The Secret

I am old. Pretty difficult to get along with, they say. It’s Saturday. I’m sitting on a curb in the town of Felipe Carrillo Puerto in southern Quintanna Roo, Mexico. I left my huarachis in the car because I like the feel of my bare feet touching the ground, like dancing naked with a woman. A ten foot tall bronze statue of Presidente Benito Juaréz stands prominent in the rotary (glorieta) across the street. Juaréz was a Zapotec Indian who ruled Mexico during the mid to late 1800s–that would be like Geronimo becoming president of the United States. Many parts of this area have not changed since then. Juaréz is watching me because he knows my secret.

I am a fly fisherman and copywriter. Sounds frivolous, doesn’t it? Fly fisherman and copywriter. I fish down here as often as I can finagle airfare and a car. (Often I sleep in the back seat, yet another advantage of a rental car). You can buy good Cuban cigars in this town and sit outside a bar with a Dos XX. And smoke and drink, oil your reels, loop your lines, remember old times, and plan your tomorrows. Especially you can look at the women. God, the women here are beautiful, the morning sun heating them and the moon sliding down their backs. And fleeting black eyes like flash bulbs in the dark.