A cousin of mine from Honduras died yesterday (or the day before; details are still sketchy).
His name was Reynaldo, but everyone called him Gallo. I didn’t know him well, but had seen him every time I visited family, including the most recent, just 4 years ago. Primary point of sadness is that Gallo was best friends with the cousin I speak to most frequently, my cousin Otto (I still call him Ottito). So, I mourn for his loss as well as the loss for Gallo’s family.
A tragic circumstance. Gallo was a fisherman. I’m still finding out the details, but it appears he was cleaning the bottom of his boat, when another boat struck his. So, to the sea his life went.
And, it turns out, my story and connection to Gallo is through his boat. I recently wrote a song called From the Water to the Sand. (It’ll be released in the next few months). Thing is, this song is about one of the single most fantastic, physical, philosophical, personal experiences of my life. And that experience? Well, it happened on Gallo’s boat.
At the moment, I just have this one photo. It’s the anchor, resting at the front. I’ll try to find more. I took it the day of the experience I allude to in the previous paragraph.
See, it was New Year’s Day. My wife and I, along with a few cousins and some 2nd cousins were on this rather small boat of Gallo’s, oh maybe at 1 pm or so. One motor; it’s a fishing boat to be sure. We sped along the coastline to meet up with other family members for barbecuing and general celebration at my family’s Ranch called “Rio Grande” (It’s actually where the Rio Grande pours out into the Caribbean).
After eating, drinking and general happiness, a few of my cousins along with an Uncle and I got in the boat with Gallo and we headed straight out about 2 miles off shore. There we stopped the motor and just started fishing by hand (line, a stone, a hook, and bait). We caught a few fish (Me? Maybe three), but it was nearing sundown and—as it turns out—a storm was quickly approaching.
I wish I could paint you a perfect picture:
Imagine speeding directly toward the shore as the the sun sets to the right of you over the mountains; then look over your left shoulder behind you to see the blackest and most singular and wide cloud with dark hues of copper-colored rain, falling in sheets. And it’s coming fast: both the shore…and the storm.
Then jump out of the boat and into the water; it’s beautifully warm. Walk to the shore and family as the air gets this deep cinnamon color, and the people are hurrying to throw their things into the two cars available to take about 15 of us.
Yea, do the math. Not enough room. So, I look at these two young 2nd cousins (the photo here taken an hour or so before this), and I looked at the others running toward the car: my Mom, my wife, my step Dad, my Aunts and Uncles, my cousins, and I said:
“Go ahead, I’ll ride back in the boat.”
At this point the beginning of the storm was reaching us. For frame of reference, I think it was about 5:15 PM. Random pelting of warm rain, but just warning shots.
Problem is, I had to go. No seriously: I HAD TO GO….to the bathroom.
Numero dos.
With just a bathing suit/shorts adorning me, and the sky—now almost entirely maroon and charcoal grey— the last vestige of the setting sun guided me toward only one conclusion: I had very. little. time.
I ran. I found a discrete place on the shore next to and under a palm tree. I dug. I accepted my fate much like all with whom I had descended from, and I accomplished what my body told me I must do.
Covering the um, results…with sand, I giggled and thought, “There, that was easy!” I ran out from my hiding place naked as a wildebeest, my bathing suit rumpled in my right hand, and jumped into the water…..
….I emerged clean.
The waves were shaking and busy. Gallo was already in the boat, anchored maybe 30 or 40 feet off shore (you could wade to it), and the storm was essentially throwing its first full punches. My young cartwheeling cousins, jumped into the boat with me. It was all of a sudden so cold! Gallo fired up the boat and we headed along the shore, back toward Trujillo.
The sky was now nearly black. The sun was gone. I could barely make out their faces. The rain pelted us like I had never experienced. We were giggling like wild parrots. My body convulsed and shivered with a combination of frigid reaction to the temperature change, childhood giddiness and absolute present tense experience. I had zero understanding of future or past. I am.
The boat plowed, undaunted, smashing against the waves. It was just the four of us. Stars began to emerge to the left, and–as we hugged the shore—Trujillo began to reveal itself just to the right, off the cliffs. The old Spanish fort and its long-unused cannons were in silhouette against the backdrop of my Mother’s hometown with its yellow-fluorescent streetlights. Blackened forest, set ablaze.
The rain was relentless. SMACK! SMACK! continued our boat against the waves. And then…just as quickly as it began, it stopped. Like some poorly written movie in need of a re-write, the rain stopped just as we pulled up to where the boat docked.
How long did this take? I can’t be certain. Maybe just a few, ten(?) minutes. It wasn’t far. I know it felt both like a lifetime, as well as but a mere moment. I got off the boat, and had never felt so waterlogged. Never. ever. ever. I was soaked to the bone.
I found Christina. I felt changed. No. I was changed. I looked at her, and said “Babe, I just experienced one of the most beautiful experiences I can possibly convey or understand.” And, still today, it stands up there with my life’s most treasured moments.
From the Water to the Sand.
And who was driving the boat? My Cousin, Gallo.
Rest in Peace.
