The Rooster and the Gringo. I used to hate the Rooster
The Rooster and the Gringo. I used to hate the rooster. Not dislike him. Not feel mildly annoyed by him. I mean genuine, deep-down, dramatic hatred—the kind of hatred usually reserved for mosquitoes, slow internet, and loud music.
Every morning, at exactly the hour when reasonable people are still asleep and unreasonable people are probably sending emails, the rooster would begin his concert.
“Cock-a-doodle-doo!”
Where it all began
My buddy and I brought down a boat all the way from Washington state, to a small barrio, that was famous’s for sailfish and marlin that were not uncommon to be over 500 pounds. We would fish all day. At the end of the day, there was a local bar with fish painted on the outside and only 4 tables. There were around 10 people who would show up in the winter; fishing all day and drinking all night was the norm.
Three AM, wake up
We would all stumble back to our houses and pass out. At 3 am, a neighbor’s rooster would fly onto the cement wall right next to my bedroom. “Cock-a-doodle-doo!”
I would go outside and yell at the rooster; it would fly back into its yard. I would crawl back into my bed, and just as I was falling back into the realm of sleep, Cock-a-doodle-doo!”
Winner winner chicken dinner
This went on for hrs. The Rooster would wait till I was almost asleep. Then it would fly up onto the cement wall and Cock-a-doodle-doo!” I would go out side, Ok Rooster you going to get eaten, The threats did not phase the Rooster
At first, I thought it was a one-time event. Maybe the rooster had seen a ghost. Maybe he had an important appointment. Maybe he had accidentally swallowed an alarm clock.
But no. The next morning, there he was again, shouting into the darkness like he had personally been elected mayor of the entire neighborhood.
Trying to sleep
I pulled the blanket over my head. He crowed louder. I put a pillow over my ears. He crowed longer.
I moved to the other side of the bed. Somehow, the rooster knew. He was not just outside my window anymore. He was in my life.
I was getting around three hrs of sleep a night. By 5 am it was time to go fishing
I moved
Eventually, I tried escaping. I changed neighborhoods. I convinced myself that surely there must be some peaceful place on Earth where roosters respected sleeping hours.
Now Roosters are smart. I moved to a new neighborhood. When I moved, it was in the middle of the day. No Cock-a-doodle-doo!” After fishing all day and drinking all night, I stumbled back to my new house. As I crawled into bed, my thoughts were no more Rooster; sleep overcame me. Then, at three am Cock-a-doodle-doo!
For the love of God, this nightmare was making me go out of control. Then I realized there was no escaping The Rooster and the gringo nightmare.
Three months later
The winter was over the last three months, the fishing was great, the camaraderie at the bar, well, Hemingway would have been proud. It was time to head back to Alaska and run my boat. The thought of 8 hrs of sleep without a Cock-a-doodle-doo! was mind-boggling
Flying out of San Jose
My flight to Alaska was flying out of San Jose. I booked a nice hotel room in the Center of San Jose. It had a bathtub. Being fishy for three months, having a bathtub was a must. After the bath, I went to the on-site restaurant. I ordered chicken.
The thought of 8 hrs of sleep
After having my chicken dinner, the food took a toll, and I was tired. I went to my room and crawled into bed at 6 pm. At three am Cock-a-doodle-doo! Now I had a pretty good sleep, a total of 6 hrs
Maybe it was not the same rooster. Maybe it was his cousin. Maybe roosters have an international communication system that I do not understand. But at three in the morning, somewhere in San Jose, a rooster stood up and announced the beginning of the day.
“Cock-a-doodle-doo!”
My thinking changed
That was when I realized the truth: you can never get away from the rooster. I listened instead of complaining. He sounded happy. The rooster was not angry. He was not miserable. He was not standing outside making a list of everyone he wanted to disturb.
Every day, he woke up and celebrated the fact that he was awake. No alarm clock. No snooze button. No dramatic negotiations with himself about getting out of bed. He simply opened his eyes and told the entire world, “We made it to another morning!”
That rooster had something I had forgotten: enthusiasm.
Changing my life style
So I decided to change my lifestyle. I began going to bed when it got dark. At first, my friends thought I was sick. Then they thought I had joined a very boring secret society. But I was asleep before the evening television shows ended, and at three in the morning, I was wide awake.
At first, I hated it. Then I discovered that the morning is incredibly peaceful. The streets are quiet. The air feels fresh. Ideas arrive before the rest of the world starts making noise. I even began greeting the rooster.
“Good morning,” I would say. He would answer, “Cock-a-doodle-doo!” We understood each other.
The Rooster and the Gringo
You can change your house, your city, your curtains, and even your entire personality. The rooster will still find you. He does not care about time zones, travel plans, or your desperate need for eight hours of sleep. He believes morning begins when he says it begins.
I still believe the rooster is slightly too confident and completely unaware of indoor voices. But I no longer hate him. He taught me that waking up does not have to be a burden. Sometimes, it can be a celebration.
So now I live according to the rooster’s schedule: bed at dark, up at three, and ready to greet the day before everyone else.
Of course, I may change my mind by four in the morning. But by then, the rooster will already be crowing again, reminding me that happiness apparently has feathers, attitude, and absolutely no respect for sleeping neighbors.
Has the Rooster affected me mentally
As I write this post, I took inventory of the rooster in my mind. I am editing my third book, The Jimenez Family, A Costa Rica Christmas. One of the characters is Mr Rooster, so the answer is: the rooster has been tattooed in my brain
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