Dawn Revealed

Guess Who's the East Cape Blogger for Baja.com

2012-01-26T13:30:00.000-07:00

I’m a little bit behind the eightball these days. It seems that the pace of life has left me in its dust overthe past month or so. Christmas and the travel that comes with it are partly toblame (must we go there?), but I too have to acknowledge my part in the lack ofblogging evidenced here of late. But enough of that because there are someexciting things afoot.

Way back in September when I wasstill sweating 24 hours a day under the heat of a tropical sun, I got an emailfrom a lovely lady representing a web site dedicated to promoting Baja as atourist destination that was under construction. She told me they were looking for bloggers, or as theytermed it “Amigos” from each of 15 different regions of the peninsula, thatthey liked my blog and my writing style, would I be interested in becoming theEast Cape blogging representative for their new web site? Well! Tickle me everyshade of the rainbow! I was thrilled, honored and excited to be getting someserious validation of my writing skills.

BAJA.COM was launched over theholiday and I’m not sure why I didn’t run over here immediately to let you,the faithful readers of this blog, know, but I’ll blame the coma-inducingturkey chemicals and vats of my hometown Beau’s All Natural beer that was going down at thetime. After getting toknow the site a little better and reading the web site’s CEO and creator Jim Pickell’s blog launching the site, I am even prouder to be part of thisendeavor. It quickly became apparent that they've earned their claim to being "the most comprehensive source of Baja travel information that has ever existed."

So here it is folks! My very first official post on Baja.com as their East Cape Amiga. I hope you’ll stop byoften, chime in with your comments, questions and observations of your own andperhaps start planning that trip to Baja you’ve been thinking of taking.

Potential Energy

2011-12-07T14:25:00.001-07:00

I’ve lostmy way. I’m like a little girl out in a misty forest full of strange sounds andprickly bushes. I came here looking for something, but when the fear grabbedhold of me, I got disoriented and turned around. I’ve been wandering aroundlooking for my destination, but all I’ve found is muddy holes, impassablecreeks and a big patch of poison ivy. My clothes are tattered and my legs andface are covered in scratches. I haven’t given up though, and I know there is away out of this tangled mess.

Once aweek I am joined here in the forest of my life by Andrea Mauer, my wonderful andtalented life coach. She takes my hand and walks the twisting paths with me.I show her the paths I tried and she helps me see where I went wrong. She points outthe similarity between these paths and the ones I’ve already taken that led toimpasses. She saves me from going down paths she is already familiar with orthat she points out are rife with obstacles before I get too far along. Everyonce in a while she invites another wise person to join us in our search for mydestination.

Andreaintroduced me to Amy Oscar’s blog several months ago. Amy describes herself asa Soul Caller, an intuitive, a life coach and a teacher. Amy is deeplyspiritual and connected to the Spirit World in a way that few people I knoware. Like me, she believes in angels. But Amy has a connection to angels likeno one I’ve ever met. You can read more about her here.

Recently,Amy invited readers to join her in a month long Writing Circle. I’ve joined inthe hopes that her connectedness to the Spirit World and a connection to theother writers participating will help me find my way out of this dark forest ofself-doubt, fear and resistance, to reconnect to my purpose in life and bringme to that place where my writing is full of inspiration and passion.

Yesterday’sprompt spoke to me and the eloquence with which Amy writes was inspiring. Shewrote:

There is a place between here and there, betweenmystery and science, between staying and leaving, between choice and becoming:a place where most of us do not want to stay very long. We want to name andexplain everything. We want to understand, to know – so we can put things intheir places.

And yet, sitting in this space of not yet, of “Idon’t know,” can be the most powerful place of all. For it is here, havingdeparted the familiar and not yet arrived at the ‘who knows where,’ thatanything is possible.

Notknowing is something I’ve never been comfortable with. It’s the reason I wentinto the sciences where the security of a “right” answer gave me something tohang on to and I did so for dear life. As a child, my greatest rewards - praise, love and attention - came from “knowing.” Naturally, ittook me almost forty years to get more comfortable in the grey areas of life. The onearea I was still severely challenged in was the realm ofrelationships.

I’m aserial monogamist – my whole adult life I’ve been in and out of relationships,but have been in them more than out. I moved in with my boyfriend when I was18. I’ve been in a committed relationship for 21 of the 25 years that followed.I was 32 the first time I lived on my own for any considerable amount oftime. I’ve been so uncomfortable with those in-between times that they havetypically been filled with anxiety, depression and serial obsessions with firstone man and then the next and the next, until something sticks and I’m back ina long-term relationship.

Not thistime.

I findmyself in that in between place now, the place Inyala Vanzant calls “the meantime,” that time between staying and leaving, between the choice I made andbecoming whatever it is I will become. This time there is a difference though. I amstill not completely comfortable here, but I notice I am more at ease than ever before. Anxiety is an occasional visitor rather than taking up residence in my soul.Andrea's coaching has been invaluable in helping me find this place of acceptance andcalm. When we started working together, I was already walking a path that hugged a jagged cliff-face overlookinga bottomless pit. She talked me off the cliffstep by vertigo-inducing step, gently helping me figure out I was once again on the path to self-destructive relationship behavior, and then helped me figure out where to put myfeet.

This is mychance to change the pattern of making choices that are not in my best interest and to stop hitting my head on the relationshipbrick wall. This time I am going to get quiet, turn inward and listen to mysoul more. This time I’m going to take care of me more and worry about who “he”might be less. This time I’m not going to let myself fall head over heels inlust with someone I barely know. This time I think some "dating" and getting to know the person before I move in with him sounds like a good idea.

Perhaps more importantly, this time I'm not going to sweat the alone time. I'm going to use this time to work on me and my writing. When so many of my friends are juggling full-time jobs and kids, I am in the envious position of having only myself to worry about (six dogs and Felipe the caretaker hardly rate in comparison to 9-5 and a family).

Like Amysays, it is from this place that anything is possible. There is an energy inthese in between times that is palpable – the potential energy of possibility, like a seed on the forest floor waiting for an opening in the canopy so it can to burst forth and grow. And so, I will be here waiting for the sunlight while I connect andcreate – me, myself and my soul.

A Pound of Flesh

2011-12-03T15:03:00.001-07:00

According to theJanuary, 2007 issue of the American Journal of Sports Medicine a surfer canlook forward to about 13 acute injuries for every 1000 hours surfed. I estimateI have surfed over 5000 hours in total since beginning to surf in April, 2002.Based on the Journal of Sports Medicine’s estimate of injury frequency thatmeans I’ve had the potential to incur more than 65 acute injuries while surfingthus far. I’m ecstatic to report that this has not been the case.

Sure, I have had plenty of minor lacerations while surfing,including several that could have used a stitch or two as evidenced by theseries of eye-shaped gouges that run down my right shin. There was also thetime I needed eight stitches to pull my scalp back together. The worst injuryI’ve had to date (knock on wood!) was a herniated disc in sloppy, blown outthree-foot mush. That injury took a long time to heal, so maybe I paid ahealthy portion of my surfing injury dues that way. Nevertheless, I've beenincredibly lucky and haven't had to the pay the standard price for theenjoyment and physical fitness I get from surfing. For this, I give thanks.

Two days ago, in anticipation of a Northwest swell that I’d beenmonitoring on Surfline, I drove the three hours to the west coast of thepeninsula. It had been well over a month since I’d ridden any really good surf.The season is over here until next April and the winds have been blowing sinceearly November. I’ve been itching for a good swell like the one on the way.

I arrived in time for a short evening session, but the swell hadyet to arrive and the wind chop was messing with the little bit of swell thatwas coming in. So I cracked a cold Pacifico and watched from a friend’s palapa as the sun dropped out of the skyand disappeared into the vast ocean. I prayed for clean conditions and goodsurf the following morning. I was in bed before 10 that night.

In anticipation of what boded to be some great surf, I was up,powered down a smoothie and was on my way to the beach uncharacteristicallyearly. The spectacle at the beach was all I’d hoped for – glassy conditions andperfect A-frame waves breaking in series a long way down the beach. It was big,with some of the set waves a good 10 feet on the face. The bigger waves wereclosing out, so I stood on the beach to assess where I should surf and where topaddle out before going out. As I pulled on my shorty wetsuit, excitement andanticipation of a day of surfing surged through my body. It was all I could doto hold myself back from running to the water and jumping on my board withoutwaiting between sets.

The water felt good and I felt strong. The pain and stiffness inmy shoulder was completely gone. Half way out to the take off zone, a setarrived and I began to duck dive the first, smaller waves. When I felt myselfgoing backwards on the first dive, I reminded myself that I was in the PacificOcean now, not the gentle Sea of Cortez. I had to dive deeper. After a coupleof successful dives, a set wave appeared well outside of where I was. As Iprepared to dive, I saw another surfer’s board fly up into the air and bracedmyself for what was clearly a powerful wave. My timing was off and the whitewater was on me faster than I’d expected. I dove, but too late, and the forceof the whitewater ripped the board from my hands and sent me tumbling underwater.After the wave passed, everything went calm, the water bubbled and foamedaround me and I began to float back up to the surface. But the calm wasshort-lived and WHACK! Something hit me hard on the jaw. I knew immediately itwas serious and implored the powers that be, “Please don’t let my jaw bebroken, please don’t let my jaw be broken.” I floated to the surface andtentatively touched my jaw where the board hit it. Another wave was breakingoutside and I had to dive under it as I tried to assess the damage. My jaw wasintact. “Thank God,” I thought. I got back on my board and began paddling tothe outside where my friend Alec was sitting. The waves kept coming. The setsmust have been eight or nine waves in total. Between waves I touched my jaw andlooked down to see blood. As I continued paddling I saw a large drop of bloodfall from my face into the water. “Not good,” I thought. Alec confirmed my thinking. “Yeah, probably needs two or three stitches,” he said, “you bettergo in.” I figured regardless of how bad it was, he and the other surfers didn’twant me sticking around. The men in the grey suits would be getting a whiff of“injured animal,” aka “dinner” before long.

But there was no way I was going to paddle in – the waves wereperfect. I had to catch at least one. With encouragement from the guys sittingnear me, I took off on a wave and rode it to the beach.

Cursing my shitty duck diving skills, I got dressed and headed tothe local clinic. I was glad that unlike at home it was only a 15 minute driveaway.

On the way to the hospital it suddenly dawned on me that I didn’thave any money. My wallet was locked in the house where I was staying, myfriend was in the water surfing and I didn’t have a key. But I thought, “This isMexico, not the United States,” and figured the doctors would trust me toreturn with payment after they treated me.

I was pleasantly surprised to discover there were no otherpatients in the Emergency wing of the small hospital. After being escorted tothe exam room, I told the doctor about my financial conundrum. To my dismay hisface turned from concern to doubt as he told me he would have to talk to thehospital administrator. The administrator appeared promptly and began tellingme they couldn’t treat me when I stopped him mid-sentence and offered him myiPod as collateral against my bill. To my great relief, he agreed withouthesitation.

Before long I had six stitches expertly sewn by a baby-faced Dr.Pablo Gonzalez, an x-ray indicating that I had not fractured my jawbone, aprescription for antibiotics and a bill for 2241 pesos ( $162 US). I handed overmy iPod and headed back to the beach with a plan to get some crazy glue and getback in the water.

Before: It looks pretty minor all cleaned up.


After: Six puntos (Spanish for stitches) and a lot of swelling the following day

Keala Kennelly after her face got up close and personal
with the Teahupoo reef. In comparison, my board gave
me a kiss.

At the beach it was apparent word had gotten out that I’dmessed myself up. Everyone I asked seemed to think it would be unwise to getback in the water. Now that the adrenaline was wearing off I began to believethey were right. I was spent from the pain and excitement of the morning. Plusthe doc had said I had to stay out of the water until the wound closedcompletely. “Anywhere from seven to ten days,” he said, “otherwise the woundcould open up.” I gave it a second thought and pictured my beautiful suturesripping out of my face to leave behind a ragged bloody mess that would neverheal nicely. I looked at the picture perfect peeling waves and then down at thegaping scars on my shin. Had the wound been anywhere else on my body I wouldhave paddled back out.

Rambling Time

2011-10-27T16:17:00.002-06:00

I need a vacation.

I’m guessing that comes as a surprise. I’m guessingit probably even sounds self-indulgent and more than a little decadent. I’mguessing the consensus out there in places like Kansas, Indiana, Wisconsin and,dare I say, the entire country of Canada, is that those of us living inparadise are perpetually on vacation. So why the hell do I need to go on vacation? Well, at the great risk ofcondemnation and ridicule, I’m here to challenge the notion that life in paradise is always paradisaical.

In eastern Canada, around mid-March, near the end ofa particularly cold and stormy winter, everyone starts itching for spring andcan be heard to say with varying degrees of whininess depending on the speaker’s disposition, “It’s been a long Winter. How much longer do you think beforethe snow melts.” And then the snow melts and there is excited anticipation and we start thinking the warmer days of Spring are right around the corner.The crocuses on the South side of the house are the first to bloom, while the greentips of daffodils begin to rise up through the dark wet earth in fuzzy patchesdotting the yard. Tulips are felt, unseen deep below the surface of flower beds,to be bursting forth from their bulbs. Then, almost without fail, there’s onemore big snowstorm in the first week of April. It usually falls on or rightbefore my sister's birthday, April 6th. Overnight the yard is transformedback to a place enshrouded in white where everything looks dead and the snowplow can be heard noisily running upand down the streets removing the unwanted gift from Mother Nature. Suddenly itseems as though Spring will never arrive and everyone shuts themselves up intheir houses where I imagine they sit wrapped in woolly sweaters, grimacing while they sip big glasses of scotch in an attempt to dull the sensation of cold air seeping under the doorjam and the pain of the never-ending wait for relief.

There's a similar phenomenon occurring in the Tropics. Despite the groans and grunts of disapproval Iforesee emanating from your mouths, I’ve got to say it: It’s been a long summer.

I’ve been waiting for weather that resembles autumnto arrive for several weeks now. But it seems that, like those early signs ofSpring, the early signs I wrote of produced premature declarations of theimminence of cooler weather here in Baja. Normally, autumn arrives by mid-October, providingrelief from the energy-sapping, spirit-desiccating heat. But we’re brushing upagainst November and each and every day the mercury continues to top 90 (thankfullydown from the daily high of 95 only a few days ago). The air still feels dryand hot like a furnace as it blows past the moisture-deprived skin of my arms and I sit here sweating in my chair. I have a hot ass. It’s been hot since June,without respite. It makes sitting here while I type uncomfortable to the point ofbeing unbearable at times. I have to get up and walk around and let air flow overmy overheated posterior. It makes itnecessary to lay a towel over my office chair so it doesn’t become sticky withsweat. Altogether now, it's “Gross!!”

We’re going on five months of incredibly hot weather.There doesn’t seem to be an end in sight. Sure, the nights are cooler, more orless, and sea temperatures are slowly falling so that my evening swim is actuallyrefreshing, but the daytime highs are still uncomfortably high and the sun isstill stinking strong. I’m tired of having to coat my entire body withsunscreen and of staring into the bright sunwhile I surf. I’m pretty sure I’m doing irreparable damage to my eyes.

So I’m done with the heat.

I’m done trying to convince myself that this is goodfor me – that all this sweating is ridding me of toxins or that this is betterthan the 65 degree weather in Central California.

I’m looking forward to the cold. I wantto shiver and relish the thought of wearing long pants and a big heavy sweater while Ilook west towards the Pacific Ocean without the sun frying my retinas. I wantto feel the chill air on my face, air so cold it makes my eyes water. I want toexperience surfing in a full wetsuit for the first time in my life (not so much the crowds). I want to tuck into bed at night underthick downy comforters and rise to walk on chilled floors. I want to sip hottea in the morning to warm myself gently from the inside out, instead of it making the sweat pour down myneck and face to gather in my cleavage, gradually soaking my sports bra. In theevenings I want to sip scotch on the rocks and feel the heat of the alcoholwarm the cockles of my soul all the way down to my icy toes.

Clearly, while I do look forward to the change, it’snot that I like the thought of being cold so much as the remedies for it: graspinga mug of steamy hot chocolate with chilled hands, wrapping myself in feather-down comforters, cashmere sweaters, ridiculous looking woolen caps and brightlycolored mittens, sipping good California red wine or scotch (take your pick) beforea crackling fire in the hearth. Oh and did I mention snuggling? Snuggling isdefinitely the best thing about cold weather. Hey, a girl's gotta dream.

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For the curious, here's one of my planned destinations

Seasons Sandwich

2011-10-11T13:12:00.000-06:00

Sailing the Windy Sea by Barbara Harper

A week ago, a formercolleague and friend posted a photo on Facebook of this year’s first snowstorm.From where I’m sitting, that’s pretty hard to believe. Admittedly the snowstormoccurred on Victoria Island in the Arctic Archipelago, where Cathy and I usedto work together. It’s been exactly ten years since I last got to witness thetundra turn various shades of gold, red and sienna, but I remember marveling athow, in August, autumn was already evident. Along with the landscape taking onnew colors, the days shortened noticeably, mountain peaks became frosted withnighttime snowfall and the air would take on a chill that the sun’s rayscouldn’t beat back like it had at the peak of summer.

In Baja, where I live, justbelow the Tropic of Cancer, variations in weather from one season to the nextare not as dramatic as they are in the temperate regions of the planet, letalone the Arctic, where they are at their most extreme on the planet.Nevertheless, the passage of the autumnal equinox marks the transition towardsshortening days, cooler nighttime temperatures and eventually to a lessening inthe intensity of the sun. Finally,sometime after mid-October seawater temperatures begin to decline.

It’s been four long monthssince the mercury fell below 85 degrees Fahrenheit (30°C) and many a day when theydid not dip below 90. The last couple of mornings, however, when I’ve venturedoutside to release the hounds, the quality of the air has changed – it’s gotthat autumn crispness to it and the moist coolness feels good on my skin. Ilift my arms up and let the air envelope as much bare skin as possible. Thesemornings as I sit on my surfboard waiting for a wave, the air feels incrediblyrefreshing as it flows through my wet rashguard. It’s down right cold as itwhips across the skin on my legs as I and my board rush across the face of awave. It’s still hard to imagine that in another month, it will feel coldenough to consider wearing a shorty wetsuit (short legged and made of thinnermaterial than that of a full wetsuit).

As the days wear on though,the daily high temperature still exceeds 95 degrees and the sun’s rays remain intense(it being a only little over two weeks since the equinox). Despite wearingample, good quality high SPF sunscreen, the skin on my face has been burnt moretimes in the past three weeks than it has all summer. The concrete block thatthe garage is constructed of still absorbs the sun’s energy, turning the garageinto a little hotbox that I am reluctant to lock a couple of the dogs inovernight.

Other signs of the changingseason include the remarkable fact that the water coming out of the taps is nolonger scalding hot, but cool like the morning air. At the height of summer, Ioften have to jump out of the stream of water because it’s too hot, despite thefact that the water heater gets turned off in May. One of the more remarkablesigns of winter’s approach came a few days ago when I saw the first HumpbackWhale cow with a brand new calf in tow, making their way North up the seatowards their overwintering habitat between El Cardonal and Cabo Pulmo. When Iemailed my friend, the whale researcher Urmas Kaldveer, to tell him, heconfirmed my suspicion that we were ahead of the normal schedule for femaleHumpback sightings.

And then, three days ago,midway through my morning session the wind shifted and took on an all togetherdifferent quality that told me winter was inexorably on its way. It switchedfrom offshore to come from the North and picked up quickly, turning the bayinto a mess of wind chop and white caps. It was a stiff, cool wind, unlikesummer wind.

The North Wind is aphenomenon in eastern Baja that brings windsurfers and kitesurfers from theworld over to play in the waters off her shores. As temperatures in the RockyMountains plummet, the wind funnels down the Colorado River to the Delta whereit blasts down the path of least resistance, the Sea of Cortez.

Like the roads here, thewind is a blessing and a curse. It can blow 30 knots or more for days on end,throwing sand and dirt everywhere, making gardening and weeding impossible,causing sinus infections and blowing out what would otherwise be perfectly goodsurf. For wind-sport enthusiasts it creates the right conditions for them tohave the time of their lives. It’sthe reason I took up kitesurfing in an “If you can’t beat it, join it” momentof clarity.

Despite the North Wind, wecurrently have two tropical storms, Hurricane Jova and Tropical Storm Irwin,spinning just South of us and a third tropical disturbance further South offthe coast of southern Mexico is gaining in strength and organization. Seatemperatures remain in the mid-80s, which means her waters offer littleresistance to the movement of storms.

Autumn truly is a transitional season – we are experiencingwinter and summer weather patterns at the same time!

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Buy Sailing the Windy Sea by Barbara Harper

Wetter is Better

2011-10-04T16:07:00.002-06:00

Now dat's FLAT!

Isurfed today for the first time in six days. It’s not like I’ve been sick oruninterested in surfing ("ha! yeah, like that’s going to happen," says thesurf-obsessed pixie). I had consideredcutting back a bit because I think I might be getting a bone spur on my rotatorcuff and my super-duper life coach (see my previous post) thinks I need to reevaluatehow much time I spend surfing at the expense of writing. But the real reason Ididn’t surf all this past week was because there wasn’t any surf. None. Zippo. Barely a ripple on the water’s surface. It wasflat.

Normallywhen I make a Skype call I have to close the sliding glass doors in the livingroom so that the sound of the waves breaking on shore doesn’t interfere withthe call. It’s loud enough that it transmits across the line and the person onthe other end inevitably asks, “What’s that sound? Is that waves?” If it’s the first time they’ve talked to me this way, theyare invariably blown away by how loud the surf is. It also blocks their audiofrom downloading to my computer because the program is busy uploading the soundof the waves. It’s a pain to have to close the doors, especially when it’s 95degrees out and even a tiny breeze is like a little puff of heavenly breath onmy hot, sweaty skin. But it’s been so small or non-existent for the past weekthat it hasn’t been a big problem

Istarted wishing I had a SUP board this past week. It’s definitely arecord for the number of consecutive days not surfing while in Baja, notincluding times of illness.

Todaywhen I rose, I noticed there were some actual waves coming through every tenminutes or so. That was all I needed to see. I quickly did my morning routineof letting the dogs out of their various enclosures, hanging upside-down to getmy back to decompress and a quick meditation. Of course the sound of the wavesseemed to get louder as I tried to concentrate, so I cut it short at 15 minutesand started to get ready.

Iunloaded the fun and short boards from the rig, replacing them with alongboard, no debate necessary. The waves may have picked up, but it was stillsmall out there. I wondered if Iwas being overly optimistic even.

Itoccurs to me that I’ve never described the surf rig I use to get to the breaks.It’s a big red Honda ATV that has a side rack for the board that Tonyskillfully designed and welded using pipes from his hotrod header manufacturingbusiness. Predictably, we call her“Big Red” (as compared to “Little Blue,” who is used for non-surf related localtransportation). Tony also built a rack for the front of the bike to carry extranecessities. These include a small cooler, gallon jug of rinse/dog water, dogbowl, and a small duffel bag containing all the necessary gear a surfer can’tbe without (wax, wax comb, rash guards, hats, extra bathing suit andboardshorts, shirt for sun protection, extra sunscreen, Benadryl to stave off anasty reaction should there be a jellyfish run-in, extra leash in case onebreaks, five year old granola bars, mini tide chart, notebook and pen in casethe muse hits me, which she has a tendency to do while I’m surfing).

Big Red at Nine Palms

Soafter loading some drinking water and the gallon jug of tap water (for post-surfrinse off and Peanut drinking water), changing into swimsuit and board shorts, applyingcopious amounts of sunscreen (three different kinds; one for my face, one formy chest and another for the rest of me), and warming up the ATV, we were finallyon our way. All told about 20 minutes of preparation just to get out the doorto surf. As I pulled out the gate to the property, I looked over my shoulder atPeanut standing behind me smiling into the wind. She loves to ride on the backof the ATV.

Wetravelled South four miles to one of our favorite surfbreaks – Nine Palms,known locally as Rancho Santa Elena. When the waves are small to head high,Nine Palms is a great beginner surf spot. The waves here break slowly in a rolling fashion that makes it easierfor a beginner to get to their feet before the wave breaks on their head. It’sthe place I learned to surf. The only challenge with this spot can be thenumber of large rocks that are present along the path the waves take to thebeach. At low tide, it’s a bit of an obstacle course out there and I’ve crashedinto the big rocks on the inside of the bay several times. I described thescars my first surfboard sustained at the “hands” of those rocks in this post.

Todaythere were four people out in the waves when I pulled up. They are part of agroup from Oahu who’ve been camped on the beach at Nine Palms for all ofSeptember. People come and people go, but there is one guy, James, who’s beenhere the whole time. When I paddled out he told me how stoked they were to seesome waves today and how they’d been getting squirrelly the last few days inthe absence of surf.

When I pulled up it was pretty flat andeveryone was just sitting out there on their boards waiting. Ipaddled out not expecting much. As luck would have it, I paddled right into adecent set and caught one to the beach before I even got out to my usual takeoff spot. Then as I paddled back out, I saw what looked like a set. Sureenough, as I paddled harder I saw a set of waves approaching that looked atleast head high. One of the other surfers caught the first wave, but I was inthe perfect spot to catch the second one. It had a good shoulder and Iwas able to run to the nose and get some time up there before I had to get backto maneuver around the inside rocks. Managed to get all the way to the beachagain and turned around just as my friend Tom pulled up in his sandrail.

Twoof the other surfers went in and Tom paddled out. The four of us remainingshared the waves, the warm water and the stoke. It was a good session after somany days landlubbing. I think I can include in my argument for surfing's positive impact on my life that I always feel better after getting wet. And look, I'm writing.

Starting a Revolution

2011-10-01T16:08:00.002-06:00

There's a bit of a revolution occurring here in Vinorama. It's a tiny revolution involving only a couple of people, but it's mind-blowing and potentially world-changing for at least one of us.

Itturns out that last week's post was a metaphor for what is going on in my lifein more ways than I realized. Usingthe “changing currents” metaphor, I alluded to the fact that I’ve made some bigchanges lately. Beyond that I hadn’t given any thought to the rest of the postbeing more than the story of how I could have drowned.

Turnsout that I have been drowning. My head was still above water, but I was floundering and caught in a powerful riptide of repeatingthe same mistakes I’ve made in relationships since time immemorial. And my behavior was wreakinghavoc on my self-esteem and ability to get any work done.

The“riptide” wasn’t any one thing – it was a combination of factors anddistractions that I was allowing to pull me away from giving this chaotic time in my life the attention and love it deserves so that I can keep movingforward in life in the most positive way possible. I was partying too much,surfing too much, flirting too much with unavailable men (yes, time forsome honesty here). I was so distracted by everything out there, that the stuffthat was going on in here, was going unexamined.

What Socrates said.

Thatis when Andrea Mauer, revolution starter and talented life coach, threw me a life ringto which I am clinging with a white-knuckle grip. Yeah, that’s another metaphor. What she actually did was respond to anemail I sent her that was clearly a call for help. If you’re new here, I’veposted about her life coaching before. I tried doing my own version of her 90-Day Power Play program before, but I was doing it without her guidance (she was inthe middle of working it with 10 luckier women and couldn't spread herself any thinner). Furthermore, my level ofmotivation was suspiciously low because I was oblivious to what was coming down the pike in less than six months' time.

Sometimesyou gotta get hit by the train to hear its whistle.

Thistime my attitude is different because the train wreak has already happened and I'm standing next to the smoking pile of remains wondering how I ended up back here on the wrong side of the relationship tracks, all by myself once again. It's also different because Andrea’s holding my hand, walking me through each stepand periodically pulling me back on the path that will lead me to where I ammeant to be – to that place where I’m fulfilling my purpose and livingcontentedly, instead of floundering and drowning in the sea of self-sabotageand decisions based on outdated beliefs that no longer serve me.

We’vealready accomplished a lot. She’s helped me change the energy I’ve beencarrying around related to men. She’s convinced me the best thing to do isput all that relationship stuff on the back burner for now. And it’s working. Ifeel more clear headed, grounded and “Look Ma!” I’m actually able toconcentrate enough to write (let's reserve judgment on the quality for now...baby steps people, baby steps).

We’veestablished that the big challenge I face is changing afundamental belief that I’ve carried around like a two ton elephant on my back since I was achild. The belief that I am not worthy of deep, compassionate, unconditional love has colored my decision-making process concerning how and with whom I am willing to establish relationships. Yes, this is not unique, it's one insecurity that a large segment of the populationshares. That's why I'm going out on a limb here and sharing this. This is a belief that results from being raised by parents who didn't know how to show us we are worthy of unconditional love. They didn't know because theywere raised by similarly clueless parents who were raised by parents who had to focus onjust trying to stay alive. (Don’t get me wrong, I love my parents, and I am notblaming them for something they had little control over. They just grew up at atime – the Great Depression – when there wasn’t enough of anything, let aloneguidance on enlightened self-esteem-building child-rearing techniques.) Andrea says, "It's an inside job Dawn. The solution to your relationship woes begins with you." Ouch...but yeah, she's right. To that end, I'm back on the meditation cushion, getting back in touch with that part of me that can heal anything and everything.

Andreaand I have also discussed the effect that spending so much time surfing has hadon my life. Lately, I’ve been using any and all available energy to surf. It’sbecome an obsession instead of just a passion that is overwhelming my abilityto get anything else done. If I’m not careful, surfing and men will be thedownfall of my desire to make writing my profession.I need more balance in my life so that I have more time and energy to write. Andrea also wants me to try to figureout what it is that I get out of surfing that makes me want to spend so much time doing it. Why am I so obsessively passionate aboutit? I’ve tried telling her it’s because it’s outrageously fun, involves theocean and gives me my adrenaline injection for the day, but she thinks there’smore to it than that - something deeper, more darkly psychological about it. I maintain, “I just love it! Isn’t that enough?” But she’s not buying it.

Shemakes the point that by recognizing the source of the passion, I’ll be moresuccessful in tempering it, and can possibly apply the same principal towriting so I fall in love with it to the same degree. Now that would berevolutionary.

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Brené Brown's TED talk explaining why we don't think we're worthy

Changing Currents

2011-09-21T13:16:00.000-06:00

Artwork by Kevin Tole

During the seven years that I have lived here onthe beach, there was always a rip tide that flowed South toNorth along the beach. It’s strength varied with the size of the wavesgenerating it, but under average conditions I could swim out front without toomuch concern for my safety. I’d just jump in as far South as possible and thenlet it carry me back to where I was even with the house, get out, walk Southand repeat. Alternatively, I could swim out past the current and hang outin the deeper water.

On one occasion when the waveswere particularly huge, I did find myself fighting the rip despite having nointention of getting wet. I just wanted to get my feet wet - I knew thecurrents were too strong to risk jumping in - but I misjudged how far up theshorebreak was washing, got grabbed by a particularly strong wave and wasdragged into the sea. Thankfully I was wearing a bathing suit and didn’t panic,but as the current curved and began to pull me towards where waves werecrashing on some large exposed rocks, I recognized that I needed to do somethingto avoid getting battered on them.

I recalled that the best way toget out of a rip is to swim at a ninety degree angle to it, so I turned andswam away from the shore, and its safety, and when I thought I’d swum farenough I began swimming back in. Before I could get onto shore though, thecurrent grabbed me again and whipped me right back to where I’d just beenworrying about getting smashed on the rocks. Now I was getting, well,concerned. As I continued swimming in an attempt to maintain my position, I looked up atthe hill where the house sits and saw Felipe, our caretaker, watering theplants. It was clear he was oblivious to the peril I was in. Even if he hadbeen aware of the situation, it wouldn’t have mattered because the man can’tswim and we have no rope or life ring that he could use to pull me in. Mystomach churned as the thought flashed through my mind that I could drown outthere and Felipe would be none the wiser for it until he needed morecigarettes. Having been eaten by sharks, my body would never turn up - mydisappearance would remain forever a mystery to all except the dogs, whosetwelve eyes watched me intently from the beach. I resolved that my fate was inmy hands only and turned again to swim out away from the current.

This time though I swam further,much further, out past the southerly rocky point where I knew the rip tideoriginated. I reasoned that from this angle the current would sweep me all theway in to the beach, instead of back to where the surf pounded the rocks.

It worked. I managed to make thebeach and got out, spent and with the sound of my heart thumping loudly in myears. My only witnesses, the dogs, greeted me as only dogs can - noses poking andhind legs jumping with tails wagging wildly.

Last Saturday, when I tookthe dogs to the beach for their evening walk, I noticed something had changed –the ocean in front of the house which is bordered on the North and South sidesby rocky points, didn’t look the same. There’s been sand building up in thatarea all summer, but it seemed like suddenly there was a huge amount of sandextending a good 50 yards out to sea. The ocean’s surface was dappled withevidence of new eddies and the water appeared to be flowing wildly all over theplace. Were I more experienced in ocean matters I would have paid closerattention to what was going on in the water, but after seven years ofconstancy, I figured nothing much had changed except for the amount of sand onthe bottom.

I jumped in the water and came uprelishing the cooling sensation of the water cascading off my face and from myhair. When I turned around to look towards the beach, I discovered it wasquickly receding and I was already, in a matter of a few seconds, more than 50yards from land. It was a rude awakening. I tried to swim back to shore,but it became obvious that it was going to take more than a few strokes offront crawl to get me there. The current was overpowering me. I wasn’t feelingparticularly energetic or I might have seen the circumstances as a challengeand tried to overcome the current. Instead I stroked patiently and when a wavebroke over me, I paddled hard and bodysurfed it as far as it would take me. Idid this several times and was soon back at the beach. Panting I hauled myselfout of the water and turned to look back at the sea in amazement.

That’s when I noticed that justdown the beach, a huge U-shaped swath of sand had eroded from the beach in amanner I’d never seen before. It was over 15 feet deep and 50 feet wide. Ilooked as though a backhoe had come in and removed loads of sand. In front ofwhere the sand was missing, was a large flat area where the sand had beendumped and the water was now only a foot deep for 30 yards out into the sea.The dogs and I walked out onto it – it gave under my weight lending it a foamy,cushiony feel. Perhaps in response to this sensation the dogs began to jump andplay in the water. They seemed to recognize that this was a safe area out ofthe impact zone of the surf, which was crashing further out than usual on the edge of the newlydeposited sand.

I wondered at how suddenly thechanges had occurred and caught me unawares.

That evening, as the sky turnedrosy and shades of coral, I reflected on how the changing currents in the sea reflectevents in my life: like the sea, my life shifted ninety degrees in the threedays around the full moon and my emotions continue to shift like the sands onthe beach.

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Artist Kevin Tole's Webpage

Praying in the Church of Cortez

2011-09-11T17:06:00.002-06:00

Ocean Wave by John Sweeney

We’re hovering at the peak of hurricane season here in BajaCalifornia Sur. By this point in the summer, we usually have had severaltropical storms and hurricanes form somewhere south of the peninsula,generating waves, wind and occasionally rain showers. So far we’ve had threehurricanes produce some nice swell – Dora, Greg and Eugene came and went withthe only consequence being a few minor surf-related injuries and brokensurfboards.

For the past two weeks, daily notices from the NationalHurricane Center consistently reported that there was no chance of a stormforming. So when I awoke last Sunday morning to a sky blanketed in a layer ofdark grey clouds, I was surprised. Perhaps I shouldn’t have been, consideringhow throughout the night bright bursts of blazing white lightning woke me everyhour followed by the rumbling of distant thunder.

That morning, looking North up the Sea of Cortez, theseparation between air and water obscured by their having turned the same colorof gun metal steel, the sky seemed to seep into the sea. Overhead and southward,patches of blue sky were visible, but to the East and West large thunderheadsgrew and grumbled, threatening to envelope the East Cape. It was alreadyraining out at sea and, I thought, probably inland closer to the mountains.

I confirmed the surf report that indicated the current swell was peaking by checking the surf at my local breakthrough the binoculars. No one was out yet, but the sets were coming inconsistently, breaking well outside the boil I zone in on to get a clear ideaof size from my mile-distant vantage point.

I hurried my preparations, applied a coat of sunscreendespite the overcast, loaded the ATV with a small cooler of water and fruitwhile I let the engine warm up. I stopped on my way up the driveway to rally myguest, a surfer who quickly loaded his board and jumped on the back of the motowith my most portable canine, Peanut.

There were three people out when we arrived at the break andby the time I paddled out there was one more, making us five in all. My friend optedto wait on the beach and chat with another surfer who’d just arrived. Thepaddle out was uneventful and once in the lineup and not noticing any largeswell lines, I decided to paddle a little inside to catch one of the smallerwaves I’d seen breaking consistently from the beach. As I paddled past the other surfers,they chatted seemingly oblivious to the perfect wave lining up with where I washeaded. A couple more strokes and I was gliding down the face, cutting back tothe curl and then carving up and down across the face of the glassy, head-highwave. I laughed at my luck, how the wave seemed to come right to me. I’d barelybeen in the water ten minutes.

Paddling back out I noticed the tell-tale sign of a darkbulge on the horizon – a set was headed our way. I paddled further out past theother surfers who stayed where they were. I was intent on determining whichwave to go for, so I didn’t notice when Dave caught the first, smaller wave ofthe set. The third wave was the beauty and I turned and paddled hard. I was abit late and the wave jacked up threatening to pitch me forward off the nowvertical face. I jumped to my feet and somehow, by some miracle, managed to digthe rail of my board into the face of the wave just right and make the takeoff. It was easily four feet over my head as I carved along the smooth face,feeling the surge of power under my feet. I kicked out just as it closed outand saw Dave digging through the white water generated by my wave. Two perfectwaves in a row - this was boding to be a good session.

Somehow as the morning progressed I managed to be in theright place more often than not. I surprised myself athow good I felt on each wave. I finally seemed to be in tune with my new-used6’8” Roger Beal hybrid fish – was it was the blue lightning bolts painted alongthe rails? As I considered the possibility, the clouds pressed in from overheadand a clap of thunder announced the coming rain.

It started gradually – I felt the odd drop on my back andthen saw the dark impressions they made on the water’s shiny grey surface. Asthe drops grew in size, their impact grew to flashes of dark and light, a largedrop of water rebounding with each one and then disappearing in the embrace ofsea water. The sensation of the droplets’ coolness against my skin was arousingand contrasted with the warmth of the sea water enveloping my legs.

The tide was rising and there was talk in the lineup that thequality of the waves was diminishing. A couple people went in and then another,until finally it was just me and one other surfer. That’s when my friendpaddled out. As we sat there, surrounded by grey clouds and pock-marked grey water, he remarked that he’d never surfed in the rain in Baja, “I feellike I’m in Indo.” Indonesia, Ithought, one day I’ll know what it’s liketo surf Indo.

Soon it was just the two of us and while my arms werestarting to fatigue, the waves seemed to be getting better than they’d beenjust a half hour earlier when everyone else went in to the beach. I smiled atmy handsome friend and the thought occurred to me that it was a shame there werepeople on the beach – the coolness of the rain and the warm sea water caressingmy skin sent me into a reverie in which I pictured the two of us peeling offour clothes and surfing naked.

There is a sensuality about surfing, about immersingyourself in a warm sea that I've never heard surfers discuss. It’s that sensuality thatI believe made me fall in love with the water the first time I felt it againstmy skin. Half Moon Lake, Quebec may be thousands of miles away and radicallydifferent than the Sea of Cortez, but it’s all the same water, evaporating,condensing and morphing from mountain stream, into river and cool ocean currents.It’s been a life long love affair that just keeps getting better.

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John Sweeney the artist's Web Page

Mercy

2011-08-11T17:04:00.008-06:00

Artwork by Erika Ashley

The following is an excerpt from the memoir I am writing about my first three years living in Baja, Mexico.

It was a cool April evening in 2002 and I was visiting with Kani and Barry in their palapa-covered living room when the bell at the gate announced someone’s arrival. Out of the dark Angeles, the woman from the palapa restaurant on the beach, appeared, an anxious expression on her face.

“Buenas noches,” she said, a little out of breath. “I am sorry to interrupt you,” she said making eye contact with me, and then to Kani said, “But do you have an injection I can give my cat?”

Kani and Barry looked from Angeles to each other and back again with confusion. “An injection?” Kani said, “what kind of injection?”

“You know, the kind that will put it out of its suffering. Juanito’s dog Chaquira got my cat and I think he’s broken his back. He’s suffering and I want to give him an injection to stop it.”

“Oh!” Kani said, understanding that she wanted to euthanize her cat, “oh no, we have nothing like that. It isn’t legal for us to have it.”

“Oh,” she said, disappointment clearly written on her face, ”someone said you had it, from when your cat was bit by the snake.”

For some reason I interjected, “I can come and look at him for you if you like. Then we can decide if he can be saved or not.”

A look of hope flooded her face and she smiled, “Would you? Yes, please I would appreciate your help.”

Angeles and I walked back to the lot where her family’s house sat, unfinished grey concrete, the lot defined by a barbed wire fence with posts made from the branches of native trees. The moon was almost full that night and lit our way. When we entered the property Chaquira brought Juanito out of the house with her barking. He carried a flashlight and called to ask who was there, his eyes not yet adjusted to the semi-darkness. Angeles responded and he joined us next to a pile of old tires covered in tarps and some pieces of old carpeting. Angeles pulled back a tattered blanket to reveal her cat beneath it. Even in the poor light I could see he was very old. His bones were visible under his dull coat and he felt fragile like a baby bird when I reached out and touched him. I asked them to describe what the dog did and with some gentle prodding and manipulation I could feel where his spine had been broken two-thirds of the way down his back. He moaned a couple of times, the deep pathetic sound of an animal in great pain who can do nothing to retreat.

I asked Angeles if anyone in the village had a gun. While it is illegal to possess firearms in Mexico, there is an exception for ranchers who need them to protect their livestock from the ubiquitous coyotes and occasional cougar.

“Yes, my uncle – he has one.”

She wrapped the cat in the blanket taking great care as she lifted him into her arms and together we retraced the path we’d just covered a few minutes before.

At El Caballero Angeles called to her uncle and spoke to him in Spanish. Pelon, as he was known, or Baldy, had a coarse face with a crooked and hooked nose, presumably the result of run-ins with bulls, horses and perhaps, I thought, the occasional man. He wore blue jeans, a white collared shirt, cowboy boots and a belt with a shiny silver belt buckle. In one hand he held a can of beer and, I noticed as he came to the doorway from which Angeles had called him, he was not too steady on his legs using the door jam to steady himself. He regarded me suspiciously, with a look that I interpreted as, “Who the hell are you? And what are you doing in my backyard?”

Angeles explained why we were there and he barked an order to a young tall boy in the restaurant, who scurried off and quickly returned with a rifle. We were soon joined by another man, with a greasy and pitted complexion and a soft chubby body visible under his ill-fitting white t-shirt and cotton pants. Pelon remained in the doorway appearing strangely aloof in his drunkenness and continued to bark orders at the two men and Angeles. I had no idea what he was saying.

It occurred to me that as the owner of the cat Angeles should not be present when the men killed her cat. It would be too traumatic and it suddenly occurred to me, what if they weren’t successful with the first shot? I suggested that she leave and promised I’d stay there until the deed was done and would return with the cat so she could bury him. Her face flooded with relief. She related the plan to her uncle, placed the cat in a curved depression on a broad tree trunk that was growing along the ground and left.

Pelon issued another order, I’m guessing to proceed, to the young man standing there in the semi-dark who now looked overwhelmed and intimidated by his charge. He held the gun out to the chubby man, who sat on the crooked tree trunk next to the semi-conscious cat. The chubby man shook his head drunkenly and dismissed this idea with his right hand. Then he said something that sounded like words of encouragement and pointed at the cats head.

The young man cocked the gun and pointed it gingerly at the cat’s head. The muzzle moved up and down uneasily. Pelon barked at him again and laughed, a harsh and cutting sound. Bullied to proceed, the young man pushed the muzzle up against the side of the cat’s head. I steadied myself for the retort, stepped back in anticipation of the noise. He pulled the trigger.

Pffflluut! Came the flaccid sound of air pressure released. The cat moaned. This was not the loud bang of the deflagration of a rifle cartridge.

It was nothing but a pellet gun.

The realization horrified me, but before I could try to intervene, Pelon was issuing more commands and by the way he was waving his arm toward the cat, he was telling the young man to do it again. The look on his face indicated he was as horrified as I, but Pelon persisted and the cat moaned again. Perhaps out of compassion for the cat, he hunched his shoulders and cocked the gun again, pushed the muzzle against the cat’s head and pulled the trigger. Another moan, this one slightly higher pitched - the cat was clearly in great pain and each attempt to stop it was only making matters worse. Pelon and the chubby man were now both egging the young man on to try again. I couldn’t let this continue and begged them to stop. “Alto alto!” I pleaded. Stop stop. They regarded me like a fly. The chubby man now stood and took the air gun, cocked, pointed it and pulled the trigger three times in quick succession. The cat moaned and then began to yowl a wail that pierced my heart. I was on the verge of tears. The poor animal was still not dead despite the five pellets sitting somewhere in its head. The men shrugged, Pelon turned and with the chubby man in tow walked back into the light of the restaurant. Only the young man remained looking uneasy, uncomfortable, but with a hint of compassion in his dark eyes. That’s when I knew I had to do something to put the poor animal out of its misery. How much more life can it have left in it? I thought.

As gently as I could, I took its skinny neck in my hands and squeezed. The young man regarded me curiously. I’d expected the cat to go limp in my hands, the life to drain from it effortlessly, possibly its body to jerk slightly as it gasped for the breath I denied it. It’s neck felt so skinny, I could almost have used one hand. But I miscalculated. This cat, despite it’s broken back and head riddled with pieces of metal still had life in it. It did not go gently into that dark night.

As I tightened my grip, muscles contracted that previously didn’t seem to exist and his neck seemed to expand against my hands growing to at least three times its original size. The cat sputtered. Had his body not been destroyed, it was clear he would have fought me tooth and nail, but he didn’t use claws, had no body to fight with. I knew I couldn’t stop. It had to be done. My eyes misted over, but I maintained an iron grip on his neck and felt pressure growing in my own face and head in response to my effort. Gradually the muscles in his neck relaxed and I felt him go completely limp. For fear that this tough old tom would miraculously come back to life, I didn’t release my hold on him right away. When it was clear he was truly gone, I finally let go, relieved it was over. My hands and fingers ached with the effort and I squeezed them closed and open again. I noticed the young man looking at me with concern. He said something quietly that I interpreted to mean, “it’s done.” I nodded and wrapped the cat in the blanket, stood and walked back into the darkness along the dimly moonlit path towards the road that would take me back to Angeles’ house.

I called to her out of the darkness when Chaquira’s barking made me stop short at the gate. In response to her wrinkled brow I told her it was done.

“Do you think he suffered?” she asked.

I lied, “No, it was fast. He didn’t feel any pain.”

The Messenger

2011-08-03T12:56:00.002-06:00

Our dog Zee is going blind. The vet informed me that she has glaucoma and an auto-immune disease that’s making her body attack itself. Yes, not one, but two diseases affecting her eyes. One at a time, her eyes swelled up into big, bulbous, blood shot orbs with milky irises at their centers. The first to swell then shrank to a fraction of its size, sank back into its orbit, where it now sits wrinkled like a raisin and useless as the tit on a boar. Then the left eye followed suit and blew up to twice its normal size. We’d already taken her to the vet for the right eye, so when the left started expanding I squeezed in the same drops and shuttled her off to the vet with great trepidation - I knew that the news would not be good. He kept her for observation for three days (it broke my heart to leave her there, wondering why I’d abandoned her in a strange-smelling cage). When I returned he gave us more drops and told me to keep applying both. At this point, he was convinced that she was completely blind, that the pressure in her eye caused by the glaucoma had ruptured the connection between the retina and the optic nerve, but I hold out hope none-the-less. I continue more than thirty days later to drop the clear liquid medicine into her left eye twice daily.

I knew things were looking bleak when she walked off the retaining wall one afternoon. We’d just been to the beach and she seemed to be doing pretty well, when I watched, dumbfounded, as she walked along the edge of the retaining wall and then stepped right out into open space, falling a good four feet to the ground below. I’m somewhat relieved that from my vantage point I couldn’t see her land because when I ran the hundred meters or so around the wall to see if she was okay (silently praying please be okay, please be okay) she clearly had landed on her face, poor dog. She was spitting sand and dirt, closing and opening her mouth and shaking her head as she stumbled to and fro about the yard. I checked her for serious injury, somehow she’d managed to escape with nothing more than a mouth full of dirt (mind you, I suspect the next day, if she could have, she’d have requested an Advil or two for the pain in her nose, neck and goodness knows what other body parts). Then I noticed a thick branch of one of the bougainvillea shrubs I’d just pruned was broken through. I said another prayer, this time of thanks, that she hadn’t poked one of her failing eyes out altogether.

After the fall from the wall, I took extra care to make sure she wasn’t going to pull a similar stunt while I stood idly by. My heart ached when she started walking into walls, cabinets, stone columns and wooden posts. I started yelling the command, “CAREFUL Zee!” every time I saw her approaching a solid upright surface. Slowly she learned that this meant danger and pain were imminent. She fell a couple feet off the side of the stairs to the beach one day, again ending up with a mouth full of dirt and sending my heart squeezing down upon itself in empathetic pain. I began walking her on a leash up and down the long uneven stairs and issuing commands as we approached each step, “Step Zee,” “Big Step,” “Step.” I’d become a seeing-eye human.

On the beach I worried about her getting carried away in the beach break that she’s always loved to roll around in. It is her habit to trot down into the white water as it rushes up onto the sand, flop onto her side and then onto her back, her legs waving back and forth as she gets wet and her coat becomes a sandy mess. She rubs her head into the sand, flops around a few more times and then gets up and shakes it all off, refreshed, renewed. I imagine it’s like a mini spa treatment – exfoliating and invigorating.

"Zee" is short for "Crazy," a name she earned when she first arrived in Vinorama and turned the then two-dog household upside-down with her high energy hi-jinx. Most evenings, as the sun sinks towards the horizon, the dogs and I like to walk or run down to a place where there are several rocky islets out in the water. The rocks are too often inundated by the waves at high tide, making them poor nesting grounds, but Pelicans, seagulls, terns and petrels use them as a resting place. Up until a few years ago Zee, seeing the birds, would swim the 30 or 40 yards out to the rocks and, with the tide and swell tossing her about, somehow manage to scramble up to chase those birds with all the energy and gusto of a pup.

It’s astonishing and, yes, a bit depressing what a difference a few years make.

She has always been and, in spite of current circumstances, remains a happy dog. More than any of our other five dogs who are given to bouts of worry, fear or bad temper, Zee has always been content. Even in the haze of pressing darkness, she trots down the beach head held high, tail wagging. She still enjoys a snack of sun-dried porcupine fish - her nose clearly unaffected by what it is that ails her eyes - and a good roll in the surf. But I watch her closely now, tuning in to her mood, acutely aware that in time she may be given over to bouts of depression or confusion. I see concern wash over her face when she ignores my cries to be careful and walks headlong into a wall of granite where just a moment ago it was smooth sailing over soft moist sand. We give her extra treats and let her lick the dinner plates as compensation.

Watching her struggle I am acutely aware that this is beginning of the end for her. She’s ten years old and on the high side of a slippery slope. We used to call her “Zee the Intrepid” for her adventurous nature with the sea. Now I think “Zee the Messenger” might be more appropriate. She serves to remind me every day that we are mortal and have little say in when our time here is up. I feel the volume on the urgency to leave behind some legacy I've been feeling in recent years get cranked up full bore. What have I done with this life of mine? What of value will be left behind?

So I keep writing in the hope that it will mean something to someone.

My First Custom-Made Surfboard

2011-07-10T15:39:00.005-06:00

In September 2002, six months into learning to surf Cremin announced, “I think it’s time for you to get your own surfboard. I’m ordering one for myself and I think you should get one custom made as well.” My heart leapt at the thought. Then my finances reared their head.

He seemed to read my mind when he said he could probably get me in on the “bro deal” with his shaper and that it would cost around $500. I’d just made $700 that week renting Kent’s casitas, so I let the promise of a custom surfboard carry me away.

Cremin discussed the design with the shaper and they agreed on the shape and length the board should be. I had no idea what kind of board to get, but I knew I was in good hands.

The day before he drove to town to pick up our boards, I passed Cremin on the road. “Tomorrow’s the big day! Come over around five to get your board,” he yelled through his open window. I walked on air the whole next day. At five o’clock sharp I pulled into his driveway in my pickup truck. I called to him as I disembarked and he whistled in reply. I heard the creak of the screen door, the whack as it closed and then the flip flop of his sandals as he made his way down the stairs. He had a twinkle in his eye, a gentle smile on his face and said nothing as he disappeared into the garage. With my right hand I squeezed the fingers on my left, shifted from one foot to the other and back again.

He returned with her in his outstretched arms. She was the whitest, shiniest board I’d ever seen. So new, so unblemished. I reached out and ran my hand down the length of her – smooth, slick and fragile. She was long and wide with a gradually pointed nose and a squared-off tail - eight feet six inches long by twenty two inches wide and two and a quarter inches thick. Cremin said it was a “fun shape,” not a longboard, yet too long to be a shortboard. He said it would allow me to transition from the tank I’d been riding gradually down to a shorter board.

I took her in my hands and marveled at how light she was compared to Cremin’s huge blue board. I turned her over to examine where three translucent green fins adorned her underside. The shaper’s brand name was scrawled in royal blue cursive on both sides a quarter way down from the nose - Downhome. Over the stringer near the tail T-BOY 2002 was penciled in capital letters.

T-Boy is the nickname of the shaper, Tom Gaglia, whom Cremin had come to know in the 60s during his days on Maui. When the surf in Hawaii got too crowded they ended up in southern Baja following a wave of big name surfers like Flippy Hoffman, Micky Muñoz, Pat Curren and Mike Doyle.

Over the course of the next couple of days several surfers from the village came by to see my new board. They shared my excitement and even offered to take me down to get her wet for the first time. Her baptism turned out to be in tiny two foot surf I’m almost reticent to waste ink on, but the following spring when the southern-hemisphere swells arrived, she made my surfing better by degrees.

Two years later I was ready for a shorter, narrower board and contacted T-Boy with my request. With the arrival of the new board, I tucked the 8’6” in the wall rack and all but forgot about her.

Today her glass is yellowed and brittle with age. When I run my hand over her underside, her once smooth surface is now riddled with pock-marks and scars. A line of bumpy white resin runs twelve inches long and one inch wide from her nose towards the tail, evidence of the first of several run ins with the rocks at low tide. I still remember the crack and hiss of the glass and fabric ripping, how my stomach lurched and my chest contracted at the sound. I jumped off to one side, but too late. As I bobbed in the water next to the huge barnacle-encrusted rock, I pulled her back to me and inspected the damage. It was like someone had taken a chisel to her and dragged it through her insides.

I run my hand along her squared tail and then reach up and feel along the right side of my scalp. There is it - the scar that she gave me in return.

It was first light and the sun was just cresting the horizon, deep fading to brighter orange. The water was dark grey flecked with liquid silver, shimmering in the pale light. The faces of the waves averaged six feet. I paddled her out and sat waiting in my usual spot, just outside the rock boil at the third peak.

The rising sun dazzled along the horizon making it difficult to see the waves in their march towards shore. Suddenly, I saw a perfect one rising and coming towards me, giving barely time to decide. At the last possible second, I took a few strokes forward to meet it, then spun the board around to go. I stroked hard twice and felt the wave begin to lift me, but I was too late for the take off and it pitched me over the falls. I didn’t sink down into the depths like usual, but popped up to the surface like a cork. Just then my board, thrown into the air right above me, ricocheted back out of the sky, one corner of the tail smashing onto the top of my head. The force of the impact crumpled my neck to the right with a disconcerting crunch, so that at first it was my neck I was most concerned about. I raised my head gingerly, moved it left and then right – everything seemed to be working. I breathed a sigh of relief and turned my attention to my head. I reached up to feel the spot where the board had connected and discovered a lump the size of a rather large plum. Looking at my hand, I wasn’t surprised to see a considerable amount of blood.

There were more waves coming. I was sitting in the impact zone and I had get out of there. I grabbed my board and paddled out through two more waves. Once the waves passed, I called my friend Mario over to take a look at my head. “How bad is it?” I asked him.

“I can’t tell. There’s too much blood. Wash it off in the water.”

I leaned forward and swished my head in the water, rubbing it gently with my right hand. That’s when I became aware of a throbbing sensation. I lifted my head and, where I had dunked it, the radius of a dark red opaque circle expanded before my eyes. Then several silvery and yellow-tinged fish came flying out of the depths, darting back and forth through the blood stain.

This made Mario laugh, “Wow! Look at that! You chummed the water with your blood!”

I didn’t find it amusing and moved closer to him so he could look at my scalp. “Enh, it’s not that bad,” he said.

“Do you think I need stitches?”

“Nah, but you better go in or you’ll attract sharks.”

At home I took a shower to clean the wound and get the blood out of my hair. It was incredibly painful and I felt my face getting hot as I rubbed gently all around the cut. After I towel-dried my hair ever so carefully, I decided to see if I could get a look at the cut. Leaning over the bathroom counter I turned this way and that until I could see the back right-hand side of my head in the mirror. My hair lay on top of the cut, so I tried to pull a section to one side, but when I heard a sucking sound that made my stomach lurch and my knees go weak I stopped. That sound was my scalp pulling away from my skull.

I drove to Cabo Pulmo where Doc Raley and his wife Nurse Carol stitched me up and gave me a place to rest until the dizziness wore off. Turns out I needed six stitches and had a mild concussion.

It occurred to me when I pulled the truck into the garage that evening that I hadn’t inspected my board for damage. I wondered which was harder – my head or the board’s glass job. On the right corner of the tail was a spider web of cracks with several strands of brown hair sticking out from the center.

Welcome to my Kitemare

2011-06-19T13:35:00.005-06:00

On Thursday I plugged away for most of the day at my WIP.I’d missed the morning surf session due to the morning groggies and the wind cameup by 8AM sealing my fate to remain in front of my computer. By 4PM I was readyfor a break. The wind was averaging 18.4 mph on the hill our house sits on, theexactitude of which I was able to ascertain using my handheld Kestrel windmeter. In pretty short order I got my nine meter kite andother gear together and transported it down to the beach.

It had been a while since I’d assembled my kite so the firsttime I launched it the lines were crossed and on the next attempt I forgot toinsert the “donkey dick” (yes, that’s what it’scalled) into the chicken loop, which caused the kite to unhook from the waist harness and shootskyward and fly a ways down the beach. After two false starts, I finally had thekite flying acceptably well, my helmet on and my board in hand strapped to itsleash, ready to head into the water.

The next challenge was the eight to ten-foot shorebreak thatwas between me and the open sea. I had to get through it without crashing thekite or getting bashed on the rocks (did I mention that this coast is reallyrocky?). I’m still learning, so I said a little prayer, asking to be kept safe,waited until it looked like there was a lull between sets and headed into thewater. In my panic to get outside quickly I forgot a bunch of basic techniqueand got pounded pretty good a couple of times. Somehow I miraculously managedto get outside without losing “too much” ground.

I had several successful runs out and back and was marvelinghow I hadn’t crashed the kite yet and was only about 50 m downwind of where I’dstarted. This was a first. Somehow my pock-holed brain had managed to retainmost of what I’d learned during sporadic forays made over the past two years. Thisday I was concentrating on the instructions I got from Mike Doyle last time Ikited.

Mike is a legendary surfer, surf equipment innovator andall-round expert waterman who took up kiting shortly after it appeared on thescene in the late 90s. A couple of months ago, I was driving North downthe road on my ATV loaded up with kiting gear when he pulled up alongside inhis SUV and asked me where I was headed. He invited me to join him saying,“It’s more fun to kite with someone.” I warned him I was a total beginner, butthat didn’t phase him. He helped me rig my kite and then as I struggled to keep my kite in the air, I watched in awe as he zoomed out and back with ease. Each time I returned to the beach to start over because I wasgetting too far down the coast, there he was on my ATV waiting to give me aride back to the take-off spot. This gave me a lot more time in the water and insteadof expending energy on long hikes down the beach I reserved it for kiting. Totop it off, at the end of our session Mike gave me a bunch of pointers. I wasgrateful to receive his insight and committed his instructions to memory. “Keepthe kite out of the water. Park it between 11 and 10 o’clock and keep it there.Get your hips pushed forward and lean back.” Check, check and check.

I’m at the stage in kiting where I’m still using what iscalled a bidirectional board. It’s just what it sounds like – it goes both ways. It has foot strapsand a handle for pulling the board snugly onto your feet while your kite isbehaving like a leashed, coked-out orangutan overhead. At some point I hope tomove upward and onward to a unidirectional board like Mike uses. My dream is tokite in big waves like he does (well, big to me anyway).

I’m also still learning how to go upwind. This is a keyskill. Until you master tacking upwind you are doomed to make the Walk of Shameevery time you go out. The “Walk of Shame” is just what it sounds like – a longwalk back down the beach to where you left your car, ATV, dogs, drinking water,spouse or all of the above.

So I’d been out for a while and was slowly losing ground,but I was doing so much better than usual that I didn’t want to come back in. Ijust kept riding, kept trying to regain ground. Before I knew it I was a mileand a half down the coast. There’s a gentle bay lined by a beautiful sandybeach just a little further North, so I decided I’d head there to land and avoiddealing with the rocks that lined the beaches where I was when I decided it wastime to go in.

I’d been out for two hours without a break and was gettingtired. I bobbed up and down in the water and planned my attack to go in, thekite flying overhead. I laughed in spite of myself when I took in the scenearound me – three to four-foot wind swell, white caps and tiny people thatlooked like ants on the beach. “They must think I’m crazy,” I thought, “butthis is so much fun!” I thanked God for what was my most successful sessionyet. Then I realized I’d said it in the past tense. “Shoot!” I thought, “Imeant is, the session that still IS my most successful yet.” Call mesuperstitious, but I got the distinct feeling that I’d jinxed my session. Now Ijust wanted to get to the beach. I still had a long walk home.

I looked in the direction I wanted to go and then started mypower stroke, a maneuver with the kite that gives it more acceleration to getyou up and going. Before I knew what happened the kite did a rapid nose dive, WHAM!hitting the water hard. Mike’s words came to me again, “Keep the kite out ofthe water. And if you do crash it, get it up fast. Don’t let it stay in thewater.” I pulled on one of the lines to relaunch and it shot overhead. The righttip flapped in the wind. “That’s not right,” I thought. I tried to steer thekite to my left, towards the beach, but it wasn’t responding well. Down itcrashed again. I got it up fast and tried to assess what the trouble was. Icould see that one of the struts that give the kite shape and rigidity wasdeflated. Now the left tip was flapping in the wind. My heart jumped and Ithought, “Shit! I better get this thing to the beach pronto!” I tried to fly itto the left, but it just wouldn’t go. Slowly it became less rigid, crumpled and fell out of the sky.

My heart sank. I was still a good quarter mile out. Therewas three- and four-foot wind swell bashing me around and now my kite wasuseless. When the kite is still inflated you can lie on one side of it and holdit open to catch the wind so it drags you to the beach with a minimum of effort.I’d used this technique many times when my lines had become tangled or oncewhen my kite ripped. Now it was a big awkward piece of formless ballast. Ilooked at the sun and figured I had an hour before sunset. Resigned to my fate,I started reeling the kite lines in and wrapping them around the steering bar. Abidirectional board is too small to paddle like a surfboard, so I took one ofthe safety straps and connected one end to the board and the other end to thekite, making a train of equipment. The board was still attached to me by itsleash.

In the time that it took to organize all the gear, I’d beenpushed another eighth of a mile down the coast. I looked at the people on thebeach. There were a couple of pangas (fiberglassoutboard motor boats) there too and I wondered if the fishermen were among the crowdand aware that I was out there hoping to be rescued. I pushed that thought outof my head. “You got yourself into this, you have to get yourself out of it.”

The impact vest I was wearing gave me a little addedbuoyancy, but the helmet and harness impaired my ability to swim. But the worstthing was the drag the kite produced. The wind swell pulled on it and in turnit pulled on me. I started to wonder if I was making any headway at all. I didthe front crawl, then the breast stroke, interchanging between the two whiletrying to avoid sucking any water in as the waves rolled over me.

I swam with my eyes closed at first and then when I startedto drift off course made the mistake of opening them underwater. Looking downinto the bottomless blue depths spooked me. I tried not to think about whatmight be hanging out down there.

The drag of the kite kept working against me. Just as myfrustration threatened to unhinge me, it occurred to me that in my fervor toget to the beach where all the people were, I was swimming into the wind swell, and spending a lot of energy working againstit. If I turned ninety degrees, I’d get to the beach a lot faster and not haveto deal with the drag of the kite nearly as much. I cursed myself for notfiguring it out sooner.

When I turned and oriented myself in the other direction, Icaught a flash of white in the water beneath me. I sucked in my breath, mystomach clenched and my heart raced. “Great White,” flashed across my mind. Ireminded myself that white sharks are actually grey on top and I was just beingparanoid. I thought how sharks are hungry at sunset. I was getting spooked.

That’s when the cavalry, I mean firefighter arrived. Out ofnowhere Andy, a firefighter from Washington, appeared, paddling his white longboard.It occurred to me that the flash of white I’d just seen must have been areflection of his board. “Andy!” I yelled over the howling wind, “You have no idea how happyI am to see you.”

It turned out that Andy and his wife Lisa, who were stayingin our guest house, watched much of my session through binoculars. They saw howfar down the coast I’d gone and kindly drove their rental car down to pick meup. They’d witnessed the kite crash and my struggle to swim to shore. That’swhen Andy decided to paddle out to see if I was okay and would signal Lisa if Ineeded a panga to come pick me up.

“So how are you doing?” he asked.

“Mostly, I was gettinglonely,” I said. And then added, “I got a little spooked. It’s nice to havecompany out here.”

Rather than signal the panga,we attached the kite to Andy’s longboard. Released from its drag and going withthe wind swell, I finally could make good progress.

The sun was just ducking behind the western hills andturning the sky to shades of coral and pink as I hauled my waterlogged body outof the water. I expressed my gratitude to Andy and Lisa for being there and forbringing the car that was waiting a short walk down the beach to take me home.As I trudged down the beach, waterlogged kite heavy under my arm, I made anothernote in my mental kitesurfing instruction book: Issue prayers of thanks only on successful return to dry land.

Stood Up

2011-06-14T10:03:00.002-06:00

The first tropical storm of theseason has come and gone. Hurricane Adrian rallied southwest of Acapulco tobecome a Category 4 hurricane in what seemed like record time. I watched thesatellite imagery as she metamorphosed from a loose gathering of fluffy,innocuous-looking clouds into a perfectly round, spinning mass of moisture witha foreboding, nuclear Cyclops eye.

Surfers all over the west coast ofMexico rubbed their hands together in anticipation of the swell that Adrian wasgenerating. Her proximity meant it would arrive quickly. Prayers were said thatshe would not send winds with the waves and remain peaceably out at sea. Ilooked at the surf report for the East Cape and felt excitement rising in mychest - it looked like I’d be traveling from Maui to Baja before her biggestwaves arrived. They were predicting waves as big as 18 feet and the swell to last a good week.After six weeks of tiny wind swell on Maui, I was ready for some clean overheadwaves.

I left Maui on Thursday, arrived inLos Cabos on Friday to happy dogs and news that a copper pipe had broken loseand we’d been losing water for over 24 hours. I pointed to the shut off valveand asked Felipe why he hadn’t turned it off. He responded with what we call“the thousand-mile stare.”

I looked yearningly at 10 footwaves breaking in front of the house, frowned and began trying to contact aplumber using our limited communications – Skype and email. I managed to gethold of Carlos, a hard-working stocky man who regularly works for one of myneighbors. When he said he would come on Sunday, I considered not having waterfor the next 36 odd hours and begged him to come sooner. “I’ll make it worthyour while,” I told him. He agreed to come the next day.

Saturday the swell was even bigger,but a light wind had joined it. I tried not to notice the trucks withsurfboards piled high on top driving by the house to a special spot that onlybreaks on a hurricane swell. My heart ached like I was pining for mylover. I returned to my otherpressing task - getting the guest house ready for a couple who were arriving fromWashington that day. By eleven o’clock I had the interior done and a South windwas lashing the water and waves into a mess of white caps and mushburgers. Itcooled my skin and my longing as I slaved away.

Carlos turned up right on time andquickly had the leak fixed and a huge amount of air purged from the pump andlines (it’s a long way from the house to the cistern on top of the hill). Thenhe and his wife Irma helped me clean the house and carry the patio furniturefrom the garage. By the time we were done sweeping, mopping, and washingwindows I was exhausted. It was 7:00PM. Carlos and Irma left with smiles ontheir faces and a wad of cash in their pockets. As they pulled out of thedriveway, I waved and then watched as two trucks drove back past the housereturning from the secret hurricane swell-catching spot. Tomorrow, first thing, I thought.

The next morning I woke up excited,ready to hop on my ATV and go play with the waves. As I lay there rubbing the sleep out ofmy eyes Inoticed something was amiss - it was quiet. Too quiet. Must be between sets. I sat up in bed to survey the scene in front of the house. I watched and waited, but the only waves tocome through were miniscule by hurricane swell standards. I hauled myself outof bed and went to the computer. There it was, NOAA had posted her obituary - Friday nightHurricane Adrian fizzled into a remnant low, disappearing off the radar as fastas she appeared. And the bitch took the waves with her when she left.

Gil Scott-Heron & Me

2011-06-05T02:54:00.014-06:00

Gil Scott-Heron died May 27th at the much too tender age of 62. Though he was referred to often as the "Godfather of Rap," he rejected that and the many other labels flung his way. He wasn't fond of labels, nor of being pigeon-holed into a specific musical genre. He argued that he had been influenced by those who came before him and in turn influenced those who followed. Semantics and humility aside, he touched a whole generation of musicians and altered the course of musical history. He was a key figure in the evolution of Hip Hop, Neo Soul, Acid Jazz and Rap. Those who are familiar with him know him as a poet and musician, but many are unaware that he was also an author who published the first of two novels at the age of nineteen!

I first heard The Revolution Will Not Be Televised in 1987. I was in first year university, surrounded by my boyfriend’s black beret, combat boot-wearing friends from the Fine Art Department. They were my source for cool music: Coltrane, Davis, Holiday, Monk, Zappa, Tom Waits and Scott-Heron.

I was delighted by his lyrics. He was a master of irony, humor and poetically relating the shocking realities of American inner city life, a life I knew little about then and know only slightly more about now. I was a White Anglo-Saxon Protestant Canadian woman living as far from the ghettos of America as one could metaphorically get, but he still spoke to me. He spoke to people of all colors, socio-economic status and geography because so many of his lyrics are full of Truth, universal truths that are applicable to anyone, living anywhere, in anytime.

He believed in Peace, the brotherhood of man and respect.

I met Gil Scott-Heron once.

I’d been working in the forests of northwestern Connecticut, living over the garage of one of those established white American families that has managed through a combination of good luck and good management to do very well. When the snows started to fall, making field work impossible, I returned to the science institute in Millbrook, New York just in time to join a couple of fellow research assistants to see Gil Scott-Heron live at nearby Bearsville Theater in Woodstock, NY. We were all under 25, white and mutually surprised to learn of the others’ familiarity with the musician.

The theater in Woodstock was tiny then. I have no idea what it’s like now. Constructed of milled wood timbers, the interior had walls of heavily varnished yellow wood that gave it the look and feel of a large lakefront lodge. The front, near the entrance, consisted of a long narrow lobby backed by an equally long, modern bar. Behind the bar was a line of windows beyond which rows of brown seats fell away to the stage below. It couldn’t have held more than 250 people. We took our seats on the far left side near the top and still had a perfect view of the stage below.

Scott-Heron sat at the front of the stage behind his electric keyboard, grey pork-pie hat covering his graying curly hair, face thin and ragged, punctuated by his large, deep eyes, the lower half of his face covered in a scraggly black and grey beard. He started the show solo, just he and the keyboard, and his voice. His voice as always captivated me. It’s a voice that reaches in and grabs you by the heart, pulls you in. Hebegan with characteristic humor, “Recently, I don'tremember when, someone, though I don't remember who, asked me to go on a tour,but I can't remember where. This evening I’ll be joined on stage by somefantastic musicians who call themselves the Amnesia Express, but to tell youthe truth I don't remember why.”

At intermission, I found myself in front of the bar, alone, when I heard a male voice beside me ask a couple of women what they thought of the show so far. I looked over my right shoulder to see a tall, handsome black man whom I recognized from onstage – it was the bassist from Amnesia Express. He smiled as he listened to them singing the band’s praises. In the pause that followed, I spoke up (I am embarrassed now to think of my audacity) to give him honest feedback, “I thought you might want to know, we can barely hear the piano. You might want to get the sound man to check the levels.”

He turned to me with surprise and said, “You must be a musician.”

Next thing I knew I was following him downstairs, through a long narrow hallway, harshly lit with florescent lights, past a line of people, all waiting to meet Scott-Heron. They protested as we walked past, but the bouncers did nothing and we passed through a doorway. It was the backup band’s dressing room and the three other members sat spread out among a mess of clothing and equipment, sipping water, smoking cigarettes. I was introduced to the pianist, a lovely black woman with her hair loosely tied into a bun on the top of her head, wearing flowing black and rust-colored robes. She regarded me somewhat suspiciously, but politely offered me her hand. The bassist asked me what I wanted to drink and disappeared. The pianist and I chatted and she introduced me to the rest of the band. Next thing the bassist was pushing a gin and tonic in my hand, with an explanation, “I made it a double,” and was leading me back out into the hall. I followed him to the next door over where a large man stood partially blocking the door, his arms crossed over his expansive chest. He nodded his approval as we approached and stepped to one side. I felt like I was on some kind of magic carpet ride.

The bassist held the door for me. The room was stark, white concrete walls with bright white tile on the floor and more fluorescent lights overhead. If there was any furniture, I don’t remember it. Seated on the floor, his back against the wall with his long legs sticking straight out was Gil Scott-Heron. He was hauling on a cigarette listening to a teenaged, blond kid reading bad poetry from wrinkled sheets of lined paper pulled from a spiral-bound notebook. Did I say it was bad? Correction, it was really bad, even to my untrained ear. I winced as I listened, looking from the young man to Gil Scott-Heron, wondering when he would holler, “Uncle!” Instead, he listened attentively and offered encouragement to the wannabe artist. The young man left smiling, thanking him profusely. I could imagine how his experience would be replayed over in his mind and retold in the days to come.

And then we were introduced. “Gil this is Dawn. She’s got a good ear. Told me about a problem with the sound.” Gil smiled and shook my extended hand, said with that mellow baritone voice, “Nice to meet you.” I was speechless. He turned and asked the bassist, “What’s goin’ on with the sound?” I looked around to see two other men standing to one side of the him like guardians. After they got the sound discussion cleared up, Gil asked one of them a question in a low voice that I couldn’t hear. The man pulled something out of the large pockets of his over sized pants and started to roll a joint. There should be another name for joints of this type. It was bigger than any I’d ever seen. Gil turned to me and asked, “Will you join us?” I nodded my assent.

It was powerful shit and, in combination with the double gin and tonic, after a couple of hits my head soon started to buzz. The men laughed appreciatively, seeing I was getting high. Gil just stayed quiet, observing, taking a long toke now and then. I have no idea how long I sat there, but soon Gil stood up, took my hand and said he hoped I’d enjoy the second half of the show. Somehow I managed to get up off the floor and followed everyone out of the dressing room. I watched as they filed onto the stage, turned and realized I was alone with the bassist there in that long hallway. He put his hand on the wall above my head, leaned in and kissed me (a kiss I will never forget) and made me promise to join them after the show. He kissed me again and then one of the other band members yelled from the stage, “hurry the fuck up and get on stage!”

He smiled at me, then took my hand and led me to the wings where he said I could stay and watch. I stood there for a long time, so stoned it felt like my feet grew roots through the wooden floor. My body buzzed with the kiss and his proposition, the reverberation of the music floating across the stage enveloping me in some kind of erotic embrace.

Somehow I wound my way back to my seat where I watched the rest of the concert as though under a spell. The music now had palpable texture and the bassist seemed to play with four hands. Each stroke of the strings he was stroking me, the energy rising to an ecstasy I wondered if I could contain.

Then the concert was finishing, the band was bowing its goodbye. And suddenly I was overcome by wave of paranoia.

I grabbed my cohorts and ran for the exit. “Come on, let’s go, let’s go!” I begged them. They looked at me like I was losing my mind, “What’s the hurry? What’s going on? Where did you disappear to for so long?” All I could think was, I can’t sleep with a musician. I gotta get outta here before he convinces me otherwise! What I said was, “I’ll tell you when we get in the car, but for now, just do me a favor and let’s go. Please!”

Not much of a story I suppose, and addled by my fucked up state, but something that sticks with me nevertheless. I might not remember the bassist’s name, but Scott-Heron’s humility and compassion left an indelible impression. There was no “star” in that room, just a man. His humility is apparent in responses he's given in interviews and in notes that accompany several albums. There is an echo of artistic genius in the liner notes from his 1993 album Spirits in which he describes where his inspiration came from:

In truth, I call what I have been granted ‘gifts.’ I would like to personally claim to be the source of the material and ideas that have come through me, but that is just the point. Many of the shapes of sound and concepts have come upon me from no place I can trace, notes and chords I’d never learned, thoughts and pictures I’d never seen – and all as clear as a sky untouched by cloud or smog or smoke or haze. Suddenly. Magically. As though transferred to me without effort.

I met Gil Scott-Heron in 1991. He was the same age then as I am now. Even then he looked ancient, weathered, abused. It seems a miracle he managed to live another twenty years. Perhaps more miraculous is that he released another album in 2010, sixteen years after his last. His voice, noticeably affected by age and illness, is still unmistakable and full of soul. The lyrics contain much of the power of earlier work, but something's different. The hope is missing and many songs examine themes of death and dying. Words from the song “Me and the Devil” are eerily prophetic:

You may bury my body

Down by the highway side

So my old evil spirit

Can greyhound

Bus that ride

God's speed Gil Scott-Heron...takethat Greyhound express.

******************************

GSH video full of his beauty

Other clips of GSH doing his thing:

Angel Dust

Johannesburg

Premonition

2011-05-15T19:38:00.001-06:00

My local break going off thanks to 2005's Tropical Storm Eugene.

Today is the first day of the Eastern North Pacific Hurricane Season. If that sounds ominous, that’s because it is. The experts at the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration (NOAA) are predicting that this region will have 14 tropical storms, eight hurricanes and four major hurricanes between today and the 30^th of November. Each day between now and then I will receive an email from NOAA's National Weather Service entitled Eastern Pacific Tropical Weather Outlook. Most of these emails will be the same. They will read:

FOR THE EASTERN NORTH PACIFIC...EAST OF 140 DEGREES WEST LONGITUDE...

TROPICAL CYCLONE FORMATION IS NOT EXPECTED DURING THE NEXT 48 HOURS.

But as we approach the end of August, there will be an increasing frequency of warnings that describe the potential in terms of percentages for “areas of disturbance” to develop into a tropical storm. As ocean temperatures between the Tropic of Cancer and the Equator increase, so do the number of storms. Historically, most major storms have hit the Baja Peninsula in the first half of September. Right when it’s hotter than Hades on the East Cape, and therefore when I’d prefer not to be there. But someone’s got to take care of the dogs and Felipe, mop up any rain that is blown under doors, report damage to people less stupid and safely tucked in homes located somewhere North of the danger.

I regard this hurricane season with a sense of foreboding. Not only did we not have any storms last year, which the law of averages dictates has upped the chances of at least one storm hitting us this year, but as I scanned down the list of names for this year’s storms, a sense of intuitive premonition descended upon me as I noted that 14 out of 24 of the names on the list are those of people I know. Many of them are not ordinary names and owing to my decade of living in isolation, I probably know a lot less people than the average Jova. I might not know any Xinahs or Zeldas, but I do know, in more than just a passing fashion, people with the names starting with the letters A, C, D, E, G, H, I, K though R, T, V and W. That sends my intuition a flutter. I think it’s time to buy hurricane insurance.

Here is the list of names storms will be given in 2011:

NAME PRONUNCIATION
---------------------------------------------------------------
ADRIAN AY- DREE UHN

BEATRIZ BEE- A TRIZ

CALVIN KAL- VIN

DORA DOR- RUH
EUGENE YOU- JEEN

FERNANDA FER NAN- DAH
GREG GREG

HILARY HIH- LUH REE

IRWIN UR- WIN
JOVA HO- VAH

KENNETH KEH- NETH

LIDIA LIH- DYAH

MAX                              MAKS
NORMA                           NOOR- MUH
OTIS                                OH- TIS
PILAR                                PEE LAHR-
RAMON                           RAH MOHN-

SELMA SELL- MAH

TODD TAHD

VERONICA VUR RAHN- IH KUH

WILEY WY- LEE
XINA ZEE- NAH

YORK YORK

ZELDA ZEL- DAH

Looking on the bright side I remind myself that tropical storms and hurricanes produce waves. The bigger, more powerful the storm, the bigger and more exciting the waves. If luck is on our side, the edge of a storm stays out at sea and far enough away to keep local ocean surface conditions smooth and clean, sending only the swell that surfers love to ride. When this happens the East coast of Baja wakes up with a start. Waves appear where 99% of the time there are none. Bays nicknamed Babybeach for their calm waters most of the year turn into a maelstrom of kinetic energy where water rears up, crashing with forces that erode rocks and beaches moving vast quantities of sand and occasionally send hale and hearty surfers to the beach exhausted, sometimes beaten, with leashes and boards broken. Currents develop along the shoreline that are so strong only the experienced and the lucky manage to get out to the take-off spot without being washed hundreds of yards down the coast. It’s always exciting. And sometimes scary. Just like the storms themselves.

Fish Magic

2011-04-29T08:48:00.009-06:00

A couple of days ago I had dinner on the beach with my father and a great friend, a Dutch conceptual photographic artist who is partially responsible for getting me off my proverbial ass and writing. It was an absolutely lovely evening. The sun set gradually changing the sky from blue to pink and then lavender as we chatted and laughed. The wind gradually died and the wood burned perfectly to create the embers we needed to cook our meal…and in the end we got to eat a bit of magic.

Yesterday, after a long hiatus from fishing due to a broken collar bone, Felipe our caretaker, caught three fish. My dad and I were duly impressed that he hadn’t lost his touch with the fishing line. A friend of mine, Rob, who has a reputation for being a successful fisherman, has been heard to say that it’s all about numbers. “You catch one fish for every thousand casts.” Felipe’s odds are more like three to ten. He’s a ringer. And unlike the guys who drive down from Colorado, California and Portland, he uses nothing but a hand line.

Most of the local Mexicans use hand lines to fish. It is literally just fishing line, a weight and a hook with some bait, and in Felipe’s case he keeps the line organized and under control by wrapping it around a 4”x3” piece of wood. The weight is often makeshift, a stainless steel nut or other piece of heavy metal. Casting is a technique that takes some skill. He swings the line in a circle over his head as if it were a lariat and then throws it into the surf. The casting is critically timed with the surf action, so that the out-flowing water takes the line into deeper water rather than pushing it back to shore.

The fish Felipe caught yesterday were all what he calls pescado blanco (white fish). These are what other Mexican's call "lisa" or white mullet. When I asked him what he did with them, he said he cooked one for the dogs that morning and that he’d eat one later that day. I asked him if he thought he might be able to catch a guatchinango (red snapper, my favorite fish) for me to share with my father. He looked at me confidently and said he would catch one the following day. He said he’d seen some in the waves that morning. I was a bit taken aback by his proclamation and didn't put much faith in it.

So the next morning when I got up I saw him a ways down the beach, three of the dogs lying in the sand nearby as he fished. It was comforting to see him back in his usual position casting out into the surf. True to his word, a couple hours later he came knocking at the door to tell me he caught us a guatchinango and that if I came up to his house to get it in a few minutes, he would clean and scale it for me. When he handed it to me, I noticed it was the perfect size for three people to share. My dad and I had a dinner date that evening with my friend the artist.

If you know anything about fishing, you know that this was a virtual miracle. I felt a bit like I was Captain Picard of the Star Ship Enterprise and issued my command to Felipe, “Make it so.” My artist friend said it speaks to my ability to dictate my desires to the Universe, but I think it says more about Felipe’s ability as a fisherman.

The local ranchers have often commented to me about his ability to catch fish as though he has some kind of gift. “Felipe is a good fisherman. He always catches fish even when others come home still hungry.” I never put much stock in what they said and figured it had more to do with how often he fished than the results. They are ranchers after all and I guessed would be prone to making assumptions about his abilities. How could they know how good a fisher he was? I also imagined Felipe would, in his manner, smile shyly and not correct them when they said, “So Felipe you must be quite the fisherman?” What I didn’t realize was that their knowledge came first hand.

Yesterday, Felipe came to the house and told me he was going to walk the three miles to his friend's ranch. When I asked “What for?” he said he was taking the extra fish he caught that day to the rancher and his family. When I offered to drive him, in characteristic humility he suggested I deliver the fish myself. At the ranch, Señora Luisa told me he often gives them his catch. I conducted a little more investigation. It turns out Felipe gives a great deal of the fish he catches away. To families who live in ramshackle houses with dirt floors, no electricity, no plumbing and often not much in the way of food. Families who define “dirt poor.” They are right – he does have a gift.

.

Working Out

2011-04-23T17:16:00.006-06:00

There’s been a transformation and it’s got everything to do with my writing. For the first time in a long time, I’m excited about my writing. First and foremost I have the Stanford Online Creative Nonfiction Writing class to thank for this. It has kicked me in the butt and made me write write write! While it may be a tad trite, it is true that, “Writers write.” Yes, well, this writer hasn’t been doing enough of that, and this course has done wonders to turn that around.

Firstly, we had to commit to writing for five minutes first thing every morning. I’ve said it here before and I’ll say it again, I’m not much into the discipline scene. But I decided to commit. It doesn’t matter that my decision to commit was probably born of some deep seated need for approval, the need I’ve always had to kiss the teacher’s ass. What matters is the results, right?

The course structure and content have also given me the direction I needed to get over the huge speed bump that had grown up in front of me because I felt lost, not knowing how to get to the next step, how to keep moving forward, get more words on the page. The instruction I’ve received on how to conduct research (What’s that? You say? Research? It’s a memoir isn’t it?) has been instrumental in getting me moving, making progress, driving me on to find the next detail that I’d all but forgotten about.

And like all good little Type A, codependent personalities, the encouragement I’ve received from our instructor and fellow students hasn’t hurt either.

Low and behold, I’ve discovered that if I make myself sit down and write for five minutes first thing in the morning that I am still there several hours and many hundreds of words later. I know, what did I expect? But seriously I’m sitting here in wonder as I realize that I’ve written over 15,000 words in the past 13 days. [In the name of honesty, technically it’s not first, first thing. Writing happens after I pee, brush my teeth, wash my face, put on the obligatory facial sunscreen, get dressed, let the dogs out, give them pats and a get my huge mug of tea. I don’t think I’m splitting hairs here, am I?]

Some days I really do only write for five to ten minutes and then I get up and go do something that I would normally fill my morning with, like yoga or more often than not surfing. Strangely enough, I think that while following this regimen, I’ve actually surfed more in the past two weeks than I have over similar periods for the past two years. And yet, I’ve managed to write so much! The only thing that is probably suffering is my yoga (and by extension, my lower back).

Before I started the course, I wrote here about following Andrea Mauer’s advice and kept a time journal for about ten days. As soon as I started it, I saw how much time I wasted messing about on the internet, reading emails, checking Facebook updates, randomly conducting searches on anything that popped into my mind. I spent a ridiculous amount of time recording my caloric intake on the Livestrong.com website (it’s still a great web site, I just don’t have time to be going on there three or more times a day to try to find the ingredients to everything I eat). She helped me recognize how much time I was wasting and the writing course has made me prioritize. I guess I needed the combination punch to wake the #$@% up!

So, finally I feel like I’m over the hump. I’m 118 pages and 56216 words into my goal of having a first draft of my memoir written and it no longer feels like a weight attached to my backside and dragging along in the sand behind me. I’m excited about it, can’t wait to read the next journal entry or email that will prompt my memory so I can write the next section. I’m planning interviews to get others perspectives, reading the research and articles that first grabbed my attention and made me want to do the work. I’m finding where my outline is confused and confusing and have started to repair it. And I even think I feel the right side of my brain growing, blossoming, generating more neurons and synapses as I sit here plugging away at my computer. Someone once said, “The brain is a muscle. You’ve got to exercise it.” It might not be the cerebral equivalent of Arnold Schwarzenegger, but my brain's been bench-pressing 1000 words daily.

Book Review: Table for Six

2011-04-09T14:20:00.004-06:00

I hate to start a book review with a caveat, but here goes.

Caveat: I know Katrina Anne Willis, the author of this book. I met her a year ago at the San Francisco Writer’s Conference when I was pulled in by her unguarded smile and then blown away by her quick wit and the graphic booklet she carried with her that contained a synopsis of the book she was promoting. That book, Table for Six, is the subject of this review. Less than a year after the conference ended and we went our separate ways, Katrina and I remain internet writing pals and she is now a published author. What an inspiration she continues to be!

To the best of my ability and with all sincerity, this review is not colored by the fact that I know the author. I believe it to be objective. The only thing altered by that fact is that I read the book at all. As many of you know, I am not a parent, nor a grandparent. I may have nieces, nephews and most recently a grandnephew, but I see them rarely and they always cried and squirmed in my arms when I held them when they were babies, like they sensed that I lack any parenting genes and might just let them drop to the floor if something more interesting grabbed my attention (which could be pretty much anything). The closest thing I have to kids are six dogs and one Mexican caretaker, who come to think of it often behaves like a spoiled 10 year old. So when Katrina told me about her book, I thought it probably wouldn't be my cup of tea. I became anxious at the thought of having to give her honest feedback and possibly a public review. I thought, “What if I really don’t like it? Oh God, I probably won’t like it because it’s about kids and traditional family life. When have I given a shit about that?” I thought this book would only appeal to those who could nod their heads in agreement arrived at from direct common experience. Well I was wrong. And that is because...

Katrina Willis is one hell of a writer, (just occurred to me her kids might read this)...er, I mean, one heck of a writer. Anyone who can make me laugh out loud at the end of a long day when I am half asleep deserves the kudos and every five star review she's been given on Amazon.com. I laughed or guffawed at least a dozen times while reading it. She is not only funny, but irreverent (parents, this deserves at least a PG rating for language and a smattering of sexual content along with a dash of innuendo) and a keen observer of the human condition. She knows how to weave an engaging story from the strands that are the day to day experiences of an OCD-conquering mother of four quirky and unique little people. By the end of the book, I'd fallen in love with her entire brood and her witty, patient, loud-talking husband. Her writing was so clear and emotive that I feel like I know them all, intimately, maybe a little too intimately (the words vomit, diarrhea, and, my personal favorite, dick tick appear more than once among the pages, you decide). She made me want to invite her over for coffee or a glass of her favorite Cabernet.

I am reticent to say anything negative about this book, but in all fairness, if it has any failings at all, it is that at first, I was a bit jarred by the manner in which the stories were pulled together, blog-like, and their not-quite-chronological order. In her defense however, Ms. Willis does warn us about this in her Prologue. A few sections into the book, I quickly got into the rhythm, relaxed and let her take me along on a ride that rivals Mr. Toad's.

So read it. The world needs more laughter (and irreverence).

Wandering stranger

2011-04-03T12:19:00.000-06:00

Wandering stranger

than fiction

thru this small
Canadian town

Wondering

Withering

Wavering fiction

poised on my tongue

Ready for the next line

that never comes.

Potty Training

2011-03-29T13:13:00.002-06:00

Shit or get off the pot.

I'm pretty sure I was all of three the first time I heard these timeless words fly off the tongue of my mother's friend Shirley. She's always had a way with words. Now that she's retired, you're more likely to hear Shirl-ol-girl holler "The door is not an asshole, it doesn't close by itself" after one of the army of children running wild through her house.

But shit or get off the pot I must.

If you've known me for any length of time then you know that I am not the best manager of time. In fact, there are some of you who have learned to knock fifteen minutes off the real time an event starts if you want me to arrive on time. My sweetheart has learned that brow beating me has an almost negligible effect and that he’s better off just going and sitting in the car, because I will show up, eventually. He is fond of saying, when I start to twitch in the seat next to him when he takes off at the pace of a snail on ludes, “You cannot invent time dear. We will get there when we get there.” He has great distaste for rushing and refuses to do so. Has that changed my ability to get in the car with enough time to get where we need to be? Not at all.

To add insult to injury, I’m also a virtual award winning procrastinator. If there is something else that can be done when I should be writing, I’ll do it. And let’s face it, there are a lot of things I can do instead of writing. In fact, as I whined about my inability to make time for writing, my sweetheart pointed out for the umpteenth time today that I have an embarrassment of choices.

He said, “Imagine a huge parking lot and put all the people of the world in it. I’m willing to bet every single one of them would kill to be in your position.”

And he’s right, Goddamn it, he’s right.

Every day upon rising I have a multitude of choices of what I will do that day. Every single day, almost without exception. I get to decide if I’ll go surfing, do yoga, sit and sip tea while I pet the dogs, meditate, walk the dogs on the beach, go kitesurfing, sweep the floors, go visit friends, go to town (that one’s almost never the choice), lay in the sun and read, sit on the couch and read, watch a movie, work in the garden, bake or plan a nice dinner, partake of Facebook or email a friend. And it kind of makes my head hurt when I realize there are other choices beyond those that I don’t usually even think of.

Don’t get me wrong, I do have responsibilities, things I must do, but in the grand scheme of things they pale in the face of the nine-to-five-plus-kids life that most people live. And I never have to do anything. The most pressing thing on my plate right now is to call the fumigator because we have a termite infestation in the kitchen cupboard that is getting out of hand. But honestly, it’s been getting out of hand for months. I’ve been able to ignore it until now. So ya, time, I got more time than a Swiss watch maker.

Given all these choices, I’m having a little trouble getting after it as far as writing my book goes or publishing on this blog for that matter. I just realized that “work on my book” did not even make the list of choices I penned above. That was unintentional and probably not the greatest indication of how high on my list of priorities writing usually is. Well, that’s going to change.

I here do declare and solemnly swear that I have committed to doing two things in order to make writing a higher priority in my life.

1) Andrea Maurer’s 90-Day Power Play
Andrea is an aspiring life coach and a talented writer among other things. She recently took the bull by the horns in her own pursuit of self-fulfillment and is offering a 90-day coaching program to give 10 people the skills to realize their goals. Due to factors outside my control, I am not one of the official “10,” however I am reading along as time permits and doing the exercises she recommends (for the most part).

Recognizing that everyone, even ridiculously lucky people with tons of time and choices, has trouble with time management, Andrea has recommended that we keep a time journal. That we record minute by minute how we spend (or waste away) our valuable time. I started mine mid-day yesterday and it’s already ringing some bells for me. The detailed results following a full week of journaling will be reported in an upcoming blog. I may even turn it into an excel file and run some statistics on it (except that might take too much of my oh so valuable TIME).

2) ECL 134 W
In a fit of “I’ve-got-to-do-something-to-get-off-my-ass-and-start-writing-regularly” that occurred some time in February, I signed up for Creative Non-Fiction: A Plan for Success, a Stanford University online course that starts this coming Monday. The great thing about this course? I will be working on my WIP as part of the course work. And it says right in the course description, “this course is designed to…establish writing habits that will sustain us to completion.” You’re singing my tune baby!

I’m committed. Well, almost 100% (the drop deadline for the course is April 7) and the next 10 weeks are gonna see a lot more writing action from this aspiring author.

I think a few questions I have are going to be answered during this period. Can I do it and still have it all? (By "all" I mean write AND do yoga, surf, kite surf somewhat regularly, keep the house respectably clean, the dogs walked and fed, myself bathed and fed something other than microwavable popcorn.) Can I maintain balance, contentment and my sanity in the face of the demands of being a writer? Am I committed enough to being a writer to make the necessary choices?

Time will tell.

Transporter Malfunction

2011-01-25T14:58:00.006-07:00

In writing there are rules you live by and rules to die by.

Write every day is a rule to live by. Put Read every day right up at the top along with it. Drink every day, some would argue helps prime the creative juices, but was also a rule to die by in the cases of Jack Kerouac and Dylan Thomas.

And then there are those pesky take-it-or-leave-it rules. Some swear by them while others take a different view. Some believe that before you begin the actual writing you must first create an outline, along the line that you need a completed skeleton before you can begin to add any flesh. As described in my last post, Henry Miller was an obsessive outliner and scheduler, programming his days and his projects with equal specificity and vigor. From his talk at the San Francisco Writer’s Conference, I’ve come to learn that Alan Rinzler, a developmental editor who has worked with many literary marvels the likes of Hunter S. Thompson and Tom Robbins, is another stalwart believer in the outlining process.

Based on these and other die-hard outliners, as well as the difficulty I was having getting my WIP off the ground, I am working from an outline. At first I was thrilled with unforeseen benefits gleaned from the outlining process. I found once I began to draft it, many questions and unknowns became known – themes, key scenes and where the story should start came into clearer focus. Once the bones were there, I took the process one step further by creating, under each of the primary outline headings, a series of bulleted main events that act as both memory and creative prompts for the construction of the body of each section. My outline completed, I was excited and raring to start adding the flesh to each of the sections.

Lately though, I look at this growing document and I find myself getting overwhelmed. It doesn’t help that so far I’ve filled in bits as they come to me, going back and forth throughout the chronology adding things here and there, hither and yon, highlighting sections that need more detail or notes to myself where I know something isn’t quite right or is only partially complete. The result is a work in progress that is taking on the distinctive appearance of a many-headed Hydra, which I am beginning to feel powerless to subdue.

So my question is this: Can you outline yourself into a corner? Can an outline become a noose that strangles your story, your creativity, and a gargantuan speed bump on the road to a completed first draft? Could it actually be counterproductive and bridle your creativity by preventing you from making discoveries about your story that you otherwise would not? Do you write chronologically, chapter by chapter, paragraph by paragraph in a linear fashion that keeps your story moving along in a controllable fashion, so that each morning you know where it is that you’ve been and where you need to go today?

I, on the other hand, need Google map to find my way. Frankly, when I open my WIP, I often feel like it’s a Star Wars character that’s just been beamed up to the Starship Enterprise and instead of coalescing back into a discernible form, I’m looking at the result of all those little swirling molecules falling to the ground like so many pieces of broken glass.

*******************************

Ah Star Trek, I remember the days when I used to come home from a night class, grab a beer and a bag of Doritos and absorb your incredible display with the rapt attention of a child on Ritalin. I was skunked trying to find video portraying a good old transporter malfunction, so instead, here is one of the "best" bits of acting by William Shatner, ever.

More Gold from Henry

2010-12-03T13:06:00.000-07:00

I apologize for not being more constant in my blogging. If you know me, then you know that discipline is not my strong suit (unless we’re talking about eating healthily). Life has been full yes, with guests and travelling between Mexico and Maui, but a disciplined person would have managed, would have written none-the-less. Not me. I’m going to change that though, somehow.

Henry Miller is the inspiration that always gets me back to the machine, without fail. His voice comes through loud and clear, unadulterated, matter-of-fact. He reminds me that we all have a voice and, with work, can find it too. But more than that, he often writes about the difficulties of writing and how to overcome them. He came to writing late in life (thirty-three), so had to develop his talent through nothing less than hard work and discipline.

I think though, that what I find most inspiring is that he was a courageous writer who wrote what he wanted and didn’t stop to allow the potential consequences to overwhelm or derail him. He was honest and unforgiving, direct. I think that’s why I love his writing and love him (yes, I do love him because through his word I have come to know him and his heart – anyone who reads his work will know him too). And I am encouraged by his no-holds barred approach to the craft.

In the book Henry Miller on Writing, a compilation of excerpts from his work addressing the craft of writing, we are treated to what he calls his Commandments and Daily Program for writing that he followed somewhat religiously in order to be productive. Finally, we also get to see an outline and notes for the various projects he was working on at the time (a Major Program presumably related to his WIP; a Minor Program that appears to contain smaller select writing projects, articles and the like; a Painting Program because he was an avid artist and also liked to sketch out themes and ideas related to his WIPs; and an Agenda that contains a list of things “to do” including a reading list, visits to specific art shows and day to day stuff like “Varnish water colors or use banana oil and get framed for A.”

It is the Commandments and Daily Program that bear rich fruit for this would-be writer and I hope you’ll find them interesting and applicable to your work in some way too. All italics and notes are HM's unless otherwise indicated.

COMMANDMENTS

1.   Work on one thing at a time until finished.
2.   Start no more new books, add no more new material to “Black Spring.” (his work in progress)
3.   Don’t be nervous. Work calmly, joyously, recklessly on whatever is in hand.
4.   Work according to Program and not according to mood. Stop at the appointed time!
5.   When you can’t create you can work.
6.   Cement a little every day, rather than add new fertilizers.
7.   Keep human! See people, go places, drink if you feel like it.
8.   Don’t be a draught-horse! Work with pleasure only.
9.   Discard the Program when you feel like it – but go back to it next day. Concentrate. Narrow down. Exclude.
10.   Forget the books you want to write. Think only of the book you are writing.
11.   Write first and always. Painting, music, friends, cinema, all these come afterwards.

DAILY PROGRAM

Mornings:
If groggy, type notes and allocate, as stimulus.*
If in fine fettle, write.
Afternoons:
Work on section in hand, following plan of section scrupulously. No intrusions, no diversions. Write to finish one secrtion at a time, for good and all.
Evenings:
See friends. Read in cafés.
Explore unfamiliar sections – on foot if wet, on bicycle, if dry.
Write, if in mood, but only on Minor Program.
Paint if empty or tired.
Make Notes. Make Charts, Plans. Make correction of MS.
Note: Allow sufficient time during daylight to make an occasional visit to museums or an occasional sketch or an occasional bike ride. Sketch in cafés and trains and streets. Cut the movies! Library for references once a week.

*My note: I have to say I was thrilled to learn that HM also at times feels groggy in the mornings. There is hope for me yet.

So you tell me, what do you do to main discipline and reach your goals?

Seasoned

2010-12-01T18:05:00.004-07:00

After a month on Maui, in mid-November I returned to Mexico where the weather was fine - highs in the mid 80s, lows in the mid-70s - much like the climate I’d just left behind on Maui’s North Shore. A surprise late-season swell had just arrived, treating me and fellow surfers to some fun waves at Nine Palms for the first several days. The sun’s strength became evident from the skin on my face and legs, which alternated day-to-day between hues of seared pink and a gradually deepening roasted brown.

Three days ago, as though it sensed the approaching solstice, the weather changed, shifted, and was altered dramatically as though someone threw a switch. The sun lost the searing intensity felt only two short weeks ago. And in the early hours of the evening, it now plummets out of the sky causing shadows to lengthen like long fingers grasping at something in the landscape. Where previously, shady patches were sought as a respite from the sun’s intensity, now the search is for sunny spots where extremities numbed by encroaching coolness lurking in the shadows can be warmed.

Three nights ago, I was awakened from a sound sleep by an urgent thudding sound. The dog beside me stirred simultaneously. I sensed her concern and felt the stab of fear as I strained with all my senses to discern the source of our shared disturbance. Whump! whump! tha-wamp! babang! A loud banging on one, or was it more?, of the wooden doors was what I heard. In that moment, that throat-clenching pause, with sleep still enveloping my brain, I was certain a horde of plunderers, rapists and henchmen were forcing their way in through the doors. The rush of fear wiped the haze of sleep from my head and, as I shook it, I realized the true source of the turmoil. A fierce wind had risen during the night, just as my kitesurfing neighbor had prophesized, and was hammering away at the door. I relaxed and was overtaken by the ridiculous image of a Samoan warrior beating on the door with a large club of the sort they used to dispatch their Fijian neighbors.

I turned my attention to the sounds coming out the dark. Winds of 40 miles an hour were surely blowing and gusts of even greater force made me question our security (me and my little canine friend). I quickly realized that I’d left several windows open when I retired, when I thought only of the fresh night air making it more pleasant to sleep. Now, realistic or not, I pictured screens ripped open by the force of the gale and gathering myself further, quickly went about securing them. Even with the windows shut, the door continued its whump! whump! tha-wamp! babang! so that as I crawled back into bed and the dog settled on her cushion next to me, I wondered if I’d ever get back to sleep.

The sheets had cooled noticeably while I’d been running around closing things up in the dark and it was then that the realization hit me - summer was over. Even in this area, tucked just below the Tropic of Cancer and therefore technically a part of the Tropics, a crispness had entered the air where previously it was all softness and warm caresses. I shivered in response, in all likelihood a purely psychological reaction, and pulled the heavy yellow, black and red-striped blanket up from the foot of the bed, tucking it under my chin as though in doing so I might keep the pressing seasonal change at bay.

Another twenty days and the cycle will begin again, imperceptibly at first, to reverse itself. The days will get longer and the sun gradually stronger. The sea that cools with the shortening of days will be warmed once again by the approaching sun, energizing summer storms, hurricanes and their offspring the waves.

.

What is Beauty?

2010-10-26T18:52:00.002-06:00

Beauty - six letters, three vowels and three consonants, three syllables when pronounced – a round, fat, even lush “B” followed by a series of vowels, two that pair to create one sound and one that stands independent, punctuated with a “T” near, but not quite at the end…and finally ending in the lovely, particularly when written in cursive, and flowing “y.”

What does the word beauty mean to you? What do you consider beautiful? And do you consider it applicable to you? How do you respond to the question:

Are you the most beautiful person in the world?

Beginning in 2004, the photographic artist Michel Szulc Krzyzanowski posed this question to people around the world. He did so not knowing what to expect, how people would respond or even IF they would respond.

The question was asked in large advertisements placed in serious newspapers in 10 major cities around the world, asking readers who believed this to be the case to respond in writing with their reasons. Every person who responded was visited in their home where photographs where taken portraying how and with whom they were living. Finally, they were asked “Why do you believe you are the most beautiful person in the world?” and their responses were recorded.

Six years and a great deal of effort later, an amazing thing has resulted – a photo book of great spiritual and philosophical import, illustrating cultural and aesthetic differences and similarities among people living in various countries around the globe. But more than that - through his photos and the participants’ answers to the question “Why are you the most beautiful person in the world?” the artist has illuminated and expanded the ideas behind our notion of beauty. He has taken forceps to the concept, taken a closer look at an idea that is often expressed by a single six-letter word, something seemingly so simple and definable, and then, through the result of his investigation, challenges the viewer to examine their own limited ideas surrounding it. The book challenges our preconceived, culturally-imposed notions concerning beauty, while it sheds light on and expands our perception of a concept that, in the western world, has been squeezed down to Kate Moss-esque proportions by marketing and Hollywood-influenced media.

Michel takes us on a physical journey as well: to Africa where beauty is measured by the number of wives or head of cattle one has, the size of one's belly or the skills possessed that put food in the family's mouth; to China, where the beauty of a handicapped child is revealed through his love of song; and to Brazil where it is through her children that a mother sees her intrinsic beauty. And perhaps it is in the responses from people in Iran that, as a westerner, I felt my preconceptions dissolving, turning into something much more fluid.

Ultimately, it is the true measure of a person that Michel brings to light. By sharing this visionary project, he challenges the yardstick we use to measure a person’s worth, by which we judge ourselves and others.

The artist states that throughout the project the central theme of beauty informed and drove the process. Where previously he might have pushed to make something happen, in this case he allowed things to unfold naturally, making it possible for the beauty inherent in the process to shine through and drive it, even when things were looking bleak.

The beauty of the project shines so bright that the artist has decided that most copies of the book will be given away for free. A limited number of “luxury” editions are being produced for those who wish to support the project financially – the result being that the audience may directly participate in the project and, through a beautiful act, make it possible for someone to obtain the book who, under normal circumstances, might not have the resources necessary to.

And what about you? Are you the most beautiful person in the world? Tell us why.

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Learn more about the project The Most Beautiful People in the World

Order your very own copy of this extraordinary book.

Georgette the Water Bearer

2010-09-27T16:47:00.000-06:00

So after heatstroke, what should appear on the horizon, but a tropical storm - dubbed Tropical Storm Georgette by the good people at the National Oceanographic and Atmospheric Administration. She blew up right off the southern tip of the Baja Peninsula, so there was not much time between “All is Clear” and “Oh Shit! Watch out below!” (and yes, I believe “shit” should be capitalized in this case). We didn’t even have time to put the hurricane panels back up.

The wind began Monday night, while I was still recovering from heatstroke. Trying to put up large pieces of plywood in a stiff wind is never a good idea. Trying to carry them up a ladder onto an unstable awning while recovering from heatstroke is just dumb. So we didn’t.

Tuesday the wind kicked up a notch and there were huge white caps on the sea and big messy waves crashing on the shore. These were not ridable waves, for any of you going down the “Rad man! Let’s go surfing!” path. They were a mess because of the 30-mile per hour winds creating them. The clouds offered welcome relief from the sun’s penetrating rays. Then the rain began, slowly, but persistently, in a nice shower that gradually washed the accumulated dirt from the surrounding desert making the green of the leaves jump out from the blackening background.

At first the rain also cleaned the windows of their coating of salt and dirt that we had yet to wash off, but as the storm progressed and the wind picked up they were dirtied again by more salt and dirt and bits of vegetation swept up from the garden. Soon we could barely see through the crud the storm had seen fit to throw at us.

There is something very special about rain in the desert. It produces a fragrance unlike any I’ve detected elsewhere. It’s sweet and strong, unexpectedly so, like the desert is releasing of a year’s worth of aromas, aromas previously trapped under the sun-baked crust of the earth. With the rain the hardness is softened, scents escaping into the soft, moist air. It never occurred to me that decomposition could smell so good.

Georgette took the west coast route up the peninsula and then veered east above La Paz to join the Sea of Cortez where she began to lose strength. Thanks to the inch and a half of rain she delivered, the desert is alive now with flowers and seedlings that form a carpet of green over the sandy earth.

Baja Califaction

2010-09-24T13:35:00.003-06:00

The day after arriving in Mexico, we busied ourselves reorganizing and cleaning two months’ accumulated dirt, dust and a frightening number of dead cockroaches from inside the house. Never before have I lived somewhere where the window screens need to be cleaned so often. They become encrusted with dust and salt from the ocean-scented air. And that's when they are stored inside the closed house! The tracks of sliding doors fill with silt and salt and all manner of tiny creature remains.

We sweat like a cold coke on a hot day and would have similarly left circular puddles on the floor if we’d stood still long enough. (Note, you can never drink enough water in the desert in summertime.) I glanced at the temperature gauge – it indicated it was already 94 degrees Fahrenheit at 10:00am.

Pressing things done, I suggested we take a run down to Nine Palms surf break. Winds were calm and the surf appeared to be 4-6 feet in front of our house. I had already checked and the surf was supposed drop and the wind pick up in the coming days, so if I was going to get any surfing in, it was now or not for several days.

We loaded the ATV with boards, ice water, snacks for the man and plied ourselves with 60 SPF sunscreen.

I felt the skin on my face heating up as we made our way South, too slow to induce the kind of cooling breeze that I craved. The sun was strong and it’s reflection off the road's light-colored sand penetrated my sunglasses and barraged my eyes. The air was stifling and my breathing became labored as I tried to suck the seemingly limited oxygen from it. It occurred to me that the air was too hot to provide any cooling effect and as we progressed it felt as though we were under a broiler. We were in El Inferno! Dawn's Hell.

It is only 4.5 miles to the surf break. As I got off the bike, my head swam and I felt my pulse thumping in my ears. “Oh oh,” I thought and quickly took a seat under the shade of a palm-thatched umbrella.

“Hand me the water please,” I said without looking up, hand extended, while I concentrated on getting my head to stop swimming. I took a gulp of ice-cold water. I didn’t want to make a big deal out of what I was hoping was nothing, so I sat quietly and examined the surf. It was mushy and not as big as I expected. Waist to shoulder high. No need to rush.

I began to feel a bit better as the coolness of the water in my stomach began to bring down my core temperature. I figured once I got in the water it would cool me down even more. So, feeling composed, I slowly began to get ready to go out.

The small waves meant a mellow paddle out, but I felt the effects of weeks of not surfing – muscles that didn’t respond with the vigor or strength I was accustomed to.

It’s a long paddle out to the take off point at Nine Palms. By the time I got out there, I was surprised that I was out of breath. “Wow, I knew I was out of shape, but I didn’t think it was this bad.” My face felt hot the way it does any time I exert a lot of effort (I was called Lobster Face in grade school), so I didn’t think anything of it. I splashed myself with water, but, man it was warm, hardly refreshing at all.

A few waves into the session, my face started to throb again and I realized that the problem wasn’t that I was out of shape. I was still overheated and experiencing the effects of heatstroke!

As I felt my breathing become labored again, I knew it was time to get out. I got lucky and caught the next wave all the way to the beach. I slowly pulled my now exhausted body out of the water with what seemed a ludicrous amount of effort.

I spent another half hour under the umbrella sipping ice water and then we headed for home where I ended up spending the rest of the day recuperating lying in bed under a ceiling fan set to max. I still felt a little weak the following day.

This is why people typically move a lot slower in the tropics. This is Baja in the summertime.

.

Home Sweat Home

2010-09-22T21:20:00.007-06:00

Back in Baja and the first thing I notice is the smells. First, there was the acrid body odor that accosted my nostrils as soon as I got in the car with Gregorio, the guy from the place where we store our car. Then there was the powerful, almost unbearable odor of rotting animal flesh emanating from the car’s AC vents.

I knew better – you have to put rat poison under the hood if you're gonna leave a car sitting for long.

We were lucky all the little bastard did was die and stink up the car. Rats and mice around here are notorious for destroying the wiring in cars left sitting for more than a few days at a time by unsuspecting owners.

What is it with rats and wiring? Why do they feel the need to gnaw on plastic insulation?

Our house in Mexico is powered by solar. So we have an inverter and a controller that are part of the overall system. A heavy-duty wire connects them, delivering the energy capturedto the batteries where it's stored. Shortly after installing an independent system for the guest house, a particularly large rat decided to munch on this wire. The result? A rather rank and rent rat accompanied by a temporarily disabled solar system.

At the end of the hour and a half long drive along a rutted and windy dirt road to our home, we entered the house. After being closed tight for weeks, the air was stifling, seemingly devoid of oxygen. I felt like I'd just walked into a house-sized oven. The house plants were bent and wilted. Tiny baby geckos lay dried like beef, or should I say, reptilian jerky. The sweat began to pour off of us as soon as we entered. It was uncomfortably hot and I, for one, slowed down. It wasn't a conscious act, but done out of some kind of instinct for self-preservation. I checked the temperature gauge in my little office and discovered it was 97 degrees F with 86% humidity. It was 6pm.

With little more than an hour left of daylight, we hurried to take the hurricane panels off all the windows and sliding doors so we could air the house out - we hoped in time for bed.

Some time after 8pm, we finally stopped to eat under a ceiling fan that dried the accumulated sweat from our bodies leaving behind a layer of salt. Then we began preparations for bed. A shower to wash away the accumulated dirt and salt, the stench that is the reality of desert life. I couldn’t help but notice as I used the commode that the seat felt strangely like it possessed its own internalized source of heat – like I imagine the thrones in swanky hotels in cold weather climates might have. In Canada, we’d be the envy of the whole neighborhood. Here, not so much.

We lay in bed, ceiling fan on max, and I tried to ignore that same solar heat emanating from within the mattress. As I tossed and turned, exposing heated flesh to the cooling breeze of the fan, my body's memory brought me to consider how wonderful this same heat would feel were it snow instead of sand outside and this a cold Canadian winter’s night.

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So, do you prefer this font? or do you prefer the Arial font I normally use? Feel free to chime in with any and all constructive input.

The Journey

2010-09-13T14:15:00.001-06:00

Last night, the Iniciativa Mexico competition between the five finalists of the Environmental category was held on live television. I watched the TV Azteca coverage via the internet. Technology is amazing! Allowing me to watch a Mexican television program via the transmission of millions of 0s and 1s (bits and bytes of information moving at incredible speeds over thousands of miles). It is mind blowing to consider how far we have come technologically in the last 100 years.

Mario Castro did a great job as the representative for Amigos para la Conservacion de Cabo Pulmo. He was up against some very stiff competition. Voting was done by telephone, instant message and online and the project receiving the greatest number of votes from all over Mexico and abroad was declared the victor. "Agua para Siempre" Water for Always was the winner. ACCP came in third, receiving 14% of the votes. It was predictable that in a popular vote, Agua para Siempre would win because the availability of clean drinking water and water for every day purposes is still a serious issue throughout Mexico. It is something that affects millions of lives daily, so it speaks to a very broad audience. The protection of a fragile reef system is something less immediate, less important to people who don't have clean water to drink or bathe in.

Although ACCP did not win by popular vote, there is still the chance that they will be chosen by the technical counsel to continue on to the finals. In each category, the technical counsel reserves the right to choose a project that they feel is worthy of further consideration. I remain optimistic that ACCP will be given another chance in the Iniciativa Mexico competition because the reef that they work so hard to protect is internationally recognized as a treasure and is important as a nursery for commercially important species of fish. Regardless of what happens, ACCP can be proud to have made it to the semi-finals, one of 25 groups chosen out of 47,049 entries. They have also succeeding in bringing much needed attention to their work and to Cabo Pulmo National Park. If you took the time to vote last night, thank you.

Today preparations are being made to leave Maui tomorrow. We will fly to San Bruno, California, just south of San Francisco, the same place where last Thursday there was a huge natural gas explosion, killing at least four people (many are still unaccounted for) and destroying 37 homes. In the blink of an eye, many lives were changed forever, reminding us to live each day as though it is our last. We never know when our time here will be over, when we will utter those last words to a love one, see them for the last time.

On Saturday we will fly on to Mexico, to the heat of the desert, to the tranquil blue waters of the Sea of Cortez, to live life to the fullest.

Think Big

2010-09-11T17:24:00.001-06:00

And smile.

Watering the Garden

2010-09-10T18:58:00.003-06:00

It's your chance to make a difference.

No, I’m not going to ask you for money. All you have to do is make a tiny effort that could make a huge difference to many people and a very special place on this planet of ours.

Cabo Pulmo, Baja California Sur, Mexico is a picturesque, isolated little village on the east coast of the Baja Peninsula, just an hour’s drive from the Los Cabos International Airport.

Cabo Pulmo

In the crystal clear aquamarine waters off the coast, the largest, most pristine coral reef in the Sea of Cortez is home to immense schools of fish, over 40 species of coral, and innumerable invertebrates. Humpback Whales, whale sharks, blue whales, dolphins and porpoises migrate through the area regularly. Four species of sea turtle eat and reproduce in her waters and lay their eggs on her sandy beaches.

Fish block out the sun over Cabo Pulmo Reef

In 2005, UNESCO recognized the ecological importance of this unique habitat and designated it a World Heritage Site.

In 2002, I moved to Cabo Pulmo to promote conservation of the reef. After a few false starts and several months after moving to Cabo Pulmo, I met Mario Castro, the owner of one of the three dive shops operating in the village. I convinced him to accompany me to a conservation workshop organized by WildCoast that was designed to educate fishermen and tourism operators about sea turtle conservation. After one of the presentations, Mario approached me, eyes wide and said “Dawn, we have to do something! I had no idea so many animals are in danger of extinction. We have to teach the children about this!”

Together Mario and I organized meetings in Cabo Pulmo hoping others would share our vision of turning Cabo Pulmo into an example of grassroots conservation. Eventually our efforts paid off, and along with local fishermen, dive guides, housewives, ex pats and many children, Amigos para la Conservacion de Cabo Pulmo (Friends for the Conservation of Cabo Pulmo) was born.

Female sea turtle laying her eggs on Cabo Pulmo beach

Our first projects focused on sea turtle conservation. We began nest protection throughout the park and the first SCUBA-based in-water monitoring project in the northern hemisphere. In 2005, our goal of a reef monitoring project lead by local divers was realized. Today the group has 27 card-carrying members and many more volunteers and supporters from around the world. But our efforts are often hampered by a lack of funds. Group members are constantly supporting efforts with their own limited resources.

Now we are fighting hard to stop the construction of a mega-resort development along the northern limits of the park. If allowed to proceed as planned, Cabo Cortes will be a city larger than any currently on the peninsula. We need only look at toursm developments like Cancun to understand that the potential for runoff from this development to harm or kill the Cabo Pulmo coral reef system is huge. So far, ACCP along with other groups have been successful in getting the environmental permits for the project revoked. But it’s only a matter of time before the political machine pushes approval through again.

But there is hope. Recently, ACCP was chosen as one of only 25 finalists from among 47049 proposals submitted to a national competition Iniciativa Mexico. We are thrilled to have made the finals! And hope that it will bring international attention to the plight of the Cabo Pulmo reef in the face of Cabo Cortes.

Iniciativa Mexico is a national project that seeks to rescue Mexico "the dynamic and enterprising" and recognize and celebrate the initiative of people who through their efforts are working for the Mexico we all want. IM is a call to action.

This Sunday Sep 12th at 9:30 PM Mountain Time on the television channels Televisa and TV Azteca, Mario will represent ACCP in a televised interview that is the next step in the selection process for Iniciativa Mexico. During this time you can vote for ACCP by simply making a phone call. Please water the seed of this initiative with your vote. UNESCO believes that Cabo Pulmo National Park deserves international protection. Do you?

You can watch the interview live on Sunday night by clicking one of the links below.

YOU CAN CALL FROM WITHIN MEXICO NOW - DIAL 01-800-990-0758 TO VOTE FOR AMIGOS PARA LA CONSERVACION DE CABO PULMO. OR SEND A TEXT MESSAGE TO NUMBER 61111 WITH THE TEXT "MARIO" IN THE BODY OF THE MESSAGE. THANK YOU!!! WE CANNOT DO IT WITHOUT YOUR HELP.

Watch on Televisa or TV Azteca

The Seed of You

2010-09-08T15:00:00.001-06:00

Lately, I’ve become increasingly aware of an ongoing mental struggle I've been experiencing. It’s something many of us struggle with, something I've written of here before - Discipline, Organization, Productivity with the goal of producing something of broad, if not universal, value. Discipline and organization are clearly the parts needed to produce the whole of productivity. They are not however things I am well-known for (yet). I am in awe of anyone who is capable of them and is producing something that touches people, enhances their lives in some way - whether by feeding their bodies or their souls.

Yesterday, the Universe sent me a troop of messengers with answers to my dilemma. These messengers wore bloggers’ and poets’ clothing. They had much to say about how to live with heart, fulfill our purpose in life and limit our time surfing the net, reading blog posts, getting pulled down the rabbit hole of endless information consumption. The internet has much to offer, but in the course of offering us answers to almost any and every question, it can also be a huge black hole that can pull us away from our quest to produce something meaningful every day.

The answers suggested ways, both complicated and simple, to streamline my web browsing and have made me acutely aware (where I was formerly only, sorta, kinda, in a denial kind of way, aware) of how much time I waste each day reading “stuff” on the internet which does not further my goal of becoming a published author. They also hinted at how to lead a life of purpose and meaning...something a bit more intangible, but for which we can also exercise discipline and organization.

To wit,

What to Remember When Waking

In that first hardly noticed moment in which you wake,
coming back to this life from the other
more secret, moveable and frighteningly honest world
where everything began,
there is a small opening into the new day
which closes the moment you begin your plans.

What you can plan is too small for you to live.
What you can live wholeheartedly will make plans enough
for the vitality hidden in your sleep.

To be human is to become visible
while carrying what is hidden as a gift to others.
To remember the other world in this world
is to live in your true inheritance.

You are not a troubled guest on this earth,
you are not an accident amidst other accidents
you were invited from another and greater night
than the one from which you have just emerged.

Now, looking through the slanting light of the morning window
toward the mountain presence of everything that can be
what urgency calls you to your one love?
What shape waits in the seed of you
to grow and spread its branches
against a future sky?

Is it waiting in the fertile sea?
In the trees beyond the house?
In the life you can imagine for yourself?
In the open and lovely white page on the writing desk?

~ David Whyte ~

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LINKS

How to live a life of purpose

How to streamline your online browsing

Book Review: Saltwater Buddha versus Kook

2010-09-06T01:01:00.000-06:00

I just finished reading Jaimal Yogis’ book Saltwater Buddha: A Surfer’s Quest to Find Zen on the Sea, for a second time. I read it in one sitting, stopping only to have lunch.

I don’t normally make a habit of reading a book twice, not even really good books (one notable exception is Watership Down, which I read no less than three times before the age of 13). So why this book?

The main reason I read it again was to make a comparison – I wanted to compare it to the book Kook: What Surfing Taught Me About Love, Life, and Catching the Perfect Wave by Peter Heller, which I finished yesterday. On the face of it they are very similar books and yet, they are very different. And I wanted to jog my memory about the first book in hopes of determining what made one better than the other.

Both books are memoirs and both are about surfing from the perspective of someone who, at the beginning of the book, is learning to surf. Both books include descriptions of many of the basic aspects of learning to surf and the difficulties one encounters doing so. That is where the similarities end.

Saltwater Buddha is well-written and concise. It is shorter by about 30%, but it felt like I learned more about the author’s journey from those pages than in the longer book. In Kook, Peter Heller’s writing is rambling, often repetitive and at times frustratingly verbose. One might say that Heller is the more experienced writer and Kook a more literary narrative, but I think that’s just a bunch of pompous hooey. The simplicity, or one might say “Zen” nature of Jaimal Yogis’s writing is what makes it such a pleasure to read. It’s adherence to the “less is more” paradigm makes his book stand out and above Heller’s.

I am not alone in my opinion that Saltwater Buddha is good. One need only go to Amazon.com to see that 73 people share this point of view. I think that the main reason for this is that Jaimal’s writing is straight-forward and unadorned. It flows, keeps moving and before you know it the ride is over. It’s as though he is right there telling you his story. He doesn’t get caught up with the sound of his own voice. He stays on point, writes from his heart.

Peter Heller’s writing, by contrast, is full of flowery descriptions and uncommonly used three syllable words. It’s often rambling and repetitive leaving this reader frustrated and wondering where he was taking me. His ego seems to have driven the process so he tries too hard and the result is often jarring and awkward. That goes for his writing, but imagine the same might be true of his surfing.

Here are a couple of examples of how differently the two author’s treat the same issues: They both are particularly overwhelmed by their egos at one point and get irate at another surfer for getting in their way. They both get angry and yell at the offending beginner. However, Jaimal catches himself and makes the effort to apologize for his thoughtless, ego-centric reaction. He vows not to let it happen again. No apology is issued by Mr. Heller and I got the sense that he continued to believe he was in the right. A second illustration of the differing perspectives expressed by the authors is made clear when early on in Kook, Heller declares that the Aloha Spirit that has been part of surfing since its inception is pretty much dead. Had Heller read Saltwater Buddha, like any good writer doing his research, he might have had to reevaluate this opinion. Or he could have just been more observant and checked his own testosterone-addled perspective on the beach. I’m sure he would have witnessed the admittedly endangered, but still kicking Aloha among the boards and rashguards out there somewhere.

In summary, the writing by these two authors seems to be a clear reflection of their personalities and lives: Jaimal is a soul-surfing Zen practitioner and Peter a codependent who would benefit from learning to meditate. Both books offer an entertaining description of the trials of learning to surf, but Saltwater Buddha does it with grace, humility and depth.

If not for you

2010-09-04T12:23:00.000-06:00

If not for you, babe, I couldn't find the door
Couldn't even see the floor
I'd be sad and blue if not for you.

If not for you, baby, I'd lay awake all night
Wait for the morning light
To shine in through
But it will not be new if not for you.

If not for you, my sky would fall, rain would gather too
Without your love I'd be nowhere at all
I'd be lost if not for you
And you know it's true.

If not for you, my sky would fall, rain would gather too
Without your love I'd be nowhere at all
Oh what would I do if not for you ?

If not for you, winter would have no spring
I couldn't hear the robins sing
I just wouldn't have a clue
Anyway it wouldn't ring true if not for you
If not for you, if not for you.

Bob Dylan

Ubiquiplastic

2010-08-26T19:03:00.007-06:00

After I wrote my last blog, I became aware of how much plastic we use in our daily lives - painfully, maddeningly so. Plastic is EVERYWHERE. Did you notice too, just how much of the food, clothing and furniture we buy are wrapped in the lightweight crap? And have you considered, how, after the unwrapping, we wrap the wrapping in a big plastic bag to dispose of it? Then it’s off to the landfill, out of sight and out of mind for the majority of North Americans.

The coup de grace in the Attack of Ubiquiplastic was delivered the other day when we purchased a set of patio furniture. EVERY single piece of the set came wrapped in clear, lightweight plastic. There were a lot of pieces requiring assembly and the result was a LOT of plastic. As we unpacked six arms, then three seats, lots o' legs and ten cushions, each neatly wrapped up in plastic, I kept picturing the large swaths of clear plastic flying through the air, landing in the ocean and ultimately suffocating a sea turtle or other hapless creature.

What did we do before all this plastic came into existence?

According to the USEPA, the amount of plastic in municipal solid waste in America has increased from less than 1% of the total in 1960 to about 12% in 2006. In 2007 (most recent data found), US production of plastic reached 116 billion tons, up from a measly 26 million tons in 2003. And less than 12% of all these plastics are recycled annually.

YOU CAN MAKE A DIFFERENCE.

We’ve become too accustomed to things being clean and neat. We expect all our fruits and vegetables to be wrapped in plastic bags so we can get them home without soiling our hands or the inside of our reusable grocery bags. As consumers and voters we can change our habits and we can demand that the companies whose products we buy change along with us. Express yourself by choosing companies that minimize their use of non-recyclable plastics, actively recycle plastics and make significant contributions to environmental causes including pollution awareness. There is no need to wrap a patio set in layers and layers of plastic so that it can be delivered to the consumer. There are alternatives to plastic and where absolutely necessary, biodegradable plastics are increasingly available.

But despite all the technological know-how and facts readily at our disposal to help us reduce our contribution to the stream of garbage in the environment, people, it seems will continue to say “Fuck the Planet” for their own selfish reasons. Case in point: The producers of Sun Chips didn't like that their bags contributed to the waste stream.

First they reduced the amount of material in each bag by 10%, eliminating five billion square inches of packaging from their production stream. Then, this year, they introduced the first fully compostable chip bag. Watch it disappear in this time lapse video! In response, some consumers are complaining the new material is too noisy. Some were so annoyed that they stopped buying Sun Chips. WTF?? It’s hard to believe that these are the actions of a rational, planet-loving person. Please...don't be THAT person.

If you are THAT person, GET OVER IT. This is change we can live with.

Screwing the Planet with Plastic

2010-08-20T17:50:00.008-06:00

Whether you take her out for dinner and a movie beforehand or not, there is no excuse for your continued screwing of the planet. This is to you, the people who continue to use disposable plastic bags like there is no tomorrow (kind of a self-fulfilling prophesy, isn't it?). You know who you are...you keep meaning to get a reusable bag or two, but keep putting it off. Or you think, by golly, it's got to break down eventually, so what's the big deal? Well, you lazy SOB, I'm not going to ask you again, just STOP IT!!

In case the ALL CAPS didn't tell you already, I'm pissed off, so angry my chest is tight and my fists would be clenched if I wasn't typing this. And yes, I'm going to tell you why.

I recently visited the Maui Central Landfill to drop off some building materials left behind by the previous owner of our new property here. It was a windy day, as it often is in northern and central Maui and as we approached the landfill entrance we were greeted by a spectacle that sickened me and made me question where I was. Hundreds, no THOUSANDS of plastic bags and pieces of light-weight plastic were flying through the air, out of the landfill and into the fields and trees nearby. I expect this kind of thing in Mexico, but on MAUI? It was like a snowstorm, but much more sinister. A shitstorm is probably more appropriate. We could see several bags high up in the air drifting like kites, tumbling around and up and over and, I imagine, ultimately making their way into the ocean. If they don’t get there with the help of the wind, then the next heavy rainfall will help them make their way downstream and out to the sea. The reality of it made me my stomach tighten and my throat constrict.

So you out there, ya you, the one still using them instead of reusable bags, just STOP. Stop using disposable plastic bags. There is no good reason for your continued blatant fucking of the environment. (ya, I'm that mad)

By order of all that is right and good in the world, by order of the marine environment, the turtles, whales, dolphins, fish, seals, countless sea birds, and all other life in the ocean, we hereby do order that all the world’s human beings stop using disposable plastic bags.

Stop making excuses and think about the consequences of your actions. If you don’t have several reusable bags already, then BUY SOME! Quit making excuses you lazy jerk and think about what this single, stupid act is doing to the planet. Think about all the ocean animals choking to death on your plastic bags!!

Some statistics in case you are not convinced that plastic bags are evil:

500 billion: Number of plastic bags consumed worldwide every year (1 million per minute)

92 billion: Number of plastic bags distributed yearly in the US

500: Years it takes a plastic bag to decay in a landfill (much longer in the ocean)

4.175 million: “Average” person’s plastic-bag legacy, in years

Still not convinced? Here are some more facts:

Unlike organic debris, which biodegrades, plastic that enters the ocean disintegrates into ever smaller pieces without changing its chemical structure. This process continues down to the molecular level. As the plastic flotsam degrades into smaller and smaller pieces, it concentrates in the upper water column. The plastic ultimately becomes small enough to be ingested by aquatic organisms living near the ocean's surface (fish fry, algae, zooplankton, barnacles floating on larger pieces of plastic). This is how plastic waste and the chemicals associated with it gets into the food chain (yours, mine and the ocean's).

Some plastics decompose within a year of entering the water, leaching potentially toxic chemicals such as bisphenol A, PCBs and derivatives of polystyrene into the water. These chemicals then bioaccumulate and biomagnify up the food chain.

The Great Pacific Garbage Patch is an area of exceptionally high concentrations of floating plastics, chemical sludge, and other debris that have been trapped by ocean currents. Plastics outweigh plankton biomass in this area 45:1 (note: only 10 years ago this ratio was 6:1). This floating mass of industrial and domestic waste is estimated to be somewhere between the size of Texas and that of the continent of North America. Yes, it's HUGE. Located in the open ocean, in an area so isolated researchers have only recently begun to study it, the Patch is having untold impacts on marine organisms. Here is a YouTube video that summarizes how the Patch formed and the research recently conducted by SCRIPPs Institute.

Doesn’t this disgust you? ENRAGE you? How have we allowed this to happen?

If that doesn’t get you to act, then let’s try some direct evidence of the impacts of plastics on marine animals.

In this photo, an endangered sea turtle is seen trying to eat a plastic bag that it mistook for a jelly fish or seaweed.

Thousands of marine animals, many of whom are in danger of extinction, die each year when they suffocate after trying to ingest plastic bags. Thousands more die from intestinal blockages from eating all manner of plastic.

In this heartrending photograph taken by Terry McCormac off the California coast, a sea otter pup is caught inside a plastic bag and the mother is frantically trying to get the plastic bag off to save her pup.

Look at this closely...Are you sick yet?

This video contains graphic images of the impact of plastics on the ocean environment produced by the Algalita Marine Research Foundation.

Okay, after all that we need some good news.

Thankfully, plastic bags are going to be banned on Maui and Kauai starting January 11, 2011. (In my opinion, the delay in instituting the ban is stupid and unforgivable.) San Francisco, Denmark, Taiwan, Ireland, Hong Kong, the town of Modbury, England, and India have all either banned the use of plastic bags or imposed taxes on their use that have resulted in significant declines (up to 95% in Ireland) in their use. Bangladesh slapped an outright ban on all polythene bags in 2002 after they were found to have been the main culprit during the 1988 and 1998 floods that submerged two-thirds of the country. Discarded bags had choked the country’s drainage systems. California is trying to pass a bill to ban the use of disposable plastic bags throughout the state. Mexico City is trying to institute a ban on plastic bags. The audacious plastics industry has responded by initiating a “plastics are an important part of the Mexican economy” PR campaign.

The National Tree of Mexico - Palo Bolsa Plastica

There is also hope that even the laziest, most selfish and planet-hating among you will have no choice in the near future. In light of the United Nations Environment Programme’s latest report on marine litter, UNEP’s Executive Director Achim Steiner is advocating for a global ban on single-use plastics.

“Single use plastic bags which choke marine life, should be banned or phased out rapidly everywhere. There is simply zero justification for manufacturing them anymore, anywhere," said Steiner.

Amen to that.

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Please check out these impressive video links

See this link for The life cycle of the plastic bag - a mockumentary.

More on the impact of plastics on the ocean environment from the Algalita Marine Research Foundation.

SCRIPPS Environmental Accumulation of Plastics Expedition to the Great Pacific Garbage Patch.

To the Faithful

2010-08-16T20:36:00.000-06:00

I do believe it is time again for a break from the Canada to Mexico line of writing, never mind that we haven’t even arrived yet in that place of beans, rice and tequila.

Other things have my attention for now and I would like to share these with you, my dear and faithful reader (I use the singular here intentionally, as I suspect that the few consistent readers I had, have likely left me for someone more faithful in their blogging).

If you find that my writing has taken on a slight haughty air, it is without doubt the result of my reading about the adventures of Don Quixote. Yes, that self-same knight errant that influenced so much of modern literature is the current focus of my attentions, despite the translation hailing from a time (1885) when the British tended to use many words that are no longer in popular usage, particularly in North America. The translator, a John Ormsby, has been taken to task for being too faithful (there is that word again) to Cervantes’ literary style, resulting in a somewhat confusing and dated work that is clearly influencing this reader’s writing. (Confused yet?)

So please forgive me today’s inauthentic style as well as my lack of faithful correspondence via this blog. No doubt I’ll ask your forgiveness again, much like is done regularly throughout important relationships, but let's just take it two failings at a time, shall we? And yes, you are important to me gentle reader.

My lack of faithfulness has resulted from three things: 1) I recently flew from Mexico to Maui, where my dearest and I recently acquired a new home and where, therefore, many boxes required unpacking; 2) Before and after arriving here at the end of July, I focused on reading rather than writing. I finished two of Kerouac’s works, On the Road - the original scroll and Big Sur, the first several chapters of Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice and am now reading both Steven King’s On Writing and Miguel de Cervantes’s Don Quixote.

To write we must also read. However, the reading is currently overwhelming the writing. The move has a lot to do with this, but I must also state reason number 3, for why there has been little writing: 3) I am basically a very undisciplined and lazy person who currently prefers to cook delicious meals, drink wine and watch television, than get up early and force myself to compose something. As you can imagine this not only hampers the writing, but has expanded my waistline considerably. This just won't do.

I could also argue that my lack of productivity results from my lacking a place to write that has a door that can be closed against any interruptions or distractions, a condition which Mr. King says is essential if we ever hope to become a productive and successful writer (let’s not get into measures of success just yet, it's the former that we are most concerned with at this point).

Currently, (yes I mean at this very moment) I am writing at a plastic fold-out table acquired from CostCo, that chain of warehouse discount stores where things are sold in quantities so great as to cause refrigerator crises of gigantic proportions. Who among you has a fridge with room enough to store three 1 gallon containers of milk, five heads of romaine lettuce, four pounds of Parmesan cheese, three dozen eggs, two whole chickens and a partridge in a pear tree? The CostCo table rests at the confluence of the living and kitchen areas of our new home and has a view (if I turn my head 90 degrees) of a spectacular, lushly-vegetated canyon that leads to a picturesque ocean bay.

The reason I have to turn my head 90 degrees to see the view is because the table is rectangular and this is the only way it fits in the available space, but also because, again according to King, a view is counterproductive to writing productivity. He suggests we are better off writing in a closet (as I do when in Mexico) where distractions are kept to a minimum. For example, even though I am right this minute facing 90 degrees from the spect-damn-tacular view, the multitudinous windows in our new abode make it possible for me to look up and note that it is raining again. You might think rain good for productivity, but in this case you would be wrong…because the sun is also shining. It is raining and sunny out and this is a common, but always interesting fact of living on the island of Maui. It makes me want to run outside and look for the inevitable rainbow. Now that’s a serious distraction. Hold on, I’ll be right back…

Alrighty then, the rainbow has been appreciated and photos taken, back to the task at hand.

So the point is this, I’ve moved and I’m trying to get back into the groove of writing every day despite the multitudinous distractions that living in a new place, particularly a gorgeous place like Maui, represents. Yes, this entire blog is one great big excuse.

Aloha!

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The Gutenberg Project is an online repository of classic literature available to you the reader for FREE! Check it out.

Canada to Mexico Part V: Dedicated

2010-07-21T14:03:00.001-06:00

Back at home, I immersed myself all things surf, joined internet web chat sites like The Glide and followed the Canadian surfer’s suggestion that I subscribe to The Surfer’s Journal. I threw in Surfer and Wahine (a now defunct women’s surf magazine) for good measure. I rented the only surf movie “Point Break” that I could find at the local video store and watched it like it contained directions to the Ark of the Covenant. When I asked the purple-haired goth at the counter “Is this the only surf movie you have?” she dismissed me with a look that said “Look around moron, do you see any waves?”

I put images of surfing up all over my apartment. The first Surfer mag I ordered came with a poster of a woman (probably Lane Beachley or Lisa Anderson) riding what to my inexperienced eye was a huge wave, backlit by a tropical sunset. I gazed at it in admiration and then tacked it up on the kitchen wall where I could see it every morning and every night. I put pictures of waves and guys surfing waves all over my kitchen cabinets and the fridge. My screen saver was a picture of Pipeline breaking.

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Two months of dreaming and I was back in Mal Pais, this time with the express purpose of learning how to surf.

I’m not sure what my boss thought about my request for more vacation time such a short time after my first trip, but I suspect that maybe it was general consensus in the office that I must be on the verge of a breakdown or something - this despite my generally ecstatic humor. But as a recently “separated” woman, I guess they assumed I must be torn apart inside. Regardless, I got the time off.

In the intervening months, I’d done my homework and discovered there was a surf camp right there in Mal Pais. (How had I not seen or heard of it?) Accommodations at the surf camp were crazy expensive, so I decided I would find somewhere else to stay once I was on the ground. Some people I’d met on my travels who lived in Costa Rica told me there were little houses (casitas in Spanish) for rent in the area that were more affordable.

It was May and the summer rains had started when I arrived. The air smelled sweeter even than before, roads and vehicles were less dusty, but muddier, the jungle thicker and so humid it made me slightly claustrophobic. In Mal Pais the jungle seemingly pressed in on both sides of the road and, I thought, might just explode onto it at any moment. I had visions of vines slithering into my room at night and wrapping themselves around my wrists and ankles to drag me off into the night, my screams muffled by a mouth stuffed with leaves.

In short order I found a quaint casita just a mile down the road from the surf school and only a hundred meters from the beach. It was tiny and pink, with one bedroom, a basic kitchen and bathroom with running water that was neither hot nor cold. It was very tidy as well, except for a huge ant nest I discovered in the drawer of a rustic wooden wardrobe located against the wall in the bedroom. After my initial panic, I went and got the owner, a local, who apologized and quickly eradicated them with some nasty poison. He was an older gentleman who spoke no English, but we made ourselves understood through a mean game of charades.

Once I was unpacked, I went looking for a grocery store. In my search I came across a little restaurant partially hidden among the jungle vines along the road. In the beams above the tables I saw several surfboards with price tags stuck to them. I stood and craned my neck looking at them when a young waiter approached me. “You want to buy a surfboard?” he said in perfect but heavily accented English. I was relieved he spoke my language and joined him to look at the boards more closely. It was here that I bought my first surfboard – an aesthetic decision made because there were two dolphins painted on its underside. It was a pin-tail thruster only a little longer than seven feet and quite narrow. I liked how light it was and easy to carry – much more so than those huge long boards I’d seen other beginners struggling with on the beach.

That first week, I didn’t make much progress and flailed about in the waves trying to stand up on what was, I would discover a year later, much too small and narrow a board. My new board’s beauty and ease of transport were not enough to float me and my kooky ass.

I did discover that wearing contacts while surfing was something else I was going to have to overcome. Without my lenses I could barely see past the end of my nose and certainly couldn’t see the next wave barreling down on me.

Unless you’re some kind of surfing prodigy, you spend a lot of time tumbling under water during the learning process (and it seems that the learning is never over). I squeezed my eyes shut tight when I got dumped, but several times one of my contacts was washed right out of my eye. I had a limited supply of disposable lenses, so I had to get creative. A couple of times, when I bobbed back up, I saw the lens perched on my cheek just below my eye. I grabbed it and popped it into my mouth for safe-keeping as the next wave in the set came thundering through, tossing me around like a rag doll underwater. Then once the waves had passed, I would try to balance myself on my board while putting the lens back in.

In one instance, a big wave pitched me far over the falls and then stole both my lenses. I came up sputtering to a world that was completely out of focus. Both my contacts had come out and now I was virtually blind. Some how, I made it back to the beach and then blindly stumbled the two or so miles down the rough, pothole-ridden road to my casita.

Surfing also exposed me to a whole new culture. Mal Pais was full of surfers from all over the world. The foreigners were completely focused on surf and weren’t particularly interested in doing or talking about anything else. They lived in houses or the surf hotel and were either surfing or scrambling to make some money to support their surf habit. The Costa Ricans were more laid back and many of them lived under and in the big trees lining the beach near the best surf break. They were friendly and didn’t seem to have a care in the world. They were also often stoned or getting stoned. I didn’t quite get how they could surf high, but they seemed to do a pretty damned good job of it. The one time I tried it, I was overwhelmed with a sense of paranoia that had sharks surrounding me and huge outside waves drowning me within minutes of getting in the water. I got out of there quick!

As the days progressed and my surfing didn’t, I began to realize that it was going to take a lot more than a couple of weeks to learn how to surf. It was not at all as easy as the experienced surfers made it look and was unlike any other sport I’d tried before. That’s when an idea was born - I would move to Costa Rica and live on the beach so I could dedicate myself to learning how to surf.

Canada to Mexico: Part IV

2010-07-05T18:10:00.002-06:00

The following is the 4th in a series of entries titled "Canada to Mexico." Please see earlier posts if you have not already done so to read the preceding parts to this story.

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The following day, I went for a run along the hard-packed, narrow dirt road that twisted up and down through the jungle and emerged at a little bay with a rocky point along its southern edge. I stopped to take in the vista - coconut palms to the North leaning far out over the turquoise water and the bay curving gently to meet the jagged rocks of the point. All was quiet, except for the put-put of a motorized vehicle off in the distance. The sound drew closer and soon enough a red motorcycle made itself known as the source. It pulled up to where I stood. The rider was a young man about my age, white but with a good tan, dark hair and an athletic build - he wore only board shorts and sandals. Looking closer I noticed that the left side of the motorcycle sported a rack with a surfboard in it. I smiled and he smiled back. I tried a tentative “hi,” wondering if he spoke English.

“Hey, what’s up?”

He was Canadian (“like me!” I thought) and was living in Costa Rica full-time. He was from Calgary, Alberta and had moved to Costa Rica to learn to surf.

The synchronicity did not go unnoticed.

My curiosity was piqued and I quizzed him on how he ended up there, how he made a living and how long he’d been surfing. He was friendly and gracious enough to entertain my questions and told me if I really wanted to learn to surf, I needed to immerse myself in surf culture and to "get a subscription to Surfer’s Journal.”

After he left to continue looking for waves, I stood there a bit dazed, the realization sinking in that my dream to learn to surf was maybe not so crazy after all. I was not alone in my desire and someone else, another landlocked Canadian, had actually made it happen. Why couldn’t I?

Running back to the Inn where Maria and I were staying I felt like I was floating on air, my energy fueled by what I would eventually learn was a shared “stoke.” My mind raced with ideas of moving to Costa Rica, living on the beach and picking up house-sitting and other odd jobs while I became a local surfing legend. The more I thought about it the more it seemed to be in the realm of the possible. Well, I might not become a legend, but I could at least become a surfer.

After a couple of days in Montezuma, Maria and I traveled on further North along the same coast to a place called Mal Pais (“bad country” in Spanish). Not quite a village, it was more of an outpost kind of place with a population consisting mainly of traveling surfers and expat settlers from America, Canada and Germany. Our first night there Maria and I took a walk to the endless wide flat beach where people were surfing just offshore. I marveled at the acrobatics of the guys on the waves, their agility and the way they moved with the wave. I felt their excitement. I wanted to learn this sport like I hadn’t wanted anything my whole life.

The next day I went in search of someone who would teach me to surf. I asked the guy repairing surfboards and he brushed me off like an annoying fly. I asked the Tico in a restaurant decorated with surfboards and he looked at me blankly. Time was ticking - we were supposed to visit some senior expats who’d invited us to their place for a late lunch before we headed out on that evening’s bus. Furthermore, Maria had no interest whatsoever in surfing. As time slipped away, I accepted that my surf dream would have to wait until another time. I left Mal Pais that night vowing to return there to surf.

Canada to Mexico: Part III - Enlightenment

2010-06-24T18:34:00.003-06:00

The day after arriving in Costa Rica, as I waited in line to buy a bus ticket to the Arenal Volcano, my head was still spinning with the excitement and newness of my surroundings. Earlier that morning I’d managed to order breakfast from a little outdoor market café using the most primitive of means – I pointed at what someone else was eating. When someone ordered coffee, I caught the waiter’s attention, pointed at the coffee and then at myself. He understood immediately the universal sign for “me too.” Incidentally, it turned out to be the best coffee I’ve ever had.

In the ticket line behind me stood a long-haired brunette of slender build, about my age, with full lips, brown eyes, an olive complexion and, when she noticed me glancing at her, a friendly smile. I smiled back and then it was my turn at the ticket window. I told the man where I wanted to go. In response he rattled off a question in Spanish that left me dumbfounded. I thought the name of the place I wanted to go was all he’d need to know and wasn’t prepared for his completely unintelligible question. I thought, “What do I do now?” and looked around helplessly, part of me willing a guardian angel or God himself to come down and interpret for me. Seeing my confusion, the dark-haired woman behind me came forward.

“He wants to know if you want a return ticket or just one-way.”

After receiving my one-way ticket to the volcano, I waited as she purchased her ticket and then extended my thanks for coming to my rescue. As we boarded the bus I realized she was going to Arenal Volcano too and so I took the seat next to her. I introduced myself.

Her name was Maria Hernandez and she was an American living in Los Angeles with her video producer boyfriend. She’d grown up listening to her grandparents speak Spanish. We chatted about our plans while in Costa Rica and discovered we had planned the same itinerary. We quickly agreed to travel together and share accommodations. Then we began the process of getting to know one another. She listened attentively as I rattled off the story of my divorce and need to get out and shake the dust off.

I couldn’t believe my luck. Considering that my first-hand knowledge of Latin culture was limited to Jose Feliciano's rendition of Feliz Navidad and Old El Paso tacos out of a box, I was relieved to be invited to join someone who had a good handle on Spanish.

A few days into our adventure, we agreed it was time to take a day off from sightseeing to hang out at the beach. We had just arrived in the quaint and isolated coastal village of Montezuma on the Nicoya Peninsula in northwestern Costa Rica, a bohemian little town that attracts the backpacking, neo-hippy crowd. The village sits on the edge of a small bay that wraps around from West to East and then West again. The small, colorful homes and businesses of the village dot the edge of the bay interspersed with tall large-leafed tropical trees and coconut palms that lean out over the water. On the south side of the bay, a sandy beach stretches for several hundred meters, backed by lush tropical vegetation under which a carpet of orange, brown and green leaves was scattered. The waters of the bay were a postcard-perfect translucent blue and there wasn’t a ripple on its surface. Occasional small waves lapped at the beach's edge in a gentle rhythm. We kicked off our sandals and I was surprised at how hot the sand was. It was barely 10am.

We chose our spot among about 20 other bathers and lay out our towels. I removed my shorts and t-shirt to reveal a black two-piece bathing suit that contrasted sharply with my skin, ghostly white from so many years cloistered under layers of cold-weather clothing. I lay down quickly and tried to melt into the background of the beige sand, but I felt like I stood out like a polar bear in the tropics – a polar bear in a black two-piece bathing suit. I closed my eyes and pretended I was alone, enjoying the sensation of the warm tropical sun on my body. How I had missed this feeling!

It couldn’t have been 15 minutes before I could feel the sun’s rays piercing the barrier of my 50+ sunscreen. Sweat trickled and gathered in various crevices on my body and it felt like my face must be turning a bright shade of red given the volume of my pulse beating in my ears. It felt as though my face must be expanding and contracting with each beat of my heart.

I sat up and my head swam slightly.

“I’m gonna go cool off.”

Maria silently acknowledged me with a slight nod of her head. I looked at her and felt a twinge of envy of her Latina genes. I was pretty sure she had already turned a shade darker, whereas I was quickly breaking out in pink and red blotches. I headed off to the water.

I looked around and took the sights in and felt a wave of giddiness wash over me as I appreciated how my circumstances had changed in a short three months. I’d dreamt of doing something like this for years.

At the water’s edge, I dipped the front of one foot in the water as a small wave surged forward to meet me. It was refreshingly cool. I walked in waist-deep and slowly lowered myself and submerged my whole head. The noise of my pulse beating in my ears began to subside. A few more head dunks and I felt like myself again. I floated on my back, gazing up at the bright blue sky, the water pulsing all around me.

In a fit of exuberance, I did a little back flip and submerged my whole body again feeling the coolness all around me. I wasn’t very far out, so a couple of strokes and I was able to stand up on the bottom where the water came to just above my waistline. I was so relaxed I felt a little rubbery. My beach towel beckoned me. I turned and casually started back towards the beach looking forward again to the heat of the sun, when…

WHAM!! All of a sudden something pushed me from above and behind. I was thrown upside down, under the water, flipping, spinning, arms and legs flailing, powerless against the force…and then…SLAM!! My back came down hard on the sandy bottom and WHOOSH! I was pulled upwards and before I could get a gulp of air. BAM!!! I was hit from behind again, flying through the water and thrown on the bottom…Then, as quickly as it started, it stopped and I was drifting under water.

I reestablished my sense of up and down, and regained my footing, wondering what had just happened. My head spun.

It occurred to me then I should probably turn and face the ocean to avoid another run-in with more rogue waves. I also realized that my bathing suit bottoms were hanging down somewhere south of the border. I yanked them up, only to realize that there was a remarkable amount of sand in the crotch, which now bulged well below where it should. To make matters worse, I was now a considerably closer to the beach and the water only came up to my knees.

The sensible thing would have been to swim out and empty my bathing suit of its contents, but my senses were rattled. I backed out of the water, turned and “crabbed” my way back to my towel, reaching into my bottoms every step or two to remove large handfuls of sand.

I noticed that Maria had propped herself up on her elbows and was bearing witness to all. Her head was tilted to one side in curiosity and, I think, concern. She tilted her sunglasses skyward and squinted at me. “Are you okay?” she said, a slight smirk breaking out on her lips.

“Ya, no problem. I’m fine.”

Still a bit shaky, I flopped onto my towel. My mind reeled as I enjoyed what must have been a surge of adrenaline. And then I realized that I was giddy with excitement.

“That was incredible!”

Maria’s eyes narrowed suspiciously.

Suddenly, I realized I’d had an epiphany, undergone a conversion of sorts.

“I get it now. I really get it! Those waves are powerful! This is why people surf.”

Prior to this moment, surfing, if I were pressed to explain something I had little knowledge of and therefore no interest in, was the stuff of movies – the only "surfer" I’d ever heard of was Jeff Spicoli, a character in the 1982 movie Fast Times at Ridgemont High. I’m from Ontario. I grew up in the 70s knowing who Bobby Ore, Eddie Bauer and Wayne Gretzy were. Duke Kahanamoku and Laird Hamilton were names I’d never heard. The ocean had always been something you visited, looked at and walked along. The notion that waves existed, let alone could be ridden by a person to produce a thrill beyond compare was completely foreign to me. In the few seconds when those two waves had their way with me, this normally remote and little understood pursuit had assumed a new tangibility for this land-lubbing Canadian woman.

I decided then and there, “I’m gonna learn how to surf.”

Maria looked at me like I’d shaken a nut or two loose.

“Are you crazy? What are you talking about?” She shook her head. “I dunno girlfriend, it looked to me like you got your butt kicked. Are you sure you know what you're talking about?”

I was never surer of anything.

.

Canada to Mexico: Part II....Costa Rica

2010-06-13T15:49:00.004-06:00

In the office a couple of weeks later, my friend Julie was sharing photos from a trip to Costa Rica she'd recently taken. Julie is a vivacious French Canadian woman with whom I share a love of sports, languages, music, good food and life in general. She put the joie in joie de vivre. She announced she was enrolling in Spanish lessons over the noise of the radio, which she'd tuned to Latin dance music. She flitted about the office as she told me about her trip - making dance moves that seemed as exotic as the tale she was telling me. It all sounded so wonderful and passionate and exciting. And out of my reach. She showed me her photos and surprised me when she explained that she’d gone on the trip by herself.

“Isn’t that dangerous?” I asked her. It had never occurred to me that a woman could travel on her own to a foreign country. My conservative, angst-ridden view of the world had just been stood on its head again.

According to Julie it was very safe and she explained how she had traveled from place to place on local buses filled with other foreign travelers just like her, many of them making their way on their own. It sounded too good to be true. The travel virus from the Tuk boy's van came out of dormancy and my head spun with dreams of travel and the hot tropical sun beating on my ghostly white skin.

My excitement waned when my financial reality superimposed itself on my daydreaming head. I really couldn’t afford the airfare, but Julie said that once you were there hotel and food prices were remarkably low. Still, I didn’t see how I could afford it.

The next day it dawned on me. The one thing acquired from the marital assets was the collection of airmiles accumulated from 6.5 years of household credit card expenses (a large outstanding balance of which I sadly also took away with me).

I pressed Julie for details and began to plan a trip following her itinerary. I called the airline and booked a two-week trip for February 2000. I ordered Spanish for Beginners.

Time flew. Before I knew it I was bound for Costa Rica. On the plane, I pulled Spanish for Beginners out of my backpack and cracked it for the very first time. I’d sworn I’d have basic Spanish down before I got there, but between work obligations and the demands of writing my master’s thesis there wasn’t much time left for idle pursuits like learning a new language. I cursed my job and myself as I tried in a last minute panic to cram as much Spanish into my brain as possible during the four-hour flight to Miami. By the time the plane from Miami touched down in the capital city of San Jose, CR I’d managed to memorize “My name is Dawn,” “Where are the bathrooms?” and “How much is that?" I could also count to ten.

The plane was abuzz with the excitement of other travelers as we all waited for the cabin crew to open the door and set us free. Meanwhile, I took the opportunity to remove my wool socks, revealing two very white, cold-to-the-touch feet.

At this point in my life, my feet were perpetually numb with cold and had been for round about 17 years. On a high school night-skiing trip I’d managed to frost bite all ten of my toes to the point that they turned black, the result of all the capillaries in my toes rupturing in an excruciating explosion of pain. Yes, I cried. Then I went out for pizza and forgot all about it until I went home and took my socks off. A friend who was staying overnight with me screamed when she saw my toes. That’s when I remembered the pain I’d been in just a few hours earlier. In the days that followed, I hid my grotesque feet and the pain they induced, too petrified of parental wrath were I to reveal my fetid phalanges, and thereby risked gangrene setting in. It was just dumb luck that let me keep my toes, but not until all the nails and a thick layer of skin peeled off several weeks later. It was pretty disgusting and painful. Ever after I had semi-numb, cold feet.

I slipped my Teva’s back on and waited.

The next thing I knew they were opening the cabin doors and the airplane filled with the warmest, softest most sweet-smelling air I’d ever smelled. The warmth enveloped my feet and I felt them tingle with sensation as they warmed as though placed in a tub of balmy water. As I disembarked, my whole body was enveloped in the caress of the tropical air and seemingly sucked it in through its pores. I felt my shoulders and then my whole body relax. Until that moment, I hadn’t realized how much tension my body was carrying as it braced against the cold of a Canadian winter. I slowed to a crawl as my senses were overcome and I wanted to stop at the bottom of the stairs so I could just drink in the sensation. But there were Costa Rican airport officials there herding us towards the terminal. Air appreciation would have to wait.

Canada to Mexico: Part I

2010-05-31T16:39:00.002-06:00

The following is part of a series of blogs that will describe how it is that I came to live and surf in Mexico. Along the way, you will also learn about Cabo Pulmo, as promised, oh so many blogs ago.

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It was an honest-to-goodness dark and stormy night in November 1999 and I was driving the two lane between Gananoque and Kingston in an old burgundy Chevy van. The van was one of those funky numbers from the 80s outfitted with captains’ chairs, a queen-sized bed and a gas gauge that didn’t work. A friend’s boyfriend who'd been visiting from Tuktoyaktuk lent it to me in exchange for parking while he left for a month to go harvest marijuana in Jamaica. Along with freedom and sanity, my new apartment came with a parking space that I had nothing to park in because my soon-to-be ex was keeping pretty much all our matrimonial assets including the truck registered in my name. When the boy from Tuk said I could use his van in exchange for free parking, I agreed, happy to have temporary wheels and picturing it as the perfect ride to transport my meager belongings between “Broken Home” and “Newly-single-woman-in-her-30s Home.”

So I was driving through the dark countryside, Dido’s Hunter rather prophetically playing on the tape deck, squinting through the rain-splattered windshield and thinking, taking stock really, of where I was and what the future might hold. I wasn’t afraid in my aloneness, which was unusual, and hummed along as Dido concurred that I should “take a chance on life again.” It was excitement I was feeling, mild excitement with a tiny edge of the ever-present WASP angst emanating from the territory of the unknown. I’d just walked away from everything in my life I’d worked very hard for – a home with a big yard, my garden, all the “stuff” we’d filled the house with and, most life-altering, a marriage of 6.5 years. We were partners and lived together most of thirteen years. [“Minus one” I always say, referring to the year we spent apart before I ran back to him, tail between my legs.] He was all I’d ever known as an adult. We moved in together the January before my 19th birthday and since then I’d only spent that one year on my own - a year filled with acute depression (and the weight gain associated with shitty 90s anti-depressants), insecurity and a sense that I would never find another man who could love me.

But as I drove towards Kingston, I knew this time was different. After years of agonizing and second-guessing myself, in the instant when I finally decided I had to leave, I knew it was right. An immense weight I’d carried around for years was lifted from my shoulders and I felt a sense of optimism lift me up off the ground like I’d suddenly sprouted wings. In that moment, I knew I made the right decision. And I never so much as peaked backwards.

In the weeks and months that ensued that relationship-shattering decision, when I ran into people who knew us both I’d have to control my instinct to smile and be joyful in the face of what everyone saw as a great tragedy. One of our friends was visibly shaken at the news. He cried like it was his own when he spoke of the end of our marriage. I realized then that people see what they want to see and hang a lot of their own dreams for a perfect and wonderful life on what they perceive others have. The trouble is that it’s impossible to really know what someone else is experiencing. What others saw as a successful partnership and loving marriage was in fact a cold and critical thing lacking any love at all.

But I digress.

So I was driving along and thinking about my future and the boy from Tuk’s trip to Jamaica danced around in my imagination. Whatever it was that made him so free, I hoped it was catching and the van a virtual spawning ground. How nice it would be to go somewhere warm after what had been nine summers in a row working in the Arctic and winters spent in bone-numbing, dreary southern Ontario. I played with the seemingly impossible idea that I could just pick up and take off somewhere tropical. Unbeknownst to me I was infected, but the virus would need to incubate for a few weeks more.

Jack

2010-04-27T20:12:00.003-06:00

I read about him filled with anticipation and awe, half-expecting him to step out of the pages where he reveals so much of himself, so much reality, so much truth. Conjuring him from my imagination, there he is, smiling shyly, self-consciously, looking at his hand before offering it, glancing up briefly and then, quietly, he introduces himself. I strain to hear the tinge of an accent, the result of the first six years before he mastered his second. An innocence streams from his eyes and a light fills the space between us, emanating from somewhere at his center. I realize the light he ascribed his hero was in fact his own reflected back into his own eyes. I offer him a seat and we begin to chat, awkwardly at first - he fidgets in this seat, his hands first clasped, then fiddling with a pant leg, then finally arrested between his jeaned thighs. On his torso he bears a plaid shirt like the ones for sale in vintage shops - the top of a white t-shirt showing at the neck. His dark thick hair hinting at his roots is neat and combed back with something greasy and it needs to be cut. He is fair complected with a hint of olive - and pale - he hasn’t been in the sun in some time - I imagine he would tan darkly if given the chance, take the time. But he’s worried about time - knows we have too little and thinks constantly of his own mortality. I offer him a drink and now the conversation gets going - like a train straining up a steep mountainside. How the publishers worry too much, fiddle too much, how they lack the vision to see something for what it truly is, instead agonizing over obscenity and libel. “Fuck that!” he says emphatically, not quite slamming his now empty glass down on the coffee table. I offer him another. In the pause after his outburst we sit and consider our drinks, mine barely half-finished. The silence slightly less uncomfortable now, I rise to put on some music....”Miles Davis” he whispers almost to himself as the first notes of So What gurgle up and float out of the turntable. There is a sadness that seeps from him slowly like smoke from a seawater soaked firepit. Sadness and desperation, intensity, not broodiness. He is all sincerity and truth-seeking. Pure light tinged with that same smokiness of too much life behind and a knowing of too little left ahead. Make me want to rise and wrap my arms around him while he sits looking into the bottom of his glass. Instead he stands and moves towards me, graceful, like a cat, he slides onto the couch beside me, leans his shoulder into mine. Instinctively, I put my arms around him and he relaxes in my embrace, both of us facing the west, sun falling out of the sky outside the dust-coated window. He recounts the story of how each evening he would do the same with his maman, how he would tell her the stories from his day, reveal his dreams. How later when they were apart each evening he would pine for her arms about him and instead would write her his stories of the day’s happenings. How everything he wrote, he wrote for her and that this was probably why none of his relationships with women ever worked out. They couldn’t compete and their arms never

felt

quite

right.

.

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Backwards to the Future

2010-04-19T09:37:00.003-06:00

I know I promised to write about current conservation issues in Cabo Pulmo at the end of my last blog. Something more (or just as) pressing has come up however.

While doing my daily clicks for charity yesterday morning, my eye was drawn to the left hand side of the page, where a video graphic was changing from white to red. The text at the top reads "If only whales could scream...then the world might listen." The image is of a whale with a ship in the background and as the images progress the ship gets closer and a harpoon appears and then the entire image turns deep, blood red. Effective. I clicked on it.

My click took me to a petition created by the International Fund for Animal Welfare. The petition was addressed to the President of the United States.

Dear President Obama,

America has led the international fight to stop the cruel, unnecessary commercial slaughter of whales for decades.

Since championing passage of the international ban on commercial whaling in 1986, every American President has reasserted our nation’s strong leadership role in the fight to save whales already threatened as never before by pollution, ship strikes, entanglement, climate change and other perils.

Today, disturbing reports indicate that your administration may support an international agreement permitting Japan and others to resume commercial whaling. We respectfully ask that you act immediately to stop this sellout, and instruct U.S. representatives to the International Whaling Commission to instead act to end all
commercial whaling worldwide. Honor your promise.
As a candidate you said:

“As President, I will ensure the U.S. provides leadership in enforcing international wildlife protection agreements, including strengthening the international moratorium on commercial whaling. Allowing Japan to continue commercial whaling is unacceptable.” (3/16/08)

Over 75% of the American public agrees and opposes commercial whaling. Scientists and environmental groups worldwide object to this unseemly, back-room deal to reward Japan for decades of illegal whaling under the guise of scientific research. Surely, Mr. President, these gentle, intelligent creatures deserve better from us than a long and painful death just to show up on the menu in some overpriced restaurant? Please President Obama, honor your promise: Stop the sellout. Save the Whales.

Japan plans to KILL 1000 whales this year. This is done under the guise of "research," but it has been proven that in reality the whale meat is sold throughout the country in restaurants and grocery stores (canned) as a delicacy. This is happening with the existing protections in place. How many more whales will be killed, for profit, if the current laws concerning whaling are weakened?

Please consider signing the petition at the IFAW or one of the other many animal protection and conservation web sites that feel also that it is abomination that that US President is actually considering not assuring whales the protection they deserve. It is a giant leap backwards for whale species, bringing into question not just their future, but also that of the planet and therefore our own. Let your voice be heard - tell President Obama that he must honor his election promises and not give in to pressure from Japan. Whales today...what will it be tomorrow?

Forward this link to as many people as you can. And let people know that on April 22nd, EARTH DAY there will be a rally at the White House to let the President know that commercial whaling on any level is not acceptable. Not now, not ever.

****************************************

Text IFAW to 30644
or visit www.ifaw.org/stopthesellout

Get the facts from the NRDC

More information on Cetacean Intelligence

Intermission Over - Return to Your Posts

2010-04-14T09:43:00.006-06:00

We are storytellers. Throughout history we have told the stories of how we have come to be where, who and what we are. We seem to have figured out very early on that every story has a beginning, a middle and an end. Each part is necessary to make the story flow, to give it structure and to not leave the reader wondering where they are going along the way. Every part is essential to the telling of a good story, but the ending, I would suggest is perhaps most important because it gives us the “ah ha” that is the motivation behind the telling in the first place.

As some of you know, I am writing my own tale - the story of how and why it is that I came to be in Mexico, of working in the tiny community of Cabo Pulmo on the conservation of a national marine park that was being neglected by local and federal authorities, and, possibly of more universal significance, the story of a recently divorced woman finding her way through the maze that is life lived in a foreign land. While undertaking the mental gymnastics necessary to outline this memoir, I came to the realization that what I thought was the ending was actually just an intermission.

It struck me that I’d ended the story too soon. And the Truth contained in the quote attributed to Socrates about The Unexamined Life was driven home in a most tangible way. I realized that there was still work to be done, people still trying to do it and regardless of my personal experiences, good, bad and ugly, they could probably use some support. Because I am uniquely suited to help in some way. We all are. We each have a different set of skills, talents and characteristics that lend themselves to helping out a cause in different ways. My way may not be as successful as his way or her way, but it is my way, my contribution and that’s as good as it gets.

Cabo Pulmo sits only 21 miles North along the bone-jarring, washboard coastal road in the East Cape region of Baja California Sur. Despite its proximity the flow of news South to where I live has been suffering a drought of many years. So I started contacting people I knew from back in the day in an attempt to discover what the status of the project was and who was currently involved. The internet and Facebook provided clues and contacts - a snippet of information here, a name there, like bread crumbs dropped surreptitiously on a forest floor. Many emails later, I was catapulted into a clearing and there we all were, back on the beach in Cabo Pulmo, hashing out strategies as though five years hadn’t passed.

The Universe works in mysterious ways.

Yesterday I got an email from a member of the non-profit conservation group WildCoast, who got my address from a fellow conservationist unaware of my recently renewed vigor for the cause.

All the WildCoaster related was that they were looking for accommodations in my neighborhood and hoped I could point them in the right direction. In the electronic conversation that ensued I realized "they" included the director of WildCoast, Serge Dedina, one of the first significant contacts in the Mexican conservation world that I made on my journey here in 2002. Also very probably the most encouraging among many supporters that would follow in great part because he too had plied the trade of conservation in Cabo Pulmo and understood better than most what a challenge it represents. When I discovered that he and his crew were coming to work with the team in Cabo Pulmo, the same people I'd recently renewed a working relationship with, I recognized the synchronicity and the message it contained - the decision to pick up where I'd left off five years ago was the right one.

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Stay tuned for current Cabo Pulmo conservation issues

Fowl Play

2010-04-02T13:34:00.007-06:00

Felipe bought a rooster a while back. I first saw the animal tied by one leg to Felipe’s outdoor table and I asked him what he intended to do with it. He replied that he was going to make a caldo (Spanish for soup). The next day, I found Felipe sitting on the stoop outside his house, the rooster wrapped gently in his arms. He was stroking it. I asked him when he was going to make his soup and in reply he said something about someone named “Enrique.” In keeping with his shy nature, Felipe mumbles a lot. Even my Mexican friends have trouble understanding him. I asked “Enrique? Enrique who?”

“The rooster!” he shot back, holding his feathered friend out in emphasis. He bore a look of exasperation that said “Silly gringa, don’t you know anything?” I shook my head in disbelief and told him I thought there was little chance he would eat it now that he had named him.

Later the same day I heard Felipe talking to the rooster. He was cooing to him in a high soft voice, as though the rooster were a small child. I couldn’t help but smile.

As the days wore on, I often observed Enrique perched in a tall spiny bush near Felipe’s house. Tony, who detests the vicious spines borne by the Vinorama plant, kills any growing on the property, but this one, the largest of them all, he left alone. I suspect his reasons were two-fold: its size meant removal represented a significant challenge and lots of swearing, but it also provides a screen between Felipe’s often trash-laden exterior and the property’s main entryway.

Walking by Felipe’s house, I inquired as to when he’d be having rooster caldo. He looked at me like I was crazy. “Oh, no...no caldo. I’m going to keep him.” No surprise there. I suggested that he needed to keep a close eye on Enrique - the dogs had a shady past related to Clotilde’s chickens back in Cabo Pulmo.

One day I noticed that Enrique was tied up under Felipe’s table again. I recalled Felipe was working elsewhere that day. In his stead, Ruby was watching him intently. Ruby is our dog who bears a striking resemblance to an Arctic fox. She was sternly told to leave the rooster alone. I left figuring the rooster would teach her a lesson if she dared to follow through on her foxy machinations.

Later that same day I heard rather odd noises coming from near Felipe’s house. Listening more closely, I realized it was Enrique. It sounded was like he was choking.

I ran up to Felipe’s where I discovered Ruby with Enrique in her mouth. In response to my frantic yelling, she spit him out and he flopped and fluttered into his spiny Vinorama tree to escape her torture. I retrieved him by delicate maneuvering around huge pointy spines and the aid of a towel.

Pulling back the towel, I assessed the damage and to my dismay discovered his back was a mess of raw flesh - he had been plucked and skinned alive. I didn’t give his chance of survival much hope and considered whether I should put him out of his misery. I couldn’t help but think “Felipe may have his caldo after all.”

After considering killing Felipe’s little friend a last resort, I placed him in a dog crate (minus the dog), and gave him food and water. Later that afternoon, I returned him to a strangely unfazed Felipe, explained to him that he could under no circumstances leave his rooster tied up where the dogs could get him and that he was now in charge of his rooster’s fate.

Amazingly, Enrique lived. Miraculously, the skin on his back was regenerated and, after his exile of several weeks, I noted small white pin feathers starting to fill in over the new soft whitish skin.

Released at last from the crate, each morning Enrique could be seen trotting along behind Felipe as he went about his morning chores, Felipe cooing and chatting to him sweetly. Were one to arrive at breakfast time, the sounds coming from the kitchen suggested that Felipe was entertaining polite company of a much more human type.

One afternoon, I looked out the kitchen window towards his house and saw Felipe lying on the ground outside his door. Inspection confirmed that he was very, very drunk. Enrique was there, strutting around him, clucking “suspiciously,” I thought, and giving me the eye. As I got closer, he jumped onto Felipe’s chest, flapped his wings and made a noise that I interpreted to mean he would disembowel anyone stupid enough to come any closer. Enrique was guarding him!

I went to check on the work our crew was doing a couple of days later and, pausing from his labor, Felipe asked me for some money. “What for?” I asked, giving him the look that meant it better not be for beer.

“Enrique’s getting married,” he said matter-of-factly. “I need to get him a woman.”

“A woman? You’re going to get a woman to marry your rooster?” I paused and looked at him curiously. “Don’t you mean a hen, Felipe?”

The distinction was unimportant to Felipe. “Yes, Yes, a hen” he said impatiently, “he’s getting married to a hen, but I need to buy her first.”

Antonio the mason laughed and remarked that the rooster was getting married before Felipe would. Felipe, unhappily single and with few prospects, regularly inquires as to the marital status of any women who visit and on occasion asserts he’s going to town to find himself a mora (a berry, or in this context a woman). Antonio, his assistant Juan and I goodnaturedly teased him about his rooster’s impending nuptials.

The hen arrived a few days later - a gift from Ismael Gonzalez, the son of a local rancher who as a hobby raises fighting cocks. She was the ugliest hen I’d ever seen and I asserted “I think there’s something wrong with her Felipe. She’s lost all the feathers on her neck and bottom.” I thought surely she had mange or the chicken-equivalent thereof. Felipe didn’t seem to mind and was glowing with anticipation because now that they were married Enrique and his bride (she didn’t seem to warrant a name) could make babies. He would have a whole flock of chickens and could sell the eggs. Tony agreed with me. “That’s one ugly chicken, “ was all he could muster.

Running into Ismael, I thanked him for giving Felipe the hen and then, attempting diplomacy, mentioned my concerns regarding the hen’s health. He laughed and corrected me “No, no. She is fine. That is what the hens that make fighting cocks look like.” I thought, “Oh great, Felipe’s going to raise a bunch of fighting cocks and hideous hens. This should be interesting.”

I didn’t have to wait long before things got interesting.

First Felipe informed me that the hen didn’t want to have anything to do with Enrique. I wasn’t convinced that the feeling wasn’t mutual, but Felipe assured me that Enrique was trying his best to woo the bride. Then one day Felipe turned up at my door, grasping his forearm. A trickle of blood escaped from under his pressed hand. “What happened?” I asked him as I cleaned the deep wound and bandaged his arm. “Enrique attacked me,” he said, a note of disbelief and hurt in his voice.

A few days later, Felipe was back at my door again. It was his hand that needed bandaging this time, but the cause was the same. Felipe wondered what could have gotten into Enrique. I thought for a moment and then informed Felipe that I believed his rooster was feeling his “oats” and perhaps saw Felipe as competition for the attention of the hen. “I think Enrique is jealous,” I suggested to an incredulous Felipe.

In the days that followed, Felipe didn’t appear seeking more bandaging, so I figured he’d adapted to his rooster’s increasing aggression and learned to stay clear of him when the hen was about. In time, however, I noticed something was missing. I don’t know if one of the dogs got to her, or if Felipe finally had his caldo, but that hen was nowhere to be seen.

One way or another Enrique got a divorce.

.