So a pelican walks in to the restaurant…..no really a
pelican just walked in and is standing in the doorway not letting anyone in or
anyone out. The sight is too much for
the patrons to handle and has suddenly turned everyone into Facebook Paparazzi’s
jumping up out of their chairs and snapping pictures of the larger than life
bird. Unfazed by the flying flashes, he turns his head front and back, side to
side and as if on the red carpet he gives one last snap signaling “that is
enough” and slowly saunters in eyeing every person carefully as if looking for
the man who killed his father. Suddenly he stops, puffing his feathers then
spreading his massive wings as if impaled on a cross, staring at the man who is
eating with his wife. In the silent discomfort the man puts down his fork and
gulps what appears to be his last bite, shifting in his chair as if he had been
caught in a lie, he reaches up and adjusts his glasses and checks his hair with
a sweeping motion over the top. His wife looks at him and the man returns the
look as if he has no idea what this is about , he looks down at his plate, then
back around the room giving his best “Im innocent… it’s a bird people “ look
but no eyes flinch, all eyes are settled on him, the guilty. The Pelicans
massive 6ft wing span still blocking the man in and in the silence I swear I
heard “My name is Inigo Montoya you killed my father prepare to die.” After a
min or two the pelican drops his wings half way and starts to walk to the back
door turning every few steps locking eyes with the man. When he gets to the back
door he turns and faces the man one last time calling him out, then walks 4
paces from the door and turns staring in, presumably waiting for the marked
man. When I leave I will be looking for congregations of pelicans on the roof
tops, poles, wires and on the ground. If they are there I am leaving tonight in
order to get away from the marked man, this town and the fate to come. Thanks Hitchcock
for feeding these birds something more than people food, you have fed them
ideas. Apparently I am not the only one who has been to Bodega Bay.
For the last few weeks and for at least the next month I
will be in Puerto Real PR situated on a small bay almost lagoon on the south western coast of
the island. With mangroves, manatees and the biggest tarpon you have ever seen
it’s a cool place. Poor in appearance and wealth but loaded with character and
good people, this is a perfect hamlet to try to learn Spanish as very few
people speak any English here. If you
were walking along the main street on your left you will come to the Pescaderia
Carro Valle (Carro Valle fish market), a bright yellow building with red fish
painted on it, it’s clean on the inside and full of beautiful seafood. Usually
at the front counter you will find Carro’s wife Mildred, about the same age as
my mother she has taken it upon herself to be my Puerto Rican mother and helping
me a great deal with my Spanish. Her younger years were spent in Brooklyn and
she still speaks perfect English but won’t EVER since I told her I wanted to
learn Spanish; maybe she just likes to watch me struggle. When you get to the back of the market you
will find an old man with a wooden leg waddling around snapping it forward to
walk, usually with a knife in his hand, he’s the fish butcher. Meticulous in
his fish cutting, he is serious, always eyes me with a deep stare (like the
pelican) mouth closed, he just keeps looking at me, breathing heavy over his
white moustache as if the verdict is still out on me (sound familiar), swirling
his knife high in the air and slamming it down on the board he will slowly look
back up at me. Little happens around here and little will happen fast, always
echoing the words of Earl in my head as I deal around town, “don’t expect things
will get faster, count on them to get slower” The nameless butcher returning my
hellos may take a while. If you walked out the back door, down the dock you
will find Chappy on the right passing her and moving to the end you will find a
crossing dock which is a large seating area, built with thick wood planks
spaced about one inch apart the green water peering through, once painted red,
long ago it has lost its luster taking on a charming patina after years of rain
and sun. The benches all around built in
the same fashion; they are comfortable for any length of deliberation and my
new office. The rusty tin roof above shields me from the sun and rain
surprisingly well having been riddled with rust in a pattern of machine gun
fire. Maybe Che hung out here on a sabbatical from freedom fighting and after a
few rums in a fit of passion shot up the place. I would like to think that;
it’s the romantic in me.
During the days Chappy is getting sanded down, new paint,
varnish and rebedded. Around here good skilled boat maintenance labor runs
around $7.25 an hour and at that price, have at it boys. Of course nothing is
perfect and the slower rule does apply here. The guys working on the boat bust
their humps but the min they work enough to cover their beer or who knows what
money for the night they are done, will leave and when the money is gone they
come back. I am glad I am planning on spending over a month here or I would be
banging my head against the wall. Good
thing is the boat looks great. Recently I
posted a video of me ridding to the bank with one of the boat workers in a cab. There was no
gas tank left on the car just a jerry jug stuffed in the engine compartment
with a hose going into it, capped with a rag and a spare gas can in the back
seat next to me. The driver couldn’t understand my protest as he lit up a cigarette but soon understood my phobia of being burned alive in a Buick 98 and tossed it out the window.
Rolling down the street like 3 G’s we blared Reggaetone but as we approached
the town a more crooner style music was played. The driver looking back at me
and in broken English/Spanish said “this one is for the ladies.”
To stay fit I have been running in the mornings. At day
break I head up the road finding many sprints in me to avoid the millions of
loose dogs and of course the cars give me an agility workout since they don’t know
what to do with a runner. As they pass they will slow down and swerve at me inorder
to get a better look, usually as they past every head is turned and looking at
me as if I were “Cool Runnings” 
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