It rained last night. No. That’s not quite accurate. It poured. A torrential downpour that soaked the parched earth and, not so happily, inside our house.
At midnight, the thunder rolled across the sky making sleep impossible. Nature created a light show that danced across the dark in streaks of yellow and gold, illuminating the night
At 2am, the wind had shifted and suddenly, Alexis and James’ bed was drenched. A reconnoiter of the house showed numerous leaks in the roof that drip drip dripped onto the couch in the family area, the kitchen and the hallway upstairs. The wind lashed against the glass doors of our bedroom drenching the floor in several places.
James, Alexis and I scurried around finding buckets, pans, bowls and a mop. Somehow, the other three slept on.
Clean up, or at least stop the flow, completed, we went back to bed. But our senses were on alert.
Outside, the wind continued to howl, the rain to pour and the surf to crash.
By 5am, it was all over.
“It’s the equivalent of a snow day in Connecticut,” Aaron, the house manager said when he came to survey the damage. “Everything in town is pretty well shut down as people clean up the mess.”
Aaron manages six homes. He’s been up since dawn navigating puddle ridden dirt roads like the one at the end of which our house sits. “It’s passable,” he said. “But you gotta go slow.”
We had waited to call him until after a walk on the beach. Not much could be done at that point. We’d mopped up the floors and dumped the buckets and pans. Why worry about a call that could be made anytime when the sky was breaking black to grey and blue and white with streaks of sun shimmering through and the surf was crashing into the sand in frothy white waves that rolled and broiled and fell onto itself in its rush to reach the sand?
Lele, Tim and I walked the beach while Alexis and James and Thurlow napped. C.C. hadn’t yet woken up. He can sleep through everything. I am often envious.
The morning awakens after the storm. A whale spouts as it swims past. The not so wild, left to run free horses walk slowly past the house, taking the trail down to the beach. A white heron walks slowly through the grass before taking flight.
Above, the sky is lightening as the clouds roll away and the sun begins to dry up the puddles. In our yard, a pile of coconuts lie at the base of a palm tree, torn down by the wind during the night. There are leaves everywhere but the puddles that filled the drive have already started to dry up, soaking into the sandy soil.
It’s a house day today. the girls are hoping to catch some rays and work on their tans.
The men are hoping to lie by the pool and relax.
For now, Lele and Tim have ventured into town, curious to see how rough the dirt road leading from the house to the main street really is. It’s not great in good conditions. It will be fascinating to see how it is now! They’re also off in search of latte’s and breakfast treats, though Aaron has warned us most stores are closed today.
Alexis is taking a shower, James is having a nap. C.C. plays with Thurlow and I am contemplating the day and the night’s adventures.
It was a rough one, but we all survived and in its wake, I am reminded once again how, no matter the weather, life is beautiful when shared with family.
Namaste.
Back at the house, we showered and changed and left the men in charge of my grandson and drove into town for lunch. I almost had to stop driving at one point as the pounding of my heart drowned out my daughters’ voices and tears welled up into my eyes. I love you both so much, I told them, and they laughed and did that daughter thing of rolling their eyes and laughing before telling me how they love me too, and can we please go for lunch now? And we did after stopping at the bakery for fresh bread for the house and then a delightful ladies’ shop where I bought a new scarf (Like you really need another scarf mom they both teased) and a handbag that Alexis hopes she gets for her birthday and then we went for lunch at the rooftop sky lounge at Guaycura where the view of the red rooftops of Todos Santos tucked within lush green palms and flowering leading down to the sweeping sea made us gasp at the sheer beauty of the view.
I am watching a movie on the flight home. I cannot remember the name nor the actors. I think it was a sad movie. I hope so because I know I felt tears pricking at the edges of my eyelids.
This morning, as I gaze at the snowy landscape outside my office window, as I feel the chill of the air when I let Beaumont out for a romp in the backyard, as I make coffee to take back to bed to savour with my beloved so we can lie together and reminisce of the days just past, of our plans for today and dreams for tomorrow, I carry with me in everything I do, the memories of Huatulco and 
This is a predominantly Catholic region where the day of the 3 Kings is the highlight of the new liturgical year. Everywhere we have gone, I have seen beautiful Crèche. Hand-painted, gilded, carved wooden creations. They sit in malls and the corners of shops and along streets. Next to Ola, Gracias Mon Deus is the phrase I’ve heard most frequently.
Amidst laughter and suspense-filled ooohs and aaahs, we cut into the cake. I didn’t cut out a Bebe of my own but Gerardo offered me his and then one of the young girls gave me hers and then Roscio offered up her “Joseph”. And now, I have a little family of beautifully carved pottery. Mary, Joseph and Le Bebe.
There is much beauty here in this real Mexico at the edge of the Pacific. The rocks push up out of the clear blue waters of the sea that laps and leaps at each crenellated finger of land. Palm trees march up the sides of the mountains and spikes cacti cling to the sandy soil as if defying the winds to blow them away. Flowers compete in brilliant colour, vying for the title of ‘most exotic’, ‘most brilliant hue’, most fragrant.
There are woven fabrics of every colour! Shirts, pants and dresses. Handbags and linens. The colors are vibrant. Lemon yellow nudges up against fuschia and creamy blue. The constant clacking of the looms shuttling back and forth in the front of the store, a reminder of the origins of every thing we see in the shop.
Their son Jordan grew up at the hotel and now works closely with his parents to ensure every detail is attended to, every guest’s wish is met with utmost attention. He has been learning English, he tells me, so that he can be of greater help to the guests. I appreciate his efforts. His willingness to learn my language makes me feel less lost when asking for help! A father now, he hopes his son will also grow up at Villas Fa-Sol.
It is part of the charm of this place where every guest is greeted in the morning with a cheery, Buenos Dias before taking a seat at a table where a breakfast of fresh fruit and other delectable delights awaits. Where the staff are quick to help, to offer direction, to open the gate or open their hearts to make everyone feel welcome.
The taxi is half way out of downtown Huatulco when I realize that I have not taken the room key from C.C. And thus began the adventure of trying to explain to the driver that I would like him to turn around and return to the restaurant where I have left my husband watching the Canada vs Sweden world junior hockey game.
Eventually, I arrive back at Fa-Sol. I swim and rest in a lounger in the sitting pool and watch the sunset and feel the velvety darkness of the night wrap itself around me. I return to our room high above and sit on the deck, feet resting on one of the white columns of the balcony and savour my alone time until it is time to shower and get ready to meet our hosts, Guillermo and Rosio and our friends Ursula and Andrew. Guillermo and Rosio are taking us out for dinner in Santa Cruz. We are picking C.C. up on our way.
I am gliding through the water. One arm over the other in rhythmic pace, like a windmill turning in the wind. I stop momentarily to check if I can touch the bottom, but I am still too deep. I crawl closer to shore. I check again. No. I keep moving closer to shore until finally, just a few feet from the pink and welcoming beach, I feel the sand beneath my toes. I stand up and a giant wave cascades over me, pummeling my back, pushing me into the sand. The wave crashes into the shore, curls back under itself and pulls back out to the ocean, dragging me with it.
We are on a deserted stretch of beach miles down the coast from Villas 
I spent much of the journey perched on the bench of the flying bridge, high above the boat’s main deck. Under Guillermo’s watchful eyes, I climbed up the two ladders to reach the bridge, my favourite place on a boat. I love the feel of being high above the waves, the wind blowing through my hair, the sound of the motors muffled far below.
At Caffe Palma Diamanté in Palma Hildalgo, Don Gabriel regales us with the specifics of coffee growing. His hands are worn and twisted with arthritis. His smile missing teeth. And his eyes twinkle with passion and love for this tiny bean his family has grown for generations. He has a large paneled display that he carefully walks us through — each photo a description of the bean’s journey from seed planting to seedling replanting. To harvest. Separation. Cleaning. WAshing. Culling. Husking. Roasting.
In the tiny shop where they sell the beans to the few tourists who make it up this high into the hills, and the locals who come because they treasure the richness and freshness of his beans, Don Gabriel’s son pours pale raw beans into the roaster, carefully watching to ensure it roasts to just the right dark, rich hue.
With its view of the ocean through the swaying palms, the pool at 
Surrounding the pool deck there are palm trees and azalea bushes. A grove of banana trees in bloom. Giant cacti and yellow flowering bushes stretching out to fill in any spaces between the opulence of the verdant vegetation.
Lying on my back, drifting effortlessly on the surface of the water, listening to the rustle of the palm trees above me, I imagine they are gathering the stories of the wind. Breathing in the richness and vitality of its tales of lands and people in far off places. The palms bend their heads and nod with delight at the juicy morsels the wind whispers into their branches. And the wind keeps bringing its stories. And the palms keep swaying with delight.
We spent the day beneath the whispering wind and swaying palms. C.C.slept in one of the hammocks strung between two trees as I lay on a lounge chair, read and napped and occasionally slipped into the cool inviting waters of the pool that stretched out into infinity. Above us, hawks and pelicans and ‘Pilote’ (a cousin of the vulture) swooped and glided and drifted on the wind.
Dare Boldly 