Awash in Waves

"He left without saying goodbye."
Those words had always conjured up images of a beloved sneaking away in the middle of the night; a scribbled mea culpa left amongst forgotten socks. Now I know it can mean otherwise, like:  I was standing right there while he packed and made various trips to his van, and then he got in and drove away. Yes, he left without saying goodbye.

Perhaps I shouldn't be surprised since I asked him to leave. But I always think that we lowly humans should be "better than that." Which means I'm repeatedly disappointed.

Just two night's ago we had had a long, meaningful talk. One of the best of our one year friendship. The next day we drove out to a series of deserted Mexico beaches to explore and beach comb and fish under gloriously azure skies. Ron grilled ribeye for dinner and I poured lip-smacking good "Pieces of Red" Cabernet.  All was perfect, until it wasn't. Until he said something about making a fire outside and I said sure I'd be there in a few minutes after I finished a phone call to my daughter. The next thing I knew I stepped outside to see him driving off with the neighbors to take them to dinner.

It's not that specific event, per se. That didn't matter in the scheme of things. It didn't matter because if it hadn't been that event it would have been another. Because no matter how many talks we garnered under our belts, alcohol trumped good intentions. His drinking all day and into the night made mincemeat of love. My marriage of 15 years had ended last year; turned on my words, "I'm not growing old with a mean drunk." That partner was a suave drinker with a cynical edge.  This one was a beer and gin explosion of disparaging words and scoffs; or, the sweetest most fun man and lover in the world. I never knew which one would show up. I only knew that every night I faced the question.

Do you get it yet, Christina? By golly, I think I do.

His departure yesterday morn coincided with the lowest tide since I arrived Bahia de Kino. I haven't eaten real food since, which reminds me, I must squeeze myself some juice. I walk the beach and cry, missing fisherman Ron, the birder with eagle eyes and a little boy smile that turned my heart.  This morning I Skyped my girlfriend Sandra in Thailand. I suggested laughter therapy for her to move some post-divorce energy. Then, voila!  I took my own advice. I made myself laugh out there on the beach at nothing in particular. And laugh. Out loud from the belly.

That final unforgettable day with Ron I had picked up the shell of my life. It looked like a spiral pendant, about the size of a quarter. I held onto it as if I'd found a gold nugget. Then, this morning's walk and forced laughter led into a deep crying jag. I grew quiet, cowgirled-up and bam, out of the blue came the point. 

Life force energy moves in a spiral. It comes around, full cycle, but never returns to the exact same point...it travels outward from a dynamic core, an evolutionary surge.  This part I knew. What I got this morning was how serious addiction was circular energy. Round and round and round you go. New movement may spawn, but redundancy takes over. It's always back to the same place. There is no progress.

How I wish we could have joined in a spiral dance.

Thieves of the Night

Full moon set and espresso. A candle, flame whipped by the gentle breeze, not enough to light my journal. The mind is given to simple questions. I wonder when a hummer will zip by my head on the way to his first sip of nectar? How many shells ride each wave on its way to the beach? I collect a few shells everyday. My heart's lust of the day is a sorta-round, paper thin 'potato chip'. Translucent wonders, they force a slow down on my beach walk; just the right angle of light to reveal their delicate repose. Jingle shells. When gathered together they tinkle and call forth fairies.

I am also drawn to pick up half-dollar-sized, thick grayish sea-carved scallop shells that look like they belong next to my gastrolith on my altar...the dinosaur gizzard stone. 

The moon deepens into yellow as she lowers herself upon the sea. La Luna casts shadows of want across the sand. Spiky palm fronds. My body in the folding chair. A lone beach walker silhouette. Myriad roosters crow from afar but the loudest sound is the incoming tide. The lips of waves kiss moonlight moments before they uncurl and give themselves to shore.

This, my first full moon on the shore of Bahia de Kino. Three weeks here. Ebony pilot whales swim the coastline sending thrill through my heart. I have seen my first Brant (goose) and walked miles of lonesome beach. I have been sandblasted by ferocious winds and had my good paring knife stolen by an arm that reached through my kitchen window in the night, knocking over the coffee grinder...which in the scheme of things, is MUCH more important.

I reckon life by words written and scenes witnessed. Thieves are many; not all bad.

Face the Cake

It is the first new moon of 2011. Waves hit shore, flow out of pre-dawn darkness. It is good to be in Bahia de Kino. I have returned to the pages of MotorHome Zen. When I traveled south I wasn't sure what book project would grab me by the scruff of the neck.  This one that I have re-written three times, or a new one that I've been scribbling about.  It is this one, and I am ecstatic. That stronger narrative arc that the publishers wanted has become clear. It feels like coming home...immersed in words again.

La Perla is parked at the far eastern end of the RV Park where there are only three palm-tree studded spots that face the ocean a stone's throw from the water. Or rather, a dog ball's throw. I prefer it here, away from the nucleus of the larger RV park that sits a little higher a few minute's walk away. Two rental casitas are between me and them. I sit under the palapa, read and watch the hypnotic waves; who needs television with the little piece of world that passes by on the beach? A few walkers in the morning and the Mexican fishermen that launch pangas at sunrise and return at dusk. 

And then there's the children and Teak. The look of joy she brings to their faces is priceless as she heaves herself into the waves after her ball, returns and drops the ball at my feet. I hand them the ball, they throw, she retrieves. Yesterday a teenage boy was batting his hardball  into a net and Teak kept going to the fence, signaling that she wanted in to play. He came out and threw the ball for her a few times before he realized his good fortune. A four-legged ball return! He took for the beach where he batted the ball and Teak retrieved. He called his sisters and mom who took videos.

Yes, the children. Neighbors Russell and Ken attended a 10-year old's birthday party. Thirty children and not one whined, cried or misbehaved. Their account reminded me of what I have witnessed in Guatemala with the Mayans. There was a pinata but it was not filled with candy...it contained two presents. Once broken, the mother went outside and stood at a window which was opened and the children lined up inside to receive a bag of goodies from her that included a ticket. They took the ticket to the hot dog cart where they traded it for a bacon-wrapped Sonoran hot dog. The climax of the party, however, was the birthday cake, a large rectangular cake that sat upon a card table. The children gathered around the birthday boy, led him to the cake and proceeded to push his face into the sugar frosted desert. The laughter was uncontrollable.

Old Kino, the Mexican town. Palm trees and roosters crow at dawn. Dogs that show every rib and epitomize the word cur. Carts that sell fresh scallops and oysters and clams. Men hocking blankets and ironwood carvings of dolphins Yesterday I purchased a mobile made from coconuts...brightly painted fish that sway whimsy above the table where I sit and tap out changes to my book.

I think about those kids pushing the birthday boy's face into his cake. What an amazing ritual and lesson in the ability to laugh at ourselves...to not get caught up in being the star...to be humble. It's the perfect introduction to 2011, as the ocean turns blood red with dawn and the first new moon  rises with the sun.