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Finding the Pot of Gold
by Hildy Gottlieb
Copyright ReSolve, Inc. 2000 ©
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It's raining. Here
in the desert, that's a big deal. Entire populations have risen and fallen,
congregated and then moved on, all because of the rain. Even now, in this
modern age, the rain turns everything into an adventure.
Today, in the rain, we are heading
down the 2 lane road to Puerto Peñasco, a Mexican fishing village along
the Sea of Cortez. We are on our way to meet with a new client, but still we
are giggling as we drive, rolling down the windows every once in a while just
to get our arms wet.
At the border, the customs inspector
seems unfazed. "Is it raining in Peñasco?" I ask him anxiously in
Spanish. I know that Peñasco barely gets a single drop all year, and I
want to be there when that drop falls. "Tal vez," he answers blankly, just like
any customs officer in any culture. Perhaps.
But as we approach Peñasco, we see that it has indeed
rained and that we just missed it. We know the storm will have meant a break
for the fishermen, and that all the boats will be in at the docks, a rare
sight. We race directly to the harbor.
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Photos by
Hildy Gottlieb Copyright 2000 © |
| We know the storm will have meant a
break for the fishermen |
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And not only are the boats in,
but the fishermen are there as well, enjoying their rainy day off. We each jump
out to explore, cameras in hand. At each boat, I ask permission, not wanting to
steal photos, preferring to be invited in by the photo itself. And at each
boat, they see yet another crazy turista with a big camera and tell me to go
ahead. "No problema." They are hanging out, playing cards, drinking and joking.
I am just something else to joke about on this rainy day.
I walk past the cabin of one boat,
and three fishermen eye each other as I hear the familiar "tch tch tch" -
Mexican Spanish for "pssst, over here." I smile at the small older man aiming
for my attention and ask him in Spanish if I can photograph his boat.
"Si, claro," he
answers, "Yes, of course. But come up here and see all of it," he beckons me
onto the boat. I am excited at the thought of seeing all those boats from their
own vantage point, but I am not dumb enough to join a group of strange men
drinking in a shipyard. I smile and thank him anyway. "No, really, come look at
the view." He is insisting.
"My friend, too?" I ask him, feeling safer if Dimitri is with me.
"Claro," he answers, "Of course." And I quickly find Dimitri, who looks
confused as I babble about some old guy and his boat.
The captain holds out his strong
hand and pulls me aboard. He turns to guide me further, showing me which spools
of cable to climb upon, which window ledge to grab, to reach the top of his
small vessel. Not surprisingly, he leaves Dimitri to fend for himself.
The view is worth
the scramble, mast tumbling upon mast, colored flags against the dark storm
clouds. When I'm done shooting a whole roll of film up there, the captain leads
me back down, and I thank him with all my heart, telling him how glad I am that
the rain left him here at his boat to guide me.
Errands before heading to the house:
The fish market for fresh shrimp and snapper. The produce market, where a
single broccoli is the size of my head. Everyone everywhere is talking about
the rain.
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| A rainbow appears, then deepens and stretches clear from the desert
to the ocean |
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Photos by Hildy Gottlieb Copyright 2000 ©
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At the house, there is one
last sprinkle, a sunshower on the waves. A rainbow appears, then deepens and
stretches clear from the desert to the ocean in one, no two - two great arcs.
The end of the rainbow is striping the desert vegetation with reds and greens
and golds, and I am switching between madly shooting photos and dancing in
circles, singing to the sky. It is raining and the world is alive and full of
colors. "This is the pot of gold," I call to Dimitri, but he is too busy
shooting his own rainbow - the end that has dipped into the sea - smiling and
exploring.
The sky
clears while we are cooking dinner - chopping the shrimp with pine nuts and
garlic to stuff mushrooms; sauteing the snapper in lemon and white wine;
tossing the broccoli in the leftover sauces. By the time dinner is ready, the
sky is clear enough to watch the stars come out. After only one glass of wine,
my bed is a welcome sight.
Now it is before dawn. I peek out the window towards the sea. It
seems like fog has settled in, but in the dim light it is hard to tell. I grab
my camera and a sweater and head onto the beach.
And it is not fog, but breaths of
mist, a single breath dotting each wave as it moves towards the shore, as if
the wave were a letter "i". A Great Blue Heron is sitting nearby, watching with
me. We chat for a while, and I'm pretty sure he has never seen puffs of mist
like this either. I vacillate between heading back to wake Dimitri and staying
there, knowing it will all have changed by the time I return. It's not much of
a decision.
| And it is not
fog, but a single breath of mist dotting each wave. |
Photos by Hildy Gottlieb Copyright
2000 © |
The heron lets me photograph him for a long while. We watch the
sun come up together, watch the mist slowly burn off, until all that remains of
yesterday's storm is the roiling sea and the damaged sea walls of beachfront
homes. I thank the heron for his kindness, and head back to begin the day. The
rain has passed, and work can now begin.
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