Spring has sprung

February 27 It’s a proven fact that middle-aged men can only hold their breath for 3 minutes and 14 seconds; after that they’re left to contemplate if killing all those brain cells from the ’70s till now was really worth it.

Lounging under a palapa on the beach in front of our hotel, adorned only in my illl-fitting swim trunks, Spanish fisherman’s hat, and designer shades, I’m staring straight ahead at the sand and the sea. A visual bonus is the passel of gringos and vendors passing by in both directions.

An added feature to the beach view this year is the late-30s, curly blonde-haired woman next door who spends most of her day sunning on a lounge chair beside us or chatting up folks as they pass by. She compliments her free and easy bathing attire with a broad sun hat and rocks a pair of aviator sunglasses. This is where men holding their breath comes into play.

Firstly, there are many regulars on this beach. People who stay in the bay area 3 weeks or 3 months, who you see almost daily walking back and forth to town along the road or the more popular choice along the sand. The most visible are the 4 ‘bocce boys’ who are in the 70+ age category and have been vacationing together in the same spot for over 30 years. For whatever reason they play daily during the hottest part of the day, around 3 o’clock, so they are all sporting deep tans, dark tintted glasses, and colorful flip flops as they guffaw and rib each other on every shot. Two of them wear Aussie outback hats while the second pair are crowned with straw cowboy versions.

One guy, Sid, sports a twenty pound muffin top above his shorts, but the other three surpassed that total long ago and are hefting a 30+ pound layer of flab around their middles. Their shape is reminiscent of a telephone pole wearing a life-saving ring.

They work their way back and forth down the beach for over a quarter mile so they pass by us once going north and then back again twenty minutes later. More than once our young neighbor has stood beside them and has cheered them on when they inadvertently enter her territory.

It’s pretty obvious at what point the boys spot our neighbor on their trek northward from their starting point out front of their classic condo. Their backs straighten up (as much as possible), their jovial attitude takes on a more serious tone, and you can see when they are squinting to line up their next throw that they are peering beyond the target boccini at our little oasis.

This particular time the four of them form a semi-circle, with their backs to the water, around our young darling, let’s name her Shelly for simplification. Their stomachs now perched just under the rib cage area, chests fully expanded; their voices all one octave higher because of the prolonged inhalation. Living the dream… or living in dreamland?

The eldest, Bruce, despite having more experience in this role of woman slayer, is having a difficult time keeping up with his juniors. His face is darkening, his posture slumping, and he gives a quick look over his shoulder at the lapping water and decides that he has to make a run for it to save face. Mumbling a nonsensical excuse he lumbers to the edge and plows headfirst into the next big wave in about eight inches of water. Ouch! That’s gonna leave a mark. At least there weren’t any stingrays right there.

Knowing that she is impeding their game, Shelly, moves back to her canvas sling chair and wishes them well as they all move to save poor Bruce so they can continue on in their amusement. No doubt Bruce will be the butt of their jokes for the remainder of this round.

Carol remarks that ‘men look so stupid when they act that way’ just as I’m exhaling and gasping for air. ‘Yes dear, it’s so beneath them‘ I add.

Many male animals join in this exaggeration when trying to attract a partner, and surprisingly, so do some tech devices.

Just last evening I went back to our room unexpectedly and I stumbled in on Fred and Wilma who were laying next to each other on the side table. Fred’s screen display was larger than usual and his uploading light was pulsating. Beside him that floozy, Wilma, looking coy in her see-through outer covering was in full-vibrate mode like when she’s receiving an incoming text.

They were obviously embarrassed and their screens hurriedly went back to normal, but I couldn’t help but notice that Wilma’s battery icon was all but exhausted and Fred had developed a glossy sheen on his glass display. Get a room! I said and we all had a bit of a giggle.

A few minutes later they were on their chargers, facing each other, with a mild afterglow on their screens, getting ready for their next data exchange. I was already heading out the door with a handful of Pacificos, yelling down at the boys ‘Hey, slow down and smell the hops!’ and they jeered back at me to ‘Get a move on pokey!’

We’ll be home in a couple of days, perched on a lawn chair overlooking our river. Our skin will already be moving back to the pale side of brown, long pants and zipped up jackets will be the order of the day. But this was one of the better trips south for us. So, I guess it was ‘twelfth time lucky’ as I answered my own byline from the Home page.

Adios! from Bucerias Mexico amigos.