The first two months of the year are always a blur for me. January is living down that party where I rode a burro on Calle 13 wearing nothing but a sombrero and huaraches. February in the frigid U.S. was Punxsutawney Phil poking his head out of his burrow, seeing his shadow and predicting even more miserable weather. Here in Rocky Point, I poked my head out of Flavio’s, saw a pelican fly by and predicted another eight months of sunshine and sea breezes. But March is a different animal altogether, as the whales head back south to Baja, and the tourists decide there’s no place like Arizona’s Ocean to spend a long weekend or two having fun.
CAP’N GREG: Is your name really Gretchen?
GRETCHEN: Yes. Do I look like a Gretchen?
CAP’N GREG: The Gretchen of my dreams.
GRETCHEN: Is that good?
CAP’N GREG: Blond. Busty. Beautiful. You have no idea.
GRETCHEN: My dad was in the Air Force in Germany. He thought it was a good name.
CAP’N GREG: I appreciate his service, his genes and his child naming abilities.
GRETCHEN: Are you flirting with me?
CAP’N GREG: I’m too old to flirt. Call it a death wish.
GRETCHEN: That’s what I thought, because my twin brother is Hans.
CAP’N GREG: Hans? Well, at least your dad batted .500 in the naming department.
GRETCHEN: Hans is standing right behind you.
HANS: Hello, little man.
CAP’N GREG: I don’t believe I have ever seen a person as handsome and as virile.
GRETCHEN: Hans could crush your bald head like a grape.
CAP’N GREG: Perhaps I could buy you both lunch? Would that delay the carnage?
HANS: Maybe. If the food is good.
CAP’N GREG: I’m sure the chef will do his best.
GRETCHEN: Is Rocky Point always this exciting, Cap’n Greg?
CAP’N GREG: I’ll let you know after we enjoy the shrimp cocktails, quesadillas, fish tacos, tequila shots and half a dozen Tecates.
GRETCHEN: Hans doesn’t drink.
CAP’N GREG: Ay, caramba.