A first night passed. A night of sounds. Familiar sounds, but in a never-been-there-before place. Sounds of steady breezes, and sounds of surf. Then came light, increasing in strength, and I rose to see what could be seen.
Which was this.
Nearby, soft scratching sounds betrayed a raker.
Pacific waves of size and strength built, rose from the smooth inshore water, and fell, four times a minute, on the beach below.
On a step were physical impressions from a day when the concrete had not yet set.
I kept noticing angles, and triangles.
At a nearby cabin, looking out to sea, a daughter contemplated the morning.
Another daughter, resting, contemplated connections, on a screen.
Soon afterward, we went down the hundred-and-eighty-seven stone steps, down a stonepaved street, and headed into town.
Art on a hillside retaining wall had a perfectly placed shadow.
We settled in to a restaurant patio, and started to study Mazunte.
We hope to be good students.