Vallarta
De Nuevo
The creaking pirate ship arose from the depths with the semblance of a humpback whale, moving in a reversed slow-motion way. Soggy and dripping with sea slime and antiquity, yet it still creaked as it had in its prime, un-sunken condition. The deluge of brine seeped down from tattered sails and barnacle-encrusted gunwales; the sloshing sound temporarily drowned the ever-present cries of the gulls, frigates and pelicans.
“Sí.” Affirmed the old man. “Este año, sí.”
His right eye was sealed shut from decades of exposure to the double hung sun, and a prolonged lapse in medical attention. His left eye, ‘the good one’, was becoming increasingly cloudy, como la neblina. His creased ears heard many things within the rocks and palms that punctuated the shore, so it was said by the locals, though few people would speak to him directly. He could discern the voices that whispered out from broken shells and grains of sand.
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De Nuevo — and again
The speed boats circled in like the flies buzzing about empty bottles of last night’s cerveza. The tourists withdrew their smartphones from zippered polyethylene bags, squinting through their sunglasses while pinching and spreading their fingers to achieve the correct zoom. The whole world would be made to see — to believe, if only for a moment.
A curly haired dog sporting long whiskers hobbled along the cobblestones, stalling here and there to scratch at his scruff or yawn at the siesta heat. Sunscreen scents wafted down the Malecón, carried along by the Pacific breeze. The spilled corn nuts would remain untouched for some time to come; perhaps it would be swept up by cleaners or carried away by the tiny rivers of ants.
Maybe they had seen it before in a photo, or in a dream — or they had actually watched that old movie. This time, though, it was different.
At least it felt that way.
“Este año, sí.”
