Spanish, play the guitar and acquire a few other Mexicana cultural accouterments, such as a woman and a sense of humor.
That was 10 years ago; My Spanish is still Spanglish, I don’t play a guitar, and my novia is a gringa from San Diego. You will observe I have acquired an estómago magnífico.
Living in paradise made it tough to find a true personal yarn which would wow this adventurous audience. I know you expect a heroic saga. An narrative brim full of rattle snakes, scropians, mountain cats, fishing lies, pie in the sky kite boards, windsurfering with needle fish, kayakers, divers, snorkelers, and dirty desert-rat yarns.
Of course we have those and more. We live in a moving inspirational painting by the master artist. Each dawn the sun rises over the ever changing sea. Outrageous cloud formations blur white against burning blue skies. At dusk old sol sets in a spectacular abstract of vermilion, azure and blinding gold over the multicolored mountains.
Contemplating nature, my Baja story emerged. “It’s the weather, the bad weather!”
The ritualistic yearly anticipation of the Hurricane Season. Year round residents and absent property owners twitch during those months each year. Vecinos with WiFi shared news as low pressure areas formed in the Pacific.
When numerical warnings manifest into tormentas, windows get boarded-over, gasoline stored, generators roused and bottled water secured.
During one of these weather warnings I was living with my new found amiga at her home, near La Curva. A lady friend of her’s was visiting from the States. My vintage trailer sat on a site in the East Cape RV Resort. A place built on a reclaimed lake.
A Hurricane formed. Forecast to move near Cabo San Lucas and veer up the Pacific coast to make landfall near Todos Santos.
The tension built, escalted into stormy weather over my abandoned rig. The upshot: I left her cozy casa for the Spartan shelter of “Casamobile.”
As darkness closed in, I realized I was the only person in the park. I was also unaware Hurricane Marty’s track had shifted, to head up the Sea of Cortez and smash into Los Barriles.
Inside my “tin tent” I became intensly aware, (an understatement), as the full gale built into a shreiking storm. The trailer shivered, shuttered and shook. I rolled out of my bunk, as the thin aluminum skin drummed to the full force of the storm. The noise became intense. I switched on the outside sealed-beam light. Rain lashed horizontally in white flapping curtains. Rapid fire grapefruit cannon balls, salvos of oranges, snd fusilgoes of lemons flew by. Whirling palm fronds joined unidentified flying objects and the air became thick as fruit salad.
“This must be a Hurricane,” I yelled. “Ok you big bastard, you are strong. Now shut up!” The cacophony only increased in response. I knelt and contemplated the purpose life.
Later, I checked on conditions in the outside aquarium. Witnessed the roof of a neighbors trailer zip off like the lid on a sardine can.
Abruptly the roar eased. Replaced with an eerie high pitched see-saw hum. I thought “What the hell is next?”
The ghostly light of a dawn revealed through the lacy mist that the shrouded park was under two feet of water. My site sat on a higher elevation. As I opened the trailer door a tsumi wave of eerie sound flooded my senses.
I saw a croaker chorus of a hundred thousand Spade Toads clinging to the floaing debris and each other. They were singing in the rain and fornicating in unison. Sorta like: “I’m doing it! You’re doing it! Hell, we’re all doing it! I’m doing it! You’re doing it! Hell, we’re all doing it!” with no variations.” It had a catchy beat and a wonderful rhythm section but no melody.
These toads hibranate beneath desert sands, sometimes for years. When rains do come the toads rehydrate and embrace one each other in an lively fertility orgy.
Stuff was afloat everywhere in the flooded park. I pondered an escape when an empty Kayak floated in and nudged me. A sign, the sprit moves in mysterious ways… no paddle.
My 40 ouncer of rum had been sucked dry. A sobering thought. I was parked next to the perimenter fence. On the other side a lane lead to the paved road and la Curva. Straddled the fence stile-like with a folding ladder. Then headed out to face a another possible cyclone.
At 5:30 AM arrived at mi Amiga’s Casa. Two wide eyed, wide awake women responded to my knock. Surprised, they seemed happy to greet me.
My first words were: “I’m out of rum!”
I’ll spare your delicate ears what mi amiga’s words were, but translated they sounded like, “Welcome home you big blow-hard.”
Prophetically speaking, a few years later, a true blow hard with the household name of… - you guessed… - “John!” - blew into Los Barriles…!
A legedary Baja Story to be exaggerated at a distant neighbourly occasion.
I lived aboard my restored Airstream at a Canadian Family Nudist Resort through another frozen winter. Of course I saved on laundry and carefully avoided frost on my frolic. A fellow camper and former Cabo San Lucas extranjero confided; “The Baja California Peninsula is Paradise. A languid siesta driven Gringolandia. No pistole toting Banditos. Road rage is limited to hitting vacas and vaca-a-versa.
Sounded like my place in the sun where I could afford to live on a minuscule pension.
Dragged my vintage traveltrailer down here to live those irresistable dreams. I fully intended to master Spanish, play the guitar and acquire a few other Mexicana cultural accouterments, such as a woman and a sense of humor.
That was 10 years ago; My Spanish is still Spanglish, I don’t play a guitar, and my novia is a gringa from San Diego. You will observe I have acquired an estómago magnífico.
Living in paradise made it tough to find a true personal yarn which would wow this adventurous audience. I know you expect a heroic saga. An narrative brim full of rattle snakes, scropians, mountain cats, fishing lies, pie in the sky kite boards, windsurfering with needle fish, kayakers, divers, snorkelers, and dirty desert-rat yarns.
Of course we have those and more. We live in a moving inspirational painting by the master artist. Each dawn the sun rises over the ever changing sea. Outrageous cloud formations blur white against burning blue skies. At dusk old sol sets in a spectacular abstract of vermilion, azure and blinding gold over the multicolored mountains.
Contemplating nature, my Baja story emerged. “It’s the weather, the bad weather!”
The ritualistic yearly anticipation of the Hurricane Season. Year round residents and absent property owners twitch during those months each year. Vecinos with WiFi shared news as low pressure areas formed in the Pacific.
When numerical warnings manifest into tormentas, windows get boarded-over, gasoline stored, generators roused and bottled water secured.
During one of these weather warnings I was living with my new found amiga at her home, near La Curva. A lady friend of her’s was visiting from the States. My vintage trailer sat on a site in the East Cape RV Resort. A place built on a reclaimed lake.
A Hurricane formed. Forecast to move near Cabo San Lucas and veer up the Pacific coast to make landfall near Todos Santos.
The tension built, escalted into stormy weather over my abandoned rig. The upshot: I left her cozy casa for the Spartan shelter of “Casamobile.”
As darkness closed in, I realized I was the only person in the park. I was also unaware Hurricane Marty’s track had shifted, to head up the Sea of Cortez and smash into Los Barriles.
Inside my “tin tent” I became intensly aware, (an understatement), as the full gale built into a shreiking storm. The trailer shivered, shuttered and shook. I rolled out of my bunk, as the thin aluminum skin drummed to the full force of the storm. The noise became intense. I switched on the outside sealed-beam light. Rain lashed horizontally in white flapping curtains. Rapid fire grapefruit cannon balls, salvos of oranges, snd fusilgoes of lemons flew by. Whirling palm fronds joined unidentified flying objects and the air became thick as fruit salad.
“This must be a Hurricane,” I yelled. “Ok you big bastard, you are strong. Now shut up!” The cacophony only increased in response. I knelt and contemplated the purpose life.
Later, I checked on conditions in the outside aquarium. Witnessed the roof of a neighbors trailer zip off like the lid on a sardine can.
Abruptly the roar eased. Replaced with an eerie high pitched see-saw hum. I thought “What the hell is next?”
The ghostly light of a dawn revealed through the lacy mist that the shrouded park was under two feet of water. My site sat on a higher elevation. As I opened the trailer door a tsumi wave of eerie sound flooded my senses.
I saw a croaker chorus of a hundred thousand Spade Toads clinging to the floaing debris and each other. They were singing in the rain and fornicating in unison. Sorta like: “I’m doing it! You’re doing it! Hell, we’re all doing it! I’m doing it! You’re doing it! Hell, we’re all doing it!” with no variations.” It had a catchy beat and a wonderful rhythm section but no melody.
These toads hibranate beneath desert sands, sometimes for years. When rains do come the toads rehydrate and embrace one each other in an lively fertility orgy.
Stuff was afloat everywhere in the flooded park. I pondered an escape when an empty Kayak floated in and nudged me. A sign, the sprit moves in mysterious ways… no paddle.
My 40 ouncer of rum had been sucked dry. A sobering thought. I was parked next to the perimenter fence. On the other side a lane lead to the paved road and la Curva. Straddled the fence stile-like with a folding ladder. Then headed out to face a another possible cyclone.
At 5:30 AM arrived at mi Amiga’s Casa. Two wide eyed, wide awake women responded to my knock. Surprised, they seemed happy to greet me.
My first words were: “I’m out of rum!”
I’ll spare your delicate ears what mi amiga’s words were, but translated they sounded like, “Welcome home you big blow-hard.”
Prophetically speaking, a few years later, a true blow hard with the household name of… - you guessed… - “John!” - blew into Los Barriles…!
A legedary Baja Story to be exaggerated at a distant neighbourly occasion.
