PAPASIERRA
JUST BECAUSE I SIGNED MY NAME DOESN’T MEAN THE STORY IS OVER
If you’re wondering what it’s like to cross into Mexico by car, I’ll tell you. I was expecting the crossings I see in all the movies — highway suddenly expanding out to 5 or 6 lanes, like at a toll station, agents stopping every car with drug sniffing dogs, and lots of RVs, at least one of which has a pasty white dude in a Sombrero and Bermuda shorts speaking anglified espanol too loudly. Instead, the interstate terminated, signs led me down a ramp to a very congested, narrow-laned area of downtown Nogales, Arizona and through a sharp right turn into what resembled a 2-lane cattle chute full of stopped cars. Then it got weird.
We took turns filing into a single lane of cars that wound through an obstacle course of parked government vehicles in what looked to me like the loading area for a warehouse; Clumps of patrol agents ignoring most of the cars and talking amongst themselves. Without ever stopping, or being asked for any documents, I was directed towards a traffic light, red at the moment, in what was now a very congested, narrow laned area of downtown Nogales, Mexico — with no indication of which way to go when the light turned green. Just then one of a dozen young men in faded jeans and t-shirt, carrying a repurposed plastic water bottle and an old rag, rushed my car and washed my windshield.
The tangle of conflicting thoughts at that moment, (Do I follow the string of beat-up Mexican cars going straight or the string of beat-up Mexican cars turning right? Does my non-beat-up car make me stand out? Is it racist to worry about that? Do I pay the window-washer even though I didn’t ask for him to clean my windows? do I dare NOT pay him? Do I dare slow down traffic? What’s the going rate for unwelcome window washing in Mexico? What’s in that bottle?) merely displaced, temporarily, the tangle of conflicting thoughts I’ve been wrestling for weeks now.
In case you’re reading this and don’t know me (unlikely), or are unaware why the hell I’m in Mexico (more likely), lemme explain briefly. After 28 years of marriage, 23 years of parenting, 22 years in Boise, ID and 1,357 trips to Home Depot, I began to realize that if I didn’t do something drastic, I was going to devolve into being a resentful, angry, old man. I’ve been dreaming of buying and living on a sailboat for about 40 years. So, with a little push from my now ex-wife (I still love her dearly) I decided it was time to go.
So, I bought a liveaboard sailboat in San Carlos, MX. In one week I’ve changed just about everything. New lifestyle (boat living is very different), new climate, new country, new marital status, new language. Even a new guitar. And therein lies the source of all my conflicting thoughts. I vacillate between elation at how beautiful it is here, to sadness knowing my (ex)wife, kids and dogs are living life without me, to ego filled pride (“My — what big cajones you have!” “The better to impress myself my dear”), to fear about all that could go wrong.
I’m worried about seeming boastful in these updates so please know that every time I send a pretty picture or write about some fun adventure, that my days are also filled with misgivings, doubt, fear and frustrations. But many have asked for updates so this is the first.
There — I said it. Now — dig these pictures. It’s so cool here!
Keith
PS: I almost forgot. I named the boat PapaSierra. Why, you ask? Two reasons.
1. Papa is Spanish for Potato. Sierra is Spanish for Mountain. Idaho will always live in me, and what better description of Idaho is there?
2. Papa and Sierra are the call names (NATO Phonetic Alphabet) for ‘P’ and ‘S’ respectively. PS — as in post script — like the one you’re reading. I like to think that’s what I’m doing in life as well. Just because I’ve signed my name doesn’t mean the story ends.
