Kino Farewell

I awoke in a panic this morning thinking I had to start packing. It wasn't true. Today is Tuesday and I leave Thursday morning. I have two more days to walk this glorious shore to the beat of the surf; the cries of terns and sea gulls. Once calmed down I wrote a bit, climbed out of bed and proceeded to toss my carefully-crafted Greek meatballs into the dishwater. I'd forgotten they were in a pan that was underneath another pan and well, you get the picture. Meatballs floating in the suds.

The idea of leaving has me in a tizzy. I'm ready to go on some levels. My shampoo is almost gone and I'm down to the final few squeezes of my Colgate. But the thought of leaving new friends, Brant's geese, jingle shells and loons weighs heavily on the soul. My heart has been stolen by this quirky old village on Bahia de Kino. It is at once vibrant and edgy. Charming and ugly. Trash washes up on the beach and a small squadron of four men with garbage bags make their way down shore to pick up cans, paper and plastic. Pelicans wash onshore and within hours the turkey vultures have picked bones clean; the leftover feathers and bones carried back to sea by the changing tide.

My foot is still swollen from the sting ray cut two weeks ago. I'm told it may be weeks...that ray cuts are deep and the toxins are extremely potent. Some folks have nerve damage for years. I was lucky...that tail hammered me on top of my foot so I could still function close to normal. The Red Cross doctor was a miracle worker. He deadened the cut and spent a half hour cleaning, extracting toxins and shooting it with antibiotic. The cost was whatever I wanted to contribute in a little metal box that was affixed to the wall. The doctor had gotten his medical school for free with the understanding that he would serve a community for five years and live on a pauper's salary.

It is safe down here. There is some petty crime, yes, but nothing comes close to bodily harm. The people are terribly strapped because the North Americans are staying home. My friend Connie's computer was stolen from her casita. She drove 30 miles to file a police report. The police came and dusted for prints and we thought that would be the end of it. But yesterday, 4 weeks later, the detectives came back with her computer. The man who had it is in jail until he coughs up who sold it to him. 

I came to Bahia de Kino to finish a book, MotorHome Zen, which I did. I even sold a bunch of Living on the Spine. I'll leave minus a good paring knife and skillet (taken out of my dish drainer by someone who reached inside my kitchen window in the middle of the night) and a pair of sandy Saucony running shoes I left outside my door. Couldn't have worn them anyhow, with that ray cut on the top of my foot.

I will sorely miss this place of come and go. Every few hours the beach is new with a zillion shells, shapely dunes and exposed rock. Kids make sculptures, young women show up in wedding dresses and inflatable banana boats skim the shore with rollicking children. It will take more than a drug lord to rip the fabric of joy that permeates these lands. The people here are used to upheaval. They celebrate their revolutionaries, like Benito Juarez and Pancho Villa.

The pangas leave with dawn, their fishermen facing into the salt-laden breeze. I have watched the daily bouncing of boats and bodies on wind-ravaged seas, engines that would not start, trailers that got stuck in the sand up to their frames. No matter the problem, I have not heard one fisherman yell or loose his temper with his comrades. There's no blame; no anger. They merely work it and methodically do what they can with what little they have. I want to remember this. I dream of having bumper stickers made that say, "Think like a Mexican."

Sailor Du Jour

I turned off my lights last night, ready to crawl into bed but not before I glanced out my window. I was checking the ocean about a half-mile up shore, looking for the light in watery darkness that marked a sign of life. A catamaran had sailed into the bay and anchored the day before spring. I'd been walking up the playa on my morning jaunt. The full moon was quickly disappearing into daylight as a man in cut-off sweat pants beached a little white dingy. Beautiful boat, I said, pointing to the mother ship. Thanks, he answered. His bushy blond eyebrows arched high over small brown eyes. He was sweet, almost shy. And strong. He asked where he might find a haircut, groceries and a hardware store. I directed him down the beach and told him if he had any problems to stop by my trailer, about halfway to the pier. He came ambling down the beach later that day in jeans and sneakers. Took off his straw hat and smiled,  I found a haircut! We stood at the seawall and talked for a bit. Found out his name was Stacy. He asked about where to find internet and I said he was welcome to come back and use mine the next day.

It was the weekend of revolutionary Benito Juarez's birthday. A three day mob scene on the beach of Bahia de Kino. The playa filled with families and college students. All good. All fun. And danged if Stacy didn't make his way up the beach the next morn. This time he dragged that dingy up in front of my trailer. He didn't want espresso and cream. He drank Nescafe, he said. I suppose he didn't want to get used to the good stuff. He had sailed up from  San Carlos and was on a practice run before he headed down to Panama. He was a one-man show. He not only captained the boat solo, but he'd never been married at age 58. Neither had two of his siblings out of a total of five. He called himself Stephen (Esteban) in Mexico, where the locals didn't get 'Stacy' as a man's name. I mentioned I was heading to the grocery store to get a few things and yes, he said, he'd love to ride along. Good thing, because shelves were empty due to holiday crowds. We drove around until we found a store that didn't look like it'd been hit by a hurricane preparedness frenzy.

Stacy insisted on taking me out to dinner for my generosity. He headed back to his boat at sundown, rowing into the setting sun, gulls and pelicans fore and aft. He came back the next day, Skyped his mother and walked into town with his Trader Joe's shopping bag. When he returned I offered to take him out to the estuary a few miles out of town. One of my favorite places for seabirds. We grabbed a bucket, stopped downtown and filled it with cold beer. I shoveled in the crushed ice, compliments of the beer store, as he held the bottles upright. Then we went looking for a bottle opener. Found one in a stall selling junk on the corner that looked like something from a 50's carnival. A ceramic onion with an opener on top.It was either that or a replica of a Corona beer bottle. The onion thing was hilarious.

The tide was high; the beach was peppered with families, fishermen and kite fliers. We walked along shore, laughing, talking, sharing stories of our travels throughout the world -  my perspective from the interior of countries; his from bays and docks. Guatemala. Tanzania and Kenya. Nicaragua. He treated me to dinner again, this time at the estuary...old picnic tables covered in oil cloth. We shared fish and large shrimp split down the middle, 'cooked' in lime juice that was one of the best dishes I've had.

Stacy rowed back at sundown again, into a strong westerly wind. He'd mentioned something about another restless night on board. I didn't know if he was hinting for an invitation to stay. I just know I was content to close the door on a wondrous day and crawl into bed alone. I watched his slow-going trip, marveling at his strength and perseverance and was relieved to finally see that light come on.

This morning's sunlight fell upon his boat, a splendid scene on calm waters. I hung out my laundry and came back to pour a second up of coffee as I glanced out the window. His boat was gone. I grabbed my binoculars and made my way outside to see him rounding Alcatraz Island, heading south towards San Carlos. It feels like a dream. A friend here and gone. A man floating in and out of my life. But I know it was real. I have that kitschy onion opener to prove it. And a deep drag line in the sand in front of the trailer that leads straight into the ocean.

Beach Walk thru Millineums

I'd barely made it to the gate when a reddish brown sea shell came spiraling out of the palm tree from above. I looked up to see a grackle. Grackle! Dropping shells from on high was the domain of the gulls. I'd almost been hit several times on the beach as gulls winged straight up into the sky and dropped their mollusk to the ground. It took 2 or 3 tries but they eventually split the shell and made their way to the meat. But a grackle? I inspected the shell and sure enough there was a critter inside.

I continued down the long stretch of sand. My friend Joe's shocking discovery was on my mind.  Two days before, on the new moon (high, strong tides) he'd found a Seri Indian axe head, beautifully chipped. It was partially submerged in the sand at shoreline; the hewn sharp edge had caught his eye. Come to find out, many Seri treasures wash to shore, including their dolls. It makes sense. These lands and waters were their domain. Their Isla Tiburon (Shark Island), traditional Seri lands for millennia, is within site of  my trailer. But this canyonland's woman hadn't made the connection. Ruins were in cliff side hideaways or on top of dusty, isolated plateaus; in sandy ravines and washes after rain. "Just look for the rocks," Joe said. Do you know how many rocks are on a beach when you really look? Furthermore, how could I find jingle shells if I was looking for rocks? One was heavy, rough and stony; the other translucent and angelic. My eye/brain connection was totally confused. Best to look to the sea.

And I did. Swimming in the distance was a small pod of dolphins. They dipped, dove and rose to the surface in wet arches of grace. They moved down the coast with me for awhile. I took a seat on the sand and watched for magical minutes as they circled and fed in one place just  20 yards away. I could have waded out and touched them. Then, in a fit of sudden leaps, they were on their way.

"Did you see the dolphins?" asked the sweet old woman in broken English.  I'd seen her hunched figure from a distance. She wore a sack dress like my Danish Aunts used to wear. It was probably handmade, too, like theirs. "This bay used to be filled with them," she said with sadness. I don't doubt her words for a moment. Yesterday I'd seen two giant sea lions skimming the shoreline; and the same day Joe found that axe head I rescued a little octopus that had washed ashore clinging to a scallop shell. I've seen a pilot whales several times and one pod of over forty dolphins. It sounds like a lot but I've been here since Christmas and extensively covered beaches north and south of Kino. This bay should bubble with dolphin. 

I had walked a ways further when a rock caught my eye. It had a significant worn groove down the middle. No way! A grinding or sharpening stone? I picked it up and carried it back. I'll show it to Joe. Either way, Seri tool or no, I'll return it to the ocean. It belongs there, with the dolphins, whales and octopi.