As my wheels were spinning in the soft sand of a forgettable beach, not really making me move forward at all, and I was looking at an upwards trail that would have made any 4×4 take pause, I made Saint Christopher a promise. Get me out of here and I will make you an offering of your choice. Turns out Saint Christopher wanted a blog post.
I found myself in the dead of night on a plane headed to Mexico, but this time we were headed to the Pacific coast, specifically La Paz, close to the southern tip of Baja California Sur, which, thanks to a pocket dictionary (and not the interwebs) I found out imply means Baja California South, and is usually (on licence plates, businesses and such) abbreviated BCS. Next to me were two other founding members of the D&C. This was going to be a savant mix of road-trip and diving. From La Paz we would take the back roads (I assumed St Christopher would be rather busy) all the way to Cabo Pulmo and then to the Cabos, Los Cerritos (a surfing spot), Todos Santos (where the original Hotel California can still be found) and finally back to La Paz. Our layover in Mexico City was short, we would be in La Paz for breakfast. It did not work out that way.
For the first time in my life I am up in the air on the last day of the year, I certainly hope there will be many more, and so it is not without irony (for a founding member of the D&C no less), that I really hate flying. I’m sure there’s a metaphor or a fake Chinese cookie message in there somewhere, but I’m at a loss to interpret it. My spidey senses are a bit dullish this morning, 3 AM wake-up, Bloody Mary in the airport lounge and all that, plus the aforementioned “dislike” for aerial travel, which if you knew more of my background would bump the irony up to eleven. The complete Diving and Chillin’ clan is headed to Cozumel, meaning the island of the swallows in the Mayan language. Expected activities? Please cue the evident punch line: diving and chilling. For the first time kids, the second generation of the club, are joining us. Time moving on and all that.
I’m not going to bore you with a long talk about the origins of Christmas and why it is where it is on the calendar, though I really want to. Suffice it to say that it is extremely unlikely that Jesus was born in what is to us the end of December. The gospel of Luke tells us shepherds were out at night guarding their flock, and that is not a winter activity. Neither is it true, sorry my neo-pagan friends, that Christmas’s date was chosen to replace an older festival, in a sort of religious sleight of hand, as if people would not notice. No, according to some recent scholarship, it has to do with the winter solstice, thus the return of the Sun, and the equation of that Light (and Life I assume) with Christ, but this is not what this post is about. This post is about you guys, all eight of you, and wishing you, and yours, a festive, memorable and all around kick ass Christmas, I mean it. Merry Christmas.
The octopus, a very smart and also very tasty animal. Sucks being you buddy.
I’m not a chef by any stretch of the imagination, but I like to think I can hold my own in a kitchen. Though instances of guests puking in their mouths have thankfully been nonexistent (or unreported), there have been a few resounding fails in my culinary cavalcade, twice with octopus. I’m talking results out of a lovecraftian nightmare, stuff that no one dared to put in their mouth. Not even the ravens would touch it.