Okay, so this post is mostly for journaling purposes, but if you'd like, read on and on and on....
It's getting warmer and school is coming to an end soon. This time of year my thoughts always turn to Rocky Point. Growing up we always took off for Mexico the week after school ended. Its a long, dry drive once you drop down off the rim. Its eight hours of desert, and on the other side of the border it seems even more desolate. Finally we'd drive under the arches at Playa Bonita and park in front of the registration office. We would almost die of excitement when we saw the brilliant blue of the ocean against the lighter sky. Suddenly you're not at all tired and you can't wait to get your feet wet. Poor Dad (aka Mr. Hobbs) always ended up setting everything up and we would run wildly down to the beach with Mom calling after us to not get our clothes wet. Most of time I managed to only get my pant legs wet to the knee. Ben, without fail, would "accidentally" fall in and then he might as well swim right? I loved waking up early in the morning when the tide was way out, and looking in the tidal pools and building a sand castle while it was still cool. Granddad would make a run to the panaria for bread and pastries. The doughnuts down there are not nearly as sugary and rich as American doughnuts, so eating them for breakfast isn't as bad as it sounds. Later I'd climb in the motor home to show Grandma the shells I had found. She would marvel over them as if they were diamonds and then put them in the cup holder on the dash to keep forever, or at least until the trip was over. As soon as the tide was in we would hit the waves and swim until we were exhausted. Mom would take us out in the deep water on the air mattress where the waves weren't breaking and we'd almost fall asleep to the rocking motion, and Mom making her voice go up and down with each swell. We would just drift along until the waves started cresting and then we'd have to swim hard to get back to our starting place on the beach. At bed time we would climb in to the tent trailer and stare at the red and white stripes of the tent, listening to the surf and fireworks whistling and popping with the occasional loud boom and slowly drift off the sleep. The next day was the trip to the dirt mall. A whole street of poor Mexicans selling beads and bright trinkets. The street was not paved and the people would wet the dirt down in front of their shop to keep the dust down and cool things off a bit. My favorite thing to buy were the shell sculptures; Cute little mice, or flowers made out of shells and sand dollars. Dad would haggle over the price for me and get a dollar or so off the price. Mom would always want a new wool blanket, Anna, a piece of jewelry, Ben and David, fireworks. That evening we'd drive up to the point and go to Casa Brava for dinner. They had the yummiest appetizer made of a mild tomato sauce with ricotta cheese and lime drizzled over tortilla chips. I loved it, but that's where my bravery ended. I would always order a hamburger or grilled cheese sandwich with fries. I did develop a taste for shrimp, thanks to Grandad. He would buy some fresh from the boat and fry them up for us to shell and eat with butter and lemon juice. Eating shrimp from the grocery store doesn't hold a candle to that. All too soon we would be packing up, sweeping the sand and salt out of the trailer, and heading home.
Wait! Before you get excited and head for the border don't forget:
wet sand, grating against sunburn,
jelly fish stings,
waves smashing you into sharp rocks, picking you up and repeating the process,
walking half a mile to a common bathroom and taking a wet swimming suit off to go,
and the slight chance that you'll be kidnapped and held hostage by crazy Mexican drug dealers.
