ZIHUATANEJO, Mexico — No one in Zihuatanejo had ever seen a “Chubasco” like this one. Carole and I sat comfortably in our cabana with 12-inch-thick walls and listened to the ferocious winds and torrential rain outside. Occasionally, monster storms from the Gulf of Mexico swept across the lower peninsula of the country and headed out into the Pacific Ocean where usually they dissipated. Occasionally, however, the storm regained momentum, took a northern right hook, and, on rare occasions, doubled back east and hurled itself onto shore with high winds and flooding sheets of rain. They called this phenomenon a “Chubasco.” I called the 130-knot winds and rain savaging our hotel, howling outside our cottage and the town for eight hours, a “hurricane.” It was the tail end of “Isadore” that creamed southern Mexico.
We watched from our cottage as rows of arched terra-cotta tiles slid off the steeply pitched roof of the open-air bar, sliding off in perfect sequence. First one row would go, and then when it was gone, the next row would begins its journey, like soldiers marching across a parade field.
The raging bay-water, just a few feet away, hurled itself against the up-tilted rock outcrop, exploding like wet fireworks. Beyond the shore was an endless procession of peaks and troughs of white-capped waves that terrified my seasick soul. When it was over, the town of Zihuatanejo was changed forever. Fully one-fifth of all the trees in the community were toppled or heavily damaged.
The next morning my wife wasn’t feeling too well, so I walked down the uneven stone road to town by myself to look at the damage. At the bottom of the hill and across the wooden-bridge, a stately plum, a shade tree I had admired previously, was one of the casualties. It grew in the middle of a nondescript parking lot adjacent to the fishing boat docks. I earlier had remarked to my wife, “I had never seen such a grand wide-spread plume on a tree like this.”
In the wrath of the storm, this proud tree that loved life, and the shade it provided to sun-baked fishermen in this moist tropic air, gave way. It had too much surface area to withstand the urges of the unceasing wind.
When I came upon the tree the next morning, the branches were being hacked to death with sharp machetes by uncaring unsympathetic laborers who were glad to be employed for seven-dollars per day. A couple of days later, the stubborn unyielding stump roots still held fast and a strong hydraulic back hoe with dinosaur teeth was brought in to finish the work. The teeth bit and bit, but still the stubborn root ball resisted the angry gnawing. It would not easily give up its birthplace of an estimated 150 years. Finally in pain, and moist eyes I could watch no longer and left. A few hours later, I returned and it was gone. Eyes moist, I crossed back over the arched wooden-bridge and couldn’t wait to fly home in a few hours.
Originally I went to town to see the damage, but also to find the Las Brisas restaurant I’d heard so many people rave about, for a great desayuno (breakfast),
I passed by a street where we had browsed the day before, which was lined with stall after stall of trinket vendors. Twenty five vendor merchants in bare feet were frantically sweeping the muddy storm water in the roadway into the grated, sewer hole at the end of the block. A city water truck hose helped them move the mud. They were cleaning the street because a giant cruise ship was arriving in two hours. The travel agent said the ship would not allow the passengers onto the street unless it was clean and dry.
A few blocks further I found the restaurant. Sitting on a brick planter in front was a gringo. He was a handsome, trim, well-built man in his 40s. He was busily sharpening the teeth on a chain saw with confident expertise. This in itself was unusual. Gringos were usually tourists like me. I asked him about his status. He didn’t hesitate to tell me his life story: He was a 47- year old expatriate from San Jose, California. He had been a carpenter, chain saw operator, wood carver, furniture builder, and union organizer. He had just organized the first lifeguard union here in ”Z” Town. He had lived here on-and-off for 30 years. His wife had split on him and paired off with a waiter somewhere. However, that didn’t bother him. “There were three women for every man here, and every night there were three lonely knocks on my door. I took care of my allotted share.”
We continued our conversation (read his-monologue) inside the restaurant, having adjoining tables. As he continued I sensed his immaturity. He was a drop-out from nursery school. He appeared to have continued the habit of “dropping out” to this day. While we were talking, a waiter brought him three heaping plates of food. “I’m broke, but will trade work for food. I do a lot of volunteering too. I teach ‘em how to saw.” He wolfed down his plate as he talked, as if it were his first or last meal. When he finished, I remarked about his prodigious effort. He exclaimed, “I’m still hungry.” After he left, with his chain saw tucked under his arm, I remarked to the waiter, “Es hombre un poquito loco?” (This man is a little crazy?) “No senor, el hombre es mucho loco.” (No, sir, this man is very crazy.)
When he took off, I didn’t know if he was going to attack some downed trees, whose branches lay everywhere, like fingers on a blackjack table in Las Vegas, or if he was heading for the nearest playground to climb to the top of the monkey bars.
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Ira Spector is a freelance writer based in San Diego. This selection, with slight revisions, was republished from Spector’s 2011 work, Sammy Where Are You? An Unconventional Memoir … Sort of. It is available via Amazon.
Mr. Spector,
More than twenty years have gone by since I first crossed in darkness that rickety footbridge on our way to the first of what would be many dinners at Punta Arena. Your fine account brought me back to quieter times in Zihautanejo.