Article 3 - "Sex on the Beach: The Winter of Our Content" June 2007 edition of First Church of The Streets

    An Internet site which described Zihuatanejo as "a small fishing village just south of Ixtapa" was packed with stunning photos, but what can I do here for a whole week, I wondered. The pirate Francis Drake once parked in this cove to keep an eye out for Spanish booty. "Well, shiver me Freudian timber!" I quipped, "Sounds like a plan."

    My rental condo had a beach view out the window and a pizza delivery sticker on the fridge. Damn near paradise in my book. The decor was typical tropical: Casablanca fans and terra cotta tile, mahogany closets and calla lily sofa. I'd stocked the kitchen with papaya, yogurt, oats, and beer - all part of a complete breakfast. As the sun rose over banana trees, I headed out for a stroll along the surf.

    With sandals dangling from my hand and foam swirling around my feet, I pondered the many historic footprints that had been made and erased on this spot. Doctor Timothy Leary conducted psychedelic LSD experiments here in 1963. Author Zane Gray caught a 135-pound world record sailfish here in 1924.

    Still, I was more intrigued by the countless, nameless indigenous lovers who had no doubt left their marks on this lunar-powered etch-a-sketch, where every night the silvery moon draws hearts together then draws waves to obliterate all tracks. The very name Zihuatanejo stems from the Aztecan language Nahuatl and means "place for women." Nothing says amorous rendezvous like a beach.

    In my past wanderings up the Pacific, I'd seen the coconut-strewn crescent bays of Huatulco and the dope-smoking nude surfers of Zipolite. What could be so special here? I rounded a promontory and there she was, sitting on a tidal rock, squeezing water out of long dark hair.

    I asked her name. Chocolate eyes sparkled and native cheekbones flushed, but the voluptuous lips said nothing. (Generally in Mexico, guys are expected to show a little more effort; what Gringos call stalking, Latinos call unrequited love.) Pleasantly shitfaced, I tested a ridiculous line, "I know you're Azteca, but I hope you won't rip out my heart."

    She didn't even blink, "I know you're Americano, but I hope you won't invade my territory." I grinned sheepishly; she laughed playfully. Five minutes later, we were conversing as friends. When a pelican dove for something eye-catching by the water and crashed headlong, I was relieved that his fate apparently wouldn't be mine.

    As the breeze changed direction and came in off the ocean, I sensed the fresh wind a beautiful woman can usher into your life. The next few days were as perfect and hazy as those rock islands shimmering across the turquoise bay. We swam offshore for hours, talking and fucking to the rhythmic shoves and tugs of the sea.

    Waves are the music of the planet. Combined with the polar magnetism of boy meets girl, they constitute a primal symphony. Art is the pursuit of beauty. Hand led by a bikinied silhouette into a shining ocean, one transcends mere hedonism for an earthly apprenticeship in the heavenly forms.

    Alas, I've metamorphed from a normal guy into a wanna-be poet. Blame the tropics. While the northern turning leaves mark the passing of years and urge productivity, the southern rolling waves hint of changeless eons and instill contentment. Whatever my future might bring, I was satisfied just to be there and seize that day.

    She and I now live in different worlds - worlds forever different from each other, as well as from what they were before we met. Whenever I stroll the coastline of any ocean, the breakers seem to emanate from a distant shore, a shore where my Azteca forever sits on a tidal rock.