Part One: The Turning Tide VIII

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 Though I awoke feeling refreshed, I couldn't hit the beach for a run as planned because we had to return to Puerto. I quickly packed my bags and stepped onto the balcony, trying to absorb the magnificent scenery. I didn't know when I'd return to witness this stunning vista again. Breathing in the crisp air, I closed my eyes and made a solemn promise to myself: I will be back!

Traveling through Mexico in this newly awakened state was a wholly unprecedented event. My eyes soaked up all the splendor they encountered, confirming the authentic charm of my country—a sight that truly captivated and amazed me.

Suddenly, a heavy, intrusive thought struck me: "Our trip is coming to an end." As that idea crossed my mind, I pictured myself back in the classroom, facing all kinds of students. I worried that the renewal and peace I had gained on this journey would quickly be depleted by the stressful school environment.

Checking out at 10 a.m., we headed to the nearest stop to catch the chivera and begin the long journey back to Puerto. A wave of sadness washed over me, realizing how little time we had left in this region before school commenced again! However, a sudden and far more pressing thought brightened the mood: we still had the stash of pot, which meant we were in serious trouble if the police pulled us over!

I suggested to Jorge, "Let's bury it on the beach and let some lucky person find it!" He burst out laughing. "Hahaha, clever, but I have a better idea!" he exclaimed. When we arrived in Pochutla to catch the bus to Puerto, Jorge went to the bathroom, took the stash, and left it in the rubbish bin. We laughed the entire way back, imagining the various characters and scenarios involving who would discover and consume our hidden treasure. To this day, we continue to wonder if our "donation" to the trash gods resulted in a most fortuitous and high-spirited discovery for an unsuspecting scavenger. 




All the way back, I couldn't stop contemplating life on this coast and how incredible it would be to reside there. I desperately wanted to escape the stress of living with my parents and my job teaching in the school system. I was utterly exhausted by the tight schedules and restricted environment; I genuinely needed a change and a respite.

Upon finally arriving in Puerto, we got off at Zicatela and headed back to where we were staying. Our hosts, who always seemed to be enjoying themselves, had apparently had a fight! The fellow, perpetually in a state of euphoric intoxication, approached us this time with sad eyes and led us to our room in Zicatela. Later that night, we noticed he was sleeping outside. It looked like his girlfriend had kicked him out for some reason—perhaps he had finished all the weed they had left, since he was always zonked! Given our dark sense of humor, we found the entire situation absolutely hilarious.

We stumbled upon a pub in Zicatela that had a distinct goth-rock vibe. I was so taken with the decor that I convinced Jorge we had to try it. The food was acceptable but seemed geared toward American tourists, and the drinks were decent but overpriced. After spending a little time there, we crossed the street to the beach. We sat on the sand once more, gazing at the starry sky and the boats on the horizon awaiting the lighthouse's illuminating beam. We absorbed the final moments of our trip with all our senses, listening to the waves, wishing the night would never end, and already anticipating our return. I reaffirmed my vow to myself: “I shall return.”




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