PACKING IT UP
By E.G. Brady

It was late spring, the tail end of another glorious Mazatlán temporada, and we knew that big bad summer was right around the corner. About a dozen of my closest associates and drinking buddies decided to make one last joint excursion to Isla de la Piedra/ Stone Island before heading north or hibernating in front of the air conditioner til November. For those of you who have never been, it’s sort of like Gilligan’s Island with cold beer. If you feel adventurous, you can venture past the thatched roofed restaurants and wander for hours along a virgin beach with nary a blanket salesman in sight. Or so I’m told, I’ve never bothered. I’m all for unspoiled nature for its own sake, but frankly it bores me. Still, I do appreciate a certain amount of rusticity. A restaurant with no walls, a sandy floor and hammocks hanging instead of ferns is my kind of place. When I grow up I want to be the guy who walks around the beach all day with a large iguana wrapped around his head, demanding that people take a picture and give him money. Good old Stone Island, where you can pretend for a few precious hours that it’s not the twenty-first century. Anyhow, we agreed to meet at noon at the last palapa. Sra Brady likes to bring a picnic basket with her wherever she goes. Even a quick jaunt to the store requires a bottle of water, an apple, an orange and a donut or two. That’s just for her. Take her to the beach and throw in a couple of toddlers, her mother and a few brothers and sisters and you end up with some serious luggage to be lugged. Never mind that they have all kinds of great food and tasty beverages at very reasonable prices right there on the island, and plenty of waiters to bring you whatever you want. All it takes is a wave of the hand and a couple of words and your wish is their command. But the way my wife and her mother see it, that’s just too easy. Better pack a lunch instead, and hope the restaurateur won’t mind when we spread our stuff across three tables and head for the bathrooms. Most of the morning was spent grating carrots, boning fish and squeezing limes to make that most perishable of delicacies, ceviche. And, of course, another labor-intensive dish, refried bean purée with congealed cheese and sausage in pop-off tupperware containers. Beach toys, dishes, silverware, life preservers, extra clothing, etc. etc. By the time everything was prepared and stowed to the satisfaction of the planning committee, we were already running late and had more supplies to carry than when I climbed Mt. Kilimanjaro with a party of eight. The only thing

we lacked was tostadas. The little red pick-up taxi waited patiently while we rounded up the extended family, sort of like herding rabbits. Almost everyone was in the back when our daughter got into the sunblock and had to be bathed and wrapped in clean clothes. Then down the hill to my mother-in-law’s house to look for stragglers and radishes. Then, only an hour late, we’re off in search of tostadas. My wife was up front with the baby, so I didn’t get to discuss her route selection and to this day do not know why we headed off down the highway in the direction of Texas when Stone Island is due south. Maybe the store she had in mind had exceptionally good tostadas. Anyhow, half way out of town we stop at a store very similar to a dozen more conveniently located stores, and discover they are sold out of tostadas. Ni modo, we pull a U-turn and head south past the Bimbo bread factory and pull into La Ley, Sinaloa’s answer to Walmart. Sra Brady, her lovely sister and their mother trundle on in, and get into an altercation with the security guard who won’t let them bring food and drink into the store. So the sister comes back with the contraband items, and the dynamic duo charge in, stalking the wild tostada. Meanwhile, we’re having a great time in the truck, with the warm afternoon sun beating down on the asphalt, the driver cheerfully tapping his head on the steering wheel, the kids screaming and trying to jump out into traffic, and the clock ticking relentlessly away. I think it’s safe to say that most men at some point have experienced exasperation while waiting for a member of the fairer sex to get her kit and kaboodle out the door. I tried commiserating with the taxista, but he just gave me an unsympathetic look and turned up his radio. Fifteen, maybe twenty fun-filled minutes later, the girls emerge with the tostadas, and more. Thirty six slightly chilled beers, mayonnaise, tuna, canned corn, paper towels, you name it. Everything except ice and a can opener. Oh, well, maybe the waiter will bring us some ice and open cans for us. Off we go to the lanchas, those floating wooden bathtubs that ferry passengers and livestock to and from Stone Island. We’re just starting to board when we realize we left the diaper bag with the camera in the taxi. Luckily, we know his cell phone number and as quick as baked potatoes, he merrily returns with the lost bag and this time, for sure, we’re almost there. I will mercifully draw the curtain and spare the reader the gory details of the rest of the day. At any rate, the need to guzzle the beers as rapidly as possible before they got any warmer dimmed my memory a bit. But you get the idea?

 

 

 

 

 

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