It was the beginning of the feeding hour for the pelicans at this quiet fishing community, 3 1/2 hours south of Puerto Vallarta by first class bus.
.A week later, the señora and I actually saw one- a million dollar sunset - at Barra de Navidad, Melaque's upscale neighbor. Barra is a four kilometers' walk southeast along the sandy beach that rims the tranquil Bahia de Navidad.
San Patricio-Melaque, as it's named on my map, is actually three towns in one and one of the few places we know where the locals are quick to greet visitors with an easy buenos días. Maybe everyone is so
happy because it's February and the warm ocean temperature almost matches that of the air.
Drying off under my palapa in front of a beachfront restaurant, I looked out to see a handful of people sharing their watery space with diving pelicans. These wise looking birds, with the dignity of elder statesmen, were
not shy about catching their silvery feast of fish by darting beneath the unsuspecting swimmers. These large gray birds would plop within four or five feet of the bathers, first diving underwater, then resurfacing to gulp down their bony banquet.
With the pelican dinnertime came a serenity that settled over this
tropical beach paradise and its normally boisterous beachgoers. It was
as if this tiny bit of real estate had made a unilateral treaty with the rest of
the world that life here would be pleasant and uncomplicated. This moment
of peace, when life seemed to slow down, made it possible to study the
composition of this sandy scene as though viewing a landscape painting:There
are strollers on the beach, frozen in time, with heads bowed together in private conversation. The bathers and pelicans float together sharing a mutual respect for their space in the ocean. Two sailing boats stare benevolently at each other in the distance while gently rocking under a cloudless turquoise sky. Only the lapping waves are marking time while a whisper of a breeze brushes their caps white. Watching, I had become part of a Kodak moment.
The calmness was in contrast to other times when chaos, erupting in the form of music, would blast the people on the beach with Mexican music from a restaurant's jukebox with large concert speakers that were competing with another impressive system from a neighboring restaurant. There's nothing quite like hearing sad rancheras telling of terrible desolation and pain, while next door throbbing cumbias are inviting everyone to dance.
Stretched out along the beach, the customers would sit at tiny red and
blue wooden tables held up by rickety legs. They groaned under the weight of
bottles of rum and tequila as buckets of ice played host to numerous cervezas.
Tiny plates of limes and salt, and salsa sandwiched between larger plates of
fat oysters and chewy clams, would feed flocks of visiting families from as
far away as Guadalajara. Others came from nearby Autlán, home of legendary guitarist Carlos Santana, who remembers his mother washing the family clothes in the river.
The beach would be full of city kids and young adults running wildly up and down the beach chasing the wildlife. Occasionally, a gray, proud pelican, or an unwary seagull with its delicate black crown, would be caught by its frail wings only to be flung back carelessly into the watchful ocean. The unlucky bird would appear traumatized or worse, injured. Those were chaotic times.
But this afternoon was meditative; it was a time of rest, reflection
and mental preparation. The next day would find us in a land the Mexicans call el Norte, to a job in a large California city, and to sophisticated stuff like a depreciating 401K, a monthly mortgage, and the fog of war from a far off place.
Dedicated to Don Carlos and Rita
MELAQUE: A Mexican Paradise
The pelican missed hitting me by a splash but I wasn't complaining. I looked up. The sun was setting low in the sky, but there would be no seeing the sunset, not tonight nor any night, in Melaque. The western-facing rock formations jutting out of the smooth-as-glass water took care of that.
This part of the Mexican Pacific Coast is called the Costa Alegre, or the Happy Coast. It also translates to the Tipsy Coast, depending on your
point of view. It was named by Spanish sailors who were likely only too happy to put down their stale sea biscuits and reach for fresh papayas and guavas. Or maybe it's because the Spaniards were so happy to find friendly natives.
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