M. Banner - Stone Age

“Come on, you two, you’re not the only people in the airport,” Bill said, while inviting his daughter with his outstretched arms.

“Hi, Daddy,” she said softly, accepting his bear hug.

“You wanna go to Mexico?” Lisa yelled to her daughter and husband.

“You kept Stanley in great shape, honey,” Bill yelled from the back seat.

“Thanks, Dad. I still remember the day you taught me how to tune up my first car.” Sally yelled back.

“You having problems with the back window?” Bill yelled again.

“I’m waiting for a part from Mike. He says it should come in next week. Sorry it’s so loud back there.”

It was a lot louder than normal in the back of her 1992 Chevy Blazer. Its oversized tires, which were better suited to four-wheeling than highway driving, created a loud vibrating ambient noise that made it hard enough to hear. Additionally, the passenger window, on the driver’s side was open a crack, allowing the 75 MPH air to scream through the narrow gap. He tried to close it but it was cranked as far as it could go. “Sorry, you’ll have to live with that window being slightly open.” Sally yelled after seeing her father attempt in vain to close the window. “I hope you don’t mind.”

He didn’t. In spite of its age and the occasional replacement of parts, like the window crank, he loved this vehicle. He bought it new in 1991; bare bones with no extras. It was his first new vehicle and he bought it to go hunting with his buddies up in Wisconsin. He rebuilt the engine and even changed out the electronic ignition system for a more reliable points system. He liked a car engine he could work on in the field if a problem arose. It served him well for many years, until ten years ago, when he gave it to Sally, who inherited his love for working on vehicles. She babied it more than he had. Besides giving it the name Stanley, the reason why escaped him, she tricked up the suspension and added the tires so that she could off-road around the deserts of Tucson. She even kept their mechanic Mike, who had to be about 70 by now. He had found him for her when he drove Stanley down to Tucson many years ago, so that she would always have someone to look over the vehicle when she didn’t take the time to do so herself.

From the back seat, Bill could see all of Stanley’s outward blemishes; window crank not working, seats starting to crack from years of exposure to the dry desert air, carpet showing its age and stains from the occasional dropped soda can of a passenger, but he knew the bones were in great shape. In other words, it was perfect. Sally made more than enough money to buy a brand new 4X4, but Stanley was a known commodity, they knew was dependable and it held sentimental value. She was proud of it and its connection to her father. He smiled at these thoughts and was surprised to see that Sally was smiling back at him through the rearview mirror, perhaps having the same thoughts.

“Are you sure Stanley is safe all the way to Mexico?” Lisa spoke up from the front passenger seat, barely audible, but intruding somewhat on their shared moment.

“Mommm,” she exaggerated with all the drama she did when she was just a child. “You know how well I keep up with Stanley’s care. Besides, I drove him down in January with Stephanie. Remember?” Sally responded defensively.

“Yes …ust …ot …re why you don’t buy some—g… this century that gets more than 10 miles to t—g—n,” Lisa continuing her new car argument, as she did every time she rode in Stanley. Bill was straining to hear the conversation, even though he’d heard this many times before. Lisa obviously didn’t feel safe in an older vehicle. She didn’t understand the emotional connection Bill and Sally had for this vehicle. Besides, if there was a problem, they were much more likely to be able to get parts in Mexico for Stanley than for some of the newer vehicles.

“It’s sixteen miles to the gallon . I thought you and Dad liked Stanley.”

“We do,” Bill interrupted. “You know your mom. She just worries about the “what ifs” especially when driving to Mexico.”

Less than three hours after pulling out from the airport, Sally slowed down and pulled them into the Indian casino parking lot in Why, Arizona, as always for a potty stop and so Bill and Sally could switch places. Sally didn’t care for the Mexico leg, even though she’d done it probably 20 times over the years. Mostly, she didn’t like driving at night after almost losing control, swerving to avoid a cow in the road some years back. It was long past sunset, and this moonless night was dark.

Less than a mile down the road, they rested at the stop sign at the T in the road. Bill turned and posed a rhetorical question that was obvious to his family, “You know what time it is?” He held out his hand. Sally, on cue, reached from the back seat, across her mom to the glove box and pulled out what she knew would be there, a much worn CD case. She opened it and handed him the CD. He inserted it into the player Sally added a few years back and put the Blazer into gear. He steered them South on Highway 85 towards Lukeville, Arizona, the border town to Sonoyta, Mexico.

The familiar beat started, with its guitars, steel drums, and then harmonica.

“Nibblin on sponge cake. Watching the sun bake,” all three sang out in happy unison, continuing the tradition, they started so many years ago. Always at this turn, when they were really headed towards Mexico, even though it was still 25 miles to the border, and 89 to Rocky Point, they would start singing Jimmy Buffett’s Margaritaville .

“ Wastin away again in Margaritaville. Searching for my lost jigger of salt. Salt. Salt. Salt .”

Sally leaned back while mouthing the words that she knew by heart.

She opened her purse, anxious to take advantage of the last of her US cell service. She pulled out her iPhone and typed out a text message to her sister, “We’re singing Mville now. Will b xing border soon. CU and D next week on beach. Pls email after this. Kisses.”

She didn’t realize it until later, but this was the last text message she would ever send her sister.

After passing through the military checkpoint around eleven, they headed East on highway 37 about 6 miles to a turn-off down a hard-packed, sandy road for a couple of miles to a development called, Playa Dorado and their beach home.

Puerto Penasco, now known as Rocky Point or RP to the Americans, who resided or vacationed there, was a small fishing village a couple of dozen years ago. Because of its proximity to Tucson and Phoenix, land-locked desert dwellers flocked to Rock Point for two reasons, which made it unique and greatly desired: an ocean and beaches. In fact, the miles of sandy beaches, the Sea of Cortez’s warm waters, between Baja California and the western inlet of Mexico, and warmer still, the Mexican people were a big draw for Americans. Infamously, Al Capone favored RP for the same reasons. That and its foreign port to smuggle liquor through Arizona was appealing to him. Afterwards, mostly vagabonds, partiers, or anglers from Arizona or California, were its frequent visitors, until the 1990s when Mexican law changed, making it easier for foreign investment, especially in beach towns like RP. Then the building boom came, adding thousands of resort units and beach homes, drawing Americans from Arizona and California who wanted to buy into a paradise that was only a short drive away.

Bill and Lisa King had been coming to RP since their college days at the University of Arizona in Tucson, only four hours away. When they were dating, they would come down with friends and party on a stretch of beach known as Sandy Beach; now home to over one thousand condo units, and further north, a new homeport for cruise ships, recently built by the Mexican government. Even when they moved to Chicago for Bill’s job and later his current business, they still traveled to RP, even buying a home there that would one day become their place of retirement. Until then, they and Sally would enjoy it when each was able to, like now.