Puerto Time

The neon sun just hangs there, an orange ball so playful it looks like a child’s finger-painting – like it’s painted onto that spot, against a field of lavender, an inch above the swatch of navy blue. But it’s on the move.  It passes through a wispy curtain of clouds and melts into a impressionistic Monet.  

In the foreground, heads bob in the dark velvety ripples, trying to catch the perfect wave. One silhouetted surfer is up on his board, but the wave slides beneath him and crashes onto the shore in a fury of white foam.

Fishermen pace by with green nets draped over their brown shoulders – even they take time to cast glances at the sun’s show – or maybe they are fish-spotting.  One wades in up to his waist and tosses his net out like a lasso – it lands in an oval on the surface of the sea – he cinches the rope and drags it in – holds it up his sack and little silvery fish dangle like ornaments, luminous in the waning light.

A half-sun now rests on the sea. It’s on the move, places to go, people to see on the other side. I glance down then back up from my page and it’s a mound, like a cupped hand, then a sliver. Now it’s a spark that’s extinguished in a blink. 

Another day done. 

Sunsets are useful; they make you take account. I’ve seen each one since I’ve arrived – ten of them already, time slipping by here on the Oaxaca coast – not the slow dripping Dali clocks of Rioverde time.