Fishing

“Where’s your husband?” asks a stocky, mustachioed man halting before me. He holds a long fishing rod in one hand.

With a mouth full of burrito de machaca, I gesture to the butcher shop across the street. He moves on down the Loreto sidewalk, twirling his reel. 

It’s hot, but I’m too hungry to find a cooler place, so I stand in front of my favorite tortilla factory, a fresh kilo in my bag, balancing burritos. They are small, unlike United States burritos, so I ordered four, delicate and delicious. Next stop, groceries, which is always an adventure. Good for my Spanish, too.

I’m not against husbands, nor wives, as the case may be. I just don’t happen to have one. But BajaSur abounds in kind, sexy folk. There are a few in the marina. And which appeals to me most, the kindness or the sexiness? Definitely the combination. “I will help you,” said a kind, sexy man one day when I was scared of the weather in relation to Habibi. He said it again, another time. And both times he did. Help. A man of his word. Which is extremely sexy.

I blame the ocean, and the rhythm of life, sex, and death. I’m spending more time in it than ever, healing on a cellular level — the swell, the rocking, the waves. Sometimes she’s clear and calm, other times she’s riled up from wind over fetch. Fetch this, she says.

Why not enjoy the feelings? Been a long time since I felt fifteen, grinning at a man blowing me kisses. Which happened last month as I peeled out of the parking lot. ¡Híjole! Fish are jumpin’.

When I return to the marina, laden with provisions, I’m greeted by the kind, sexy man walking toward me. “¡Hola!” I say but don’t stop. Hot hot hot!

Don’t stand so close to me, sings Sting. But — oh — the fire is so delightful.