Eli had this rooster eating out of his hand, all the while Nala is sitting there like, "Rooster? What rooster?" Then she tried to be friends and Rooster wasn't having any of that inter-species dog/bird fraternization crap...strutting away, real fast like he was already gonna be walking that direction ... complaining loudly the whole time and if you could be struck dead by the dirty looks a bird can give you, we'd all be goners.
This was a reply of mine to the question "Have you ever had anything weird, ghostly, or paranormal happen aboard a boat?" Only once. We were living on a trimaran in Morro Bay when my Eli was an infant. Before his tracheostomy. We had a small AC/DC tv. We were watching whatever crap was on NBC that night, the only channel that came in well, and the tv faded out. Our batteries were full and the connections were good, and it hadn't turned off like it normally would, but rather the picture shrunk to a tiny point in the middle of the screen. I pressed the power button several times but nothing happened. The white point was still there. After about one minute, the point expanded to a picture of sorts. It was a cartoon clown but with only a dark tv screen background. As though that point had become the clown head and torso and the rest of the screen was dead. It was a really scary clown. Still for several seconds, and then it began to move. It looked directly at us. Pointed at us, and grew angrier. It was the most dangerous, hateful looking thing that I'd ever seen. It started shouting, but there was no sound at all. It was pointing, gesticulating, screaming really bad things at us that we couldn't hear or understand. Spit flew from it's mouth as it threatened and yelled and thrust its arms out at us. It began foaming at the mouth and was moving faster and faster, angrier and angrier, murderous. It wanted to torture us and kill us. Faster and faster until it became a blur and then it shrunk back down to a point again. I had pressed all the buttons trying to turn off the tv or change the channel, I had unplugged it and plugged it back in, but nothing mattered. After 30 seconds the point disappeared and the tv made that gunk-crackle sound that the old CRT tvs made and Jeopardy or whatever came back on. I have no explanation for what it could have been. No theories. 100% true and both Tamiko and I saw exactly the same thing.
Also, horny as fuck. I don't know if it's the light eyes, the guera status, the crazy color hair, the tattoos, the fact that I'm a girl who also works on engines and goes up masts and rescues boats, or simply the part where I'm a female in the near vicinity...but they are relentless in their good-natured flirtation. That's not a bad thing. At 40 something, I take it as a compliment when a good-looking guy half my age tries to convince me I'm the most beautiful thing he's ever seen and we should go escondido ourselves down to a secluded beach this dark night for some definitely NSFW fun and games. I've never once had any of them force himself on me, or touch me inappropriately, and they take their inevitable defeats with grace and humor. [caption id="attachment_4346" align="aligncenter" width="630"] They're always giving you bedroom eyes...[/caption] Yesterday, I went to Home Depot to get some peat moss for our C-Head composting toilet. Now, where we are in Mexico, they've got big buses and smaller van-type shuttles, called combis. I like to use the shuttles when I'm going somewhere I don't go all the time, because it's easier to see the stop I want to get off at. Waiting under the meager shade of the parada for the next combi to come by, a big bus rumbled up. Brakes squeaking, door squealing open, the driver leans forward and does a quick scan, looking for potential passengers. His eyes start to slide by me and then get stuck. [caption id="attachment_4347" align="aligncenter" width="630"] They've got irresistible grins--you can't help but smile back.[/caption] "Hola, amiga!" he says with a lopsided grin, "Where you go? Vallarta?" As it happens, I was going that way. Down here, the bus companies hire guys to hang around some of the major bus stops and kind of direct people onto the right buses. I think they also keep track of how many riders each bus has, per day. Our guy, today, was a rascally looking one-eyed fellow, who had already thoroughly quizzed me about where I was going, did I live here or not, and was I, perhaps, single and carefree? "Pues," he says to the bus driver, before I've even had a chance to reply. "Sí, pero ella quiere un combi." The driver turns back to me with his most inviting smile. "Ven," he says, patting the cushioned stool that's strapped right next to the driver's seat, "usted puede sentarse aquí." I laugh and say thank you but I'm going to wait for a combi. He hikes one eyebrow up in question, cocks his head to the side and laughingly pats his lap. "Aquí?" We are all three of us laughing pretty hard now, as I decline the kind offer to sit on his lap. The bus stop monitor has the last laugh, saying, "Cabrón, ella quiere quedarse más tiempo conmigo!" The bus driver laughs, waves goodbye, and right before the doors creak shut, gives me a look that implies, should I ever need a proper bus driver, he's the man.
[caption id="attachment_4335" align="aligncenter" width="481"] Couple of years ago, when family came to visit. Eli's zoning out on iguanas or looking for crocodiles...maybe waiting for wind :-)[/caption] Pretty sure my brother Chad took this picture :-)
Say that in a Valley Girl accent. It's kind of funny if you have a defective but overactive sense of humor, like me. A Valley Girl preparing to tell a very serious story about a potentially global life-changing event but saying it in the form of a question. I crack myself up. But yeah, that happened. One time I died. Eli was still so little, almost three and his tracheostomy was still fairly fresh. My clearest picture of that day was he and Tamiko sharing a shitty mauve chair in the surgery recovery room, him on her lap with a blue corrugated nebulizer hose trailing down from his neck to the ever present buzzing machine that we carried everywhere, next to the other portable vacuum machine that we also carried everywhere. Nurse Stern was looking on in her bleached 19th century uniform like a raptor, ready to strike. A surreal scene, this huge and empty hospital room with only one bed in it, one chair and stool, one creaky tray table, the nurse who hated me and the two most precious people in the world, all together in one corner, like crumbs collected. I had just undergone (is this the only time we use the word undergone?) a minor surgery to remove a fatty tumor, the best kind, from over one shoulder blade. The surgeon later said that he slit the skin and a pound of fat fell out into his hands and he stapled me back up quicker than you can make a sandwich. Nothing to it he said, the easiest surgery he'd ever done. Cool. But not cool. San Luis Obispo County is still mostly rural. There are miles of fields and farms and beach between the towns. Not a lot of people. It does not attract world class physicians; there just isn't the population. We get people who are willing to sacrifice income for quality of life--they're generally awesome, and we get those that couldn't get hired anywhere else. The anesthesiologist that we had at that time, she was one of the latter. Third, fourth, or fifth string. Not the MVP. I was in recovery for ever. Over 2 hours, no TV, just the ultra taut nurse with the echoes of her hard little white shoes and those two very important, very worried faces. I needed to escape. It felt like that--that urgency, but I really felt lousy. The Raptor eventually inclined the bed to remove my IV and I passed out. I needed out so bad and I needed a cigarette--so, I told the richest lie of my life. I passed out because of "the blood, yeah, it was the blood. I'm fine. I'm fine now." All lies. Whatever it to took to get out of there. Blood has never bothered me. I saw it on Tamiko's face. She knew I was lying. She told the nurse I was lying. And, I later learned, told her that I hated being stuck down, hated waiting, that I just wanted a cigarette and that I wasn't ready to leave. It wasn't safe. Guess I'm a pretty good liar. A short time later, they poured me into a wheel chair and pushed me out. Wow, it was bad. Hard to stay conscious. Upright like this. The docent parked me in the sun. I told him no, but not why and he wouldn't acquiesce. The hotter I got the worse it was, waiting in the sun for Tamiko to bring the car around. Don't puke, they'll roll me back in to The Raptor. Struggling. Trying to stay awake. It felt like weeks. Knowing that if I fell down that hole I'd probably never make it back out. The parking lot was large and full and she'd had a long walk to the car and it was taking way too long and I was slipping, but knowing that the reclined seat in the car could make it OK with some wind on my face, maybe it would be cool enough and I could not go but stay instead and it was a struggle, like pulling a car uphill in a sprint. The car. That beautiful hammered, faded, scratched old purple Volvo wagon came around the corner and I almost knew that I could hang on enough. Probably. Hanging on by my fingernails. Because they still really needed me and I needed to stay. On this plane. In the Volvo, rolling. Wind, cool wind on my face helping me. Out onto the world famous CA Highway 1. PCH, baby. Northbound. Headed home. And it was almost good enough for a couple minutes but then I started to slip again. Growing weightless. No traction and it was pulling me back down but they still needed me, my gorgeous baby boy with the blue plastic demon in his throat. Tamiko, my stunning wife, the most intelligent person I've ever met, she needed me too, she couldn't go it alone with that life saving demon because nobody could, but it was too hard and I was slipping. TAMIKO! Turn the car around and go back to the hospital because I can't can't... Gone. [caption id="attachment_4327" align="aligncenter" width="600"] Hills in the fog[/caption] Somewhere. Good. I didn't expect this shit but, cool. Have you ever driven out of the hills towards the coast and it was foggy? Everything down there was gray but the tops of hills here and there prodding up? You could just about see/ feel the tidal effects sloshing the fog side to side. I was like that, but I was the fog. My soul. I wasn't sure that I had one until then but I was the fog and a lot less dense than I would have ever guessed. My soul was LARGE. There were others, other souls who had been there longer, right next to my edges, mixing a tiny bit over there on the edges. They were waiting for something that had to do with me; I wasn't ready. There was love. More than there ever could be. I was really big and gaseous and my body was gone and I was so comfortable, like never before. So big and everything was so fucking good and God was there too. God loved me and I was beginning to learn and realize that love was everything here and everything was made of love. I didn't expect that shit at all. God was quite far away and God was light. As far away as India or Australia. The size of the moon, as seen from earth. [caption id="attachment_4330" align="aligncenter" width="600"] A distant light[/caption] I might have been closer, you know, closer to that God light, had things gone differently in my life...but it was perfect and where I should be. I'll be getting closer as I work for it, I knew, but this was right for now. Much of my life I did take the best option of those available to me but not always, not the whole time. I didn't even think that I believed in God. It was a maybe, but there the fucker was, like it or not. I wasn't even really thinking there, not like here--it was more like learning than like thinking. Like sounds. Sounds are not thoughts. You hear them and you identify them but you don't think them. I liked it there. Everything felt good. Things were right. Those others, they were still there at my edges and they were love too. We might have communicated at some near time but we knew that I wasn't ready. What wasn't I ready for? I wasn't ready. I learned that as a fact. Fire is hot to the touch. Fact. Clear skies are blue. Fact. Water is necessary. Fact. I wasn't ready. Fact. I was going back. Fact. No. no no no. Everything here is good and I can't go back. I was going back. Fact. I need to stay! I'm going back now. Fact. Laughing. I was laughing at the absurdity of trying to fit my soul back into that tiny ridiculous squishy body, I was too big for that thing. SOOO funny, like watching somebody who thinks they can fit the whole ocean in a coke bottle. That's how big I was there, the size of an ocean. The size of fog. Laughing. I'll never fit! If I tried my body would look like an inflated rubber glove! Funny, all round with fat arms and legs sticking straight out! [caption id="attachment_4329" align="aligncenter" width="300"] :)[/caption] BAM! Still laughing, in the car, with Tamiko on top of me in the passenger's seat crying like never before, her arms weak, her body crushed and crying COME BACK! WE STILL NEED YOU! COME BACK! please please please please please... Laughing under her, the saddest person in existence. BAM! she went from sad to mad pretty quickly. Her arms not weak anymore, as she hit me in the chest. Fucker! What the fuck are you laughing about you motherfucker! OhmygodIloveyou! As we returned to the hospital she told me that I was gone for 5 minutes, no pulse, no respiration. In the USCG they taught her that stuff, pulse and respiration, CPR, in their emergency medical classes. She had checked the clock. They taught her that too. The CPR didn't quite work either. I came back after she had given up. Back in the hospital I told them what had happened. They denied it. Low blood sugar, they said, and a hallucination. There was an older guy hovering in the ER, wearing tan scrubs, cleaning and tinkering and listening. He looked familiar to me. As I ate their sad little low-blood-sugar-sandwich and drank almost cool apple juice, he sauntered over. Yeah, a longboarder that I'd surfed with before, but not lately. "Hey Steve, wussup?" Hey, how are you? "Good man, good." Another lie. You've told it too. "I heard your story and they're full of shit, man." "This anesthesiologist sucks, she does this all the time." "Couple a week, man." "You'll be fine." "I know that really happened to you cuz they all say the same things, kinda, the ones that live." He slid away. You, my friend, you already have your own beliefs. I don't care if I change them. I didn't return for that. I didn't return to teach you or anyone else, except my son. It didn't even really change me very much; why would it change you? I'm not afraid to die anymore. I can't wait to die. But not by my own actions, I don't think you're supposed to do that. Remember that distance I talked about? You'll want it to be closer no matter what it ends up being. You can change it pretty fast over here I think. For better or for worse. It's a lot slower over there, I suspect. So now, my beliefs, because they change what you think and how you see, don't they? They do. I'm pretty fucking sure that there's a God and an afterlife now, you can bet. But I don't really understand either of them. Can't claim to. I once believed, a long time ago, that God controlled the falling of every leaf and every rain drop. I don't think that anymore. I once believed that there was no God at all and nothing after this, but I don't believe that at all now. Now, at least for me, God set this all up, this planet, this universe, to work like it does, some big crazy machine, and then he mostly leaves it alone and leaves me alone and I live within the rules of physics. The physics that we only understand a little bit of, so far. God comes by sometimes to see how it's going, like a teacher in a classroom might glance at your paper, but she doesn't hold your hand and guide you through every letter that you write. Sometimes an adjustment might be in order, like me coming back. That was to happen and that's all there was to it. Sometimes, something happens that couldn't happen. That might be God, sometimes. Other times, it's our incomplete grasp of physics or even our limited vision. Our senses can't see everything, can't hear everything, can't feel everything. Our senses are limited. We can't see UV light, for example. We can't hear above or below a certain threshold, you know that, maybe you had a dog whistle when you were a kid. You can't feel the millions of subatomic particles that shoot through your body every day that came from the other side of the universe a million years ago. We're limited. When something happens that no human can explain, how could I tell you what part of it is physical things that we can't even perceive and what part of it is God? I couldn't even tell you where to draw the line between the two, so how can I tell you what to believe? My own beliefs are ever changing as new information comes along. What should yours be? I'll never know. [caption id="attachment_4328" align="aligncenter" width="630"] This place is big[/caption] This is all pertinent, because our beliefs cloud our vision as surely as a hood over our heads. How did mine affect what I think happened that day 15 years ago? I don't think very much, because as my beliefs have changed over the years, my recollections of that day and that place have not. I have made no new realizations relating to the afterlife, death, or rebirth in the 15 years since, that I didn't make that very day. The Afterlife. Atheists believe that nothing happens after we die. It's over. We cease to exist. That what I saw was just a flush of serotonin in my brain, along with a cocktail of other chemicals, causing a grand hallucination as a result of an oxygen starved brain struggling to keep going just a little while longer. That could be correct. That could explain why there are so many common themes to the stories that we tell after we return from nearly (or mostly) dead. Or completely dead. Can't say, I wasn't here. That might explain it, but there's more to the idea than just that. If they were right about the effects of those drugs on our brains, wouldn't LSD hallucinations be almost all the same? Virtually every single culture to have ever existed on the planet earth that we've become familiar with has believed in an afterlife. No matter how old. Even some instances of hominids, besides Homo Sapiens, believing. Neandertals performing burial rituals. Pyramids! Mummies! Grand Burials with gold and jewels! Postured bodies in graves of every description with beautifully carved valuables used only for that purpose. And Ceremonies. Countless ceremonies throughout the ages and around the world. So many billions and billions of ceremonies we humans have held to honor and assist the souls of our loved ones and leaders on to their next plane of existence. So many resources, so much time spent over so many centuries by so many people belonging to so many cultures. And they were all wrong? You few. You very, very few who don't believe in anything after this, isn't it really rather arrogant to believe (there's that word again) that you're the only ones in history intelligent enough, cognizant enough to have figured out that it's all a sham? Well. That could be. You could be right about that, but I doubt it. If you are right, then so are the Communist leaders, or at least what they say is right--I'm not so sure that they believe it for themselves. They say that all pilots in planes that are going down, 100% of them, include two words. Shit and God. Not usually in the same sentence. Then, there's science. 21 grams. Many of us believe that we lose 21 grams at the moment of death. It's a nice belief. In the early 20th century, Duncan MacDougall, a physician, developed a theory that our souls have weight. If we believe that energy doesn't disappear, it only changes, then our souls (if you have one) could have mass and therefore weight and there could be a change at the moment of death. He studied death for a time and wrote his conclusions. He concluded that there was, in fact, a loss of mass at the moment of death. He put 6 different terminal patients on a scale and waited. He published his results and those publications formed that idea in our collective mind. There's a problem or two though. Of the six, two results were thrown out due to technical difficulties. The remaining four: Two had an immediate drop in weight at the moment of death. One had an immediate drop in weight, which returned and then later dropped again. So that leaves three. Each of the three lost different amounts of weight, and one of the three lost half an ounce and then lost another ounce several minutes later. Of the last two, one lost three-eighths of an ounce and the other three-quarters of an ounce. Either different people's souls have different weights or there were errors in the measurements. MacDougall said that his scale's accuracy was to two-tenths of an ounce. Beyond that, there is a lot of information about what kills us. There is also a lot of information about what happens to human bodies after our death. There isn't much about what happens at the instant of death. Even that, is difficult to determine. We once said that death occurred when the heart stopped. Now we have CPR. We've also said that it was the moment that we stopped breathing. Back to CPR. Or it could be when brain waves stop. Many people have returned from that and many of them, like me, believe that they crossed over to another state of being and returned to this one. How many? What percentage? I cannot tell. There is a reluctance, especially in the US, where we have so many lawyers looking for work, for physicians to report instances of patients dying and returning. If I were the doctor, I wouldn't want a hungry attorney coming after me nor would I want to tell a lot of people that my patients are dying. I'm sure that it's hard to get funding and volunteers to study the moment of death. Hell, even asking for either would probably kill your career. My conclusion? Death is a process. Like most biological or most psychological and basically all spiritual events, there is a large variation experienced or witnessed between these misfortunes/ mistakes/ miracles/ milestones. I do have the secret to life, if you want to know. The secret to happiness. It's the love of a beautiful tattooed girl with pink dreadlocks, the love of a sarcastic dwarf boy, the love of an old mutt dog, and a small Mexican fishing village. [caption id="attachment_3318" align="aligncenter" width="630"] On the trimaran in Morro Bay, California[/caption] [caption id="attachment_3317" align="aligncenter" width="630"] Cheeky Monkey[/caption]
It was surreal watching the Google Maps car drive down the main street in La Cruz de Huanacaxtle...even weirder to find our boat on Google Maps street view, comfortably chilling in her slip at Marina Riviera Nayarit. [caption id="attachment_3328" align="aligncenter" width="630"] Landfall at Marina La Cruz![/caption]
[caption id="attachment_3302" align="aligncenter" width="630"] The last big hurdle before we could take off cruising.[/caption] Our family has had more than the average allotment of medical issues. This was Eli's last big medical thing he had to get out of the way before we could sell everything and take off cruising. Because achondroplasia is a bone-growth disorder, the ability of his skeleton to support the normal weight of his body was not quite up to the task. As soon as achon toddlers start walking, their previously straight lower legs begin to bow and sometimes twist. It's normal and something that Eli lived with fairly easily for many years. FYI: bracing doesn't help, because the rate of bow is faster than the rate of growth. Eli could have had his legs surgically straightened years before, but opted to take a break from surgeries that didn't absolutely have to be done right now because if you don't you're gonna die or lose function or possibly the world would end. I might be paraphrasing Eli's exact words a bit there, but you get the gist of it. Unfortunately, by the time he medically had to have it done, because the extreme bowing was causing permanent damage to his knee/ankle joints and impairing blood circulation/nerve function, by the time it was TIME...I was in a wheelchair and needed my husband's help to do every little thing, including wiping my own ass. Steve honestly couldn't do all of the financial providing; all of the cooking, cleaning, shopping, and driving; all of the running me back and forth to useless doctors and doing everything, literally everything for me....all of that, and then add another human who was going to be largely physically dependent for what turned out to be nearly half a year. He couldn't manage two wheelchairs at once. Who could? Steve didn't have any help, any respite, any nursing assistance. Nope, he just did the best he could and it was amazing. Because that's the kind of guy he is. One of the things that most motivated me to keep pushing my physical recovery (even when the jerkhole doctors sent me to mandatory head shrinking for the sole purpose of brainwashing me into giving up hope of recovery, to literally make me shut up about options and therapies that might help me get out of the wheelchair), was the knowledge that every day I was in my wheelchair was a day Eli got closer to losing his ability to walk. Permanently. As soon as I got to the point where I was out of a wheelchair and not only able to care for myself, but able to help care for Eli, we put him in a wheelchair. The surgeon cut through both bones of both lower legs, used the external hardware you see to line everything up the way he wanted and then tightened it all down. This picture was one of the first times Eli started using a walker. At first it was just standing. Then he was taking steps. Eventually, he graduated to a cane. When this picture was taken, our family still had major health issues. We were financially screwed. We felt beaten down. And still, we started looking for boats. Figuring that the right one would come along at the right time. She did, and her name is Landfall. She needed so much work, but then, so did we. We kind of brought each other back to life and then, against all odds, we actually did it. We sailed away. #throwbackthursday #awesomehusbands #dwarfkidsrock #cruisingwithdisability
It is a typical expedition to far-flung locales, wherein your final goal, today, is to breathe deeply of the rarified air acondicionado in the nearest Home Depot, which lies just over the border into Jalisco. It begins with a flag check, because should you start off on such a journey without enough breeze to at least flutter the cacophony of country flags and club burgees in the marina, you’ll surely die of heat stroke 15 steps before reaching the guard shack. It begins with the hope of some wind and ends in the back seat of a local Mexican family’s car—grandma tenderly cradling her sleeping granddaughter as we rumble down the cobblestone street and she talks to me about trying to find her way back to normalcy after the sudden and unexpected death of her husband a few months ago. Such is life in Mexico, where the lives of strangers become inextricably caught up and woven into the tapestry of your life, and how much richer our lives are for having these messy, random entanglements. Strangers who become friends. But I digress…with colorful scraps of nylon flapping encouraging lies, off we set, walking like the dogs do—a slow steady pace and keeping to what shadows we can find. The sun is like an oven on the back of my neck and as we pick our way from pale shadow to suggestions of shade, the town opens wide, swallowing every last scrap of errant wind. [caption id="attachment_3232" align="aligncenter" width="630"] Little liars[/caption] [caption id="attachment_3233" align="aligncenter" width="480"] Summer survival tip #47: Walk in the shade like a dog. Dogs are smart like that.[/caption] We stop at Kiosko, to put more time on cell phones and stand gratefully in line, luxuriating in the frigid air. Maiko, whose family owns the red tienda in town, jokes that on days like this, you can find all of La Cruz standing in the cold Kiosko air, thoughtfully contemplating items they have no intention of buying, until they’ve cooled down enough to venture back out into the midday heat. He’s right. The place is packed—everyone drunk on the cool, cool air. At the highway, we hang a right, sticking close to the edge of the frontage road, even though the likelihood of getting hit is low. In La Cruz, people walk up the middle of the road and the sidewalks are reserved for late afternoon. Restaurants relocate to the sidewalks; shop owners sit under fans and hang out in doorways, as whole families spill out onto the smooth grey concrete, dragging lawn chairs and tables out of the unbearable heat inside. The children run laughing from tree to tree while adults sit fanning themselves with bits of cardboard and local gossip. Everyone says, “Hola, como estan? Heyyy, Chaparrito, que tal, amigos? Adonde van?”The cars know to look out for people in the road—they’ll actually stop for you, motion you past with a wave and a smile. The concept of points for taking out wayward pedestrians hasn’t migrated this far south. Yes, all of Mexico is a seething hotbed of violence and danger. [caption id="attachment_3234" align="aligncenter" width="630"] Our friend Katya owns Café Schulet. She's letting us know how crazy we are to be walking up the hill in this heat. She's not wrong.[/caption] Nala trots ahead, eager to get off the scorched blacktop road. She hops up onto the grassy berm whenever possible and at the halfway point to our second stop, tries to convince me with doleful eyes that we should take the shortcut back to town, cutting through a shady overgrown lot. I quell her mutiny with promises of the crispy fried pork that lies a mere 10 minutes farther down the road. [caption id="attachment_3235" align="aligncenter" width="480"] So shady...[/caption] Twenty minutes we’ve been trudging through the humid furnace that is afternoon in La Cruz de Huanacaxtle in late summer. It’s worth it though, because the carnitas in La Cruz just might be the best in the world. This guy has a calling. Rumor has it he raises his own pigs. All I know is we are finally sitting down in the shade, drinking ice cold orange Fanta from thick recyclable glass bottles and eating incredible carnitas tacos. The dog is busy lapping up cold water out of a Styrofoam tray and savoring the rich crispy pork bits that come her way. As per usual, total strangers smile greetings to us around mouthfuls of carnitas, saying, “Provecho,” after they’ve swallowed this food of the gods. Life is good. [caption id="attachment_3236" align="aligncenter" width="630"] The Promised Land[/caption] [caption id="attachment_3237" align="aligncenter" width="630"] Martin Sanchez. The man is legend.[/caption] [caption id="attachment_3238" align="aligncenter" width="630"] All is right in the world.[/caption] [caption id="attachment_3239" align="aligncenter" width="480"] Even though all of the salsas are amazing, choosing the right combination is serious business.[/caption] [caption id="attachment_3240" align="aligncenter" width="630"] We were supposed to stop and smile, but the pull of the carnitas was too great. We were weak. With hunger. Yeah, that's it.[/caption] After lunch, Steve takes the dog and goes back to the marina to work; Eli and I stroll casually across the highway to the bus stop; no Frogger action this side of town. It takes all of three minutes for a Combi to pull up and off we go to Bucerias. Mexicans are always floored by the idea that their public transportation is better than what we had back home. I remember in the early 90’s, living in Cayucos but going to school and work 20 miles away in San Luis Obispo. We had no car for a while and the bus only came a couple of times a day from Cayucos to Morro Bay. Working the night shift at Taco Bell on Santa Rosa Blvd, I got off at 2am. After almost getting arrested for attempting to walk home on the freeway, I tried staying at a co-worker’s apartment until the busses started running again at 6 or 7 in the morning, but found the crazy homeless people in the park were a lot less handsy. As busses go, a beat to crap van that’s been converted into a shuttle bus is awesome. Because they come all the time, until about 9:30 or 10 at night. Some of them even have air conditioning. Sitting in the back means you get all of the wind, but it’s hard to see your stop when the bus is full. We overshot our mark and had to get off at the arroyo. “Bajan a la arroyo, por favor,” I said and then we were standing on the corner, in the shadow of the bridge, with an abalone shell wall to our backs, town to the left and the beach only a block behind us. I step off the sidewalk, into the creek bed that everyone uses as a road, to get a picture of the ocean, and am warned away by an aggressive rooster. He’s got some hens and mid-sized chicks foraging for delicious insects in the shade. This must be the dangerous Mexico you always hear about, no? [caption id="attachment_3241" align="aligncenter" width="630"] When school is in session, there's a guy who sells sugar cane to the kids at recess and breaks.[/caption] [caption id="attachment_3242" align="aligncenter" width="630"] These busses rock.[/caption] [caption id="attachment_3243" align="aligncenter" width="630"] The good seat.[/caption] Two blocks up on the left is The Little B, tienda de semillas and every other thing under the sun. Really…this is where the local chefs come to buy exotic spices. Boisterous kids in uniforms stop by for after school snacks and tiny abuelitas peruse the medicinal tea selection, which surely has a remedy for most anything that ails a body. An overhead fan lazily stirs the air over bins of dried chiles, tamarindo, and dusky sticks of cinnamon, making the store smell like mole and now I’m hungry again. “Hay cúrcuma?” I ask the girl behind the counter. “Yes, we have turmeric,”she says in perfect English, “Cuánto quiere?” I buy my couple grams of turmeric and some powdered shrimp for Thai food and we’re off to the next stop, which is only a couple of doors up. [caption id="attachment_3247" align="aligncenter" width="630"] So much good stuff in sacks on the floor.[/caption] [caption id="attachment_3256" align="aligncenter" width="630"] Spices, mixes, fruits, and seeds[/caption] [caption id="attachment_3255" align="aligncenter" width="630"] Herbal remedies are big in Mexico. Never really went out of style.[/caption] [caption id="attachment_3254" align="aligncenter" width="630"] You want one, don't you?[/caption] [caption id="attachment_3253" align="aligncenter" width="630"] Dried tamarind, before it's been processed.[/caption] [caption id="attachment_3252" align="aligncenter" width="630"] Wet tamarind is infinitely easier to work with.[/caption] [caption id="attachment_3251" align="aligncenter" width="630"] That chick behind the counter is badass.[/caption] [caption id="attachment_3250" align="aligncenter" width="480"] Eli said, "Look Mom, it's your arch enemy!" Freaking gluten. Ugh.[/caption] [caption id="attachment_3249" align="aligncenter" width="630"] Right now, you wish there was an app that lets you smell things in far off places.[/caption] [caption id="attachment_3248" align="aligncenter" width="630"] Herb packets, for medicinal and spicing purposes.[/caption] The beauty supply store, that used to share space with an equally tiny pharmacy, has expanded into its very own storefront, but no longer carries the crazy hair colors I lean toward when banishing the silver-white hairs that have been invading my head since I was 19. No neon pink, no royal purple, no acid green, no too-sky blue. There is however, another store that has them, I am assured. Two blocks up and to the right. Probably. We Frogger our way across the highway, because Bucerias is a big busy place, and trudge our way uphill in the sweltering oven that passes for afternoon. Three long blocks up we find the store, but it’s closed. The guy working next door is standing limply in the doorway, hoping for a breeze. “Veinte minutos,” He says, pointing at the locked door. "Están regresando en veinte minutos”. “Hay un cajero cerca de aquí?” I ask. “Sí,”He says, happy to be of help. “Dos o tres cuadras de allí,”he says, pointing in the direction of La Cruz. It must be the heat that makes me turn toward La Cruz and begin walking toward what Eli would later dub Schrödinger's ATM. I’m pretty sure it was more than a few blocks, but finally we stumbled upon what looked for all the world like a bank but was something else entirely. Cajeros of indeterminate function, accepting pre-printed paper slips instead of cards and entirely unsuited to our pupose. “Hay un cajero cerca de aqui?” I ask Jorge the guard. He says something I don’t quite catch, but suspect would translate to, “These are not the droids you are looking for,” before thoughtfully scratching his chin and thinking on it for a minute. “Vayan… tal vez a…. cinco cuadras de allí, a la derecha. “ He points helpfully towards Puerto Vallarta. [caption id="attachment_3257" align="aligncenter" width="480"] They were the longest 5 blocks we ever walked.[/caption] To be continued....because honestly, the dehydration and near heatstroke were sucky.
Things are really great for us right now. I'm happy. Things are going well, we have the best group of friends imaginable, our boat is reasonably healthy, we have some work, we have food, we're in Paradise. It wasn't always so. I tried to always keep it positive. You don't always want to cry over our ER posts. You want to feel good when you're here. If it looks too perfect, let me tell you about something that came up in conversation yesterday that I haven't thought of in quite a long time. A few years ago I made a bill collector cry. All I did was tell her the truth. Keep pushing my friends. Change is on the horizon.
[caption id="attachment_3127" align="aligncenter" width="640"] Eli's always been a fiend for sushi, so we took him to Matsuri in Bucerias on his birthday. The waiter got a kick out of our crazy little family.[/caption] [caption id="attachment_3128" align="aligncenter" width="640"] California Roll[/caption] [caption id="attachment_3129" align="aligncenter" width="768"] I don't even know what all is on here except pure deliciousness.[/caption] [caption id="attachment_3130" align="aligncenter" width="640"] Mine had smoked oysters on it.[/caption] [caption id="attachment_3132" align="aligncenter" width="640"] Fried ice cream dessert thingy.[/caption] [caption id="attachment_3131" align="aligncenter" width="640"] Pretty pleased with the night. Also humoring mom.[/caption] [caption id="attachment_3184" align="aligncenter" width="640"] A few days later, we took over the Poolside Deli area and had a huge barbecue.[/caption] [caption id="attachment_3185" align="aligncenter" width="640"] When she wasn't on grill duty, Katrina went around taking pictures for me because she's awesome that way.[/caption] [caption id="attachment_3186" align="aligncenter" width="640"] We had 15 kilos of carne asada and the carniceria lady threw in a bunch of fantastic chorizo. Also homemade salsa mexicana with fire roasted chiles.[/caption] [caption id="attachment_3187" align="aligncenter" width="640"] This kid never has any fun.[/caption] [caption id="attachment_3188" align="aligncenter" width="640"] Emerald Lady got Eli an inflatable throne and John and I took turns blowing it up, which had the added bonus of grossing out the teenagers, so....mission freaking accomplished, once again![/caption] [caption id="attachment_3189" align="aligncenter" width="640"] Andrei and Luli--love this pic of you guys.[/caption] [caption id="attachment_3190" align="aligncenter" width="640"] Mike's on a mission and Nick I think is taking pictures.[/caption] [caption id="attachment_3191" align="aligncenter" width="640"] The mission being: how to cut a watermelon in half using only rubber bands and about 45 minutes of distracting kids with stretchy things.[/caption] [caption id="attachment_3192" align="aligncenter" width="640"] So many people showed up and it was really a wonderful party.[/caption] [caption id="attachment_3193" align="aligncenter" width="640"] Eli on his throne with some of the loot. John and I are passed out on the grass from lack of oxygen.[/caption] [caption id="attachment_3126" align="aligncenter" width="630"] S/V Azul had to go on a boat delivery the day before the party, so they dropped a bottle of rum off for Eli in the morning. Also some candy. Breakfast of champions, anyone?[/caption] [caption id="attachment_3125" align="aligncenter" width="630"] More cool loot. Thank you everyone. Also thanks for the pesos :-)[/caption] [caption id="attachment_3124" align="aligncenter" width="630"] Katya on S/V Sarita drew this. Incredible.[/caption] [caption id="attachment_3194" align="aligncenter" width="640"] We did a piñata this year. I wanted to fill it with condoms and those little bottles of liquor you get on airplanes, but seeing as how there were going to be kids at the party, I settled for candy.[/caption] [caption id="attachment_3196" align="aligncenter" width="640"] Blindfolded dwarf on the loose with a cudgel.[/caption] [caption id="attachment_3197" align="aligncenter" width="640"] Seriously, that's how Eli described it.[/caption] [caption id="attachment_3198" align="aligncenter" width="640"] Eli picked his own damn candles out because he's 18 now. April Fool's on him, because he accidentally chose the kind that keep relighting.[/caption] [caption id="attachment_3199" align="aligncenter" width="640"] La Mordida...in Mexico, the first bite of cake is done with your face. Traditionally, a family member or close friend will do the honor of smashing your face into tasty goodness. Thanks Mike![/caption] [caption id="attachment_3200" align="aligncenter" width="640"] We had such a great time. Thanks everyone for helping us celebrate this amazing milestone! We love you all!!![/caption]
As the mother of a 16 year old, my mom was understandably concerned when I fell hard in love and forbade me from dating the man who is now my husband. We were too young. Not enough money. Life was hard and complicated. I would end up pregnant and alone. She let me talk to him on the phone, 10 minutes a day. And write letters. Fast forward 8 years and my mom's tune had changed. All of the parents, really. We up and got married (eloped....but that's another story), had great jobs and everything was fantastic. By their count, though, we were completely falling down in the grandkid department. It got to the point where every conversation ended with, "So....when are you going to let me fill up my wallet with photos of grandbabies? All my friends are grandparenting...why can't we?" Turns out, I'm good at lots of things, but baby making...not so much. We had a few miscarriages and when I finally got pregnant with Eli, it was seven months of tense waiting around. Wondering if we were going to end up with a baby after all. We almost didn't. That kid has always been on his own schedule and when it came to picking birthdays, he decided April Fool's day was the way to go. Never mind that it was two months earlier than his projected due date. We nearly lost him in the delivery, had to wait a month to bring him home from the hospital and that was just the beginning. Achondroplastic dwarfism has huge variability. No two kids are the same and each has their own constellation of complications. We got lucky. Eli's complications put him in a very small subset of Achons. Kids who were unexpectedly dying in the middle of routine tonsillectomies. It was only within the year prior to his being born that the docs figured out they needed to trach kids like Eli. Wait for them to get big enough in the upper airway to withstand surgery. So they trached him right before he turned two. It came out a few months before kindergarten. His next big hurdle was even trickier. This same group of kids, who were only now surviving, had a tendency to go to sleep at night and just never wake up. No one knew why. In the spring and summer before fourth grade, Eli was obviously in trouble. Couldn't regulate his breathing at night. Started having a hard time controlling his arms and legs. He was one month late starting fourth grade. The doctors cut half of his first vertebrae off and took what I imagine was a Dremel tool to the opening at the base of his skull, making it wider. Wide enough that pressure no longer built up and crushed his brain stem down into the base of his skull. He is the first one to be diagnosed with that kind of positional hydrocephalus issue and when they looked at all the other kids in the same subset as Eli, they found the same problems. Kids stopped dying. When Eli finally got stable...I'm gonna say it was around 6th grade, all his doctors, who had been our main cheerleaders throughout this journey, individually came to us and said, "We never thought he'd be one of the kids to make it. Always hoped and prayed, but in all honesty him surviving was a miracle." And here we are. Kid's grown to adulthood and I don't know where the time went or quite how it happened. We're just really grateful we get to be his parents. He turned out so...freaking level headed and awesome. And again, with us as parents, how the heck did that happen? Happy Birthday, Kiddo. We love you so much. [caption id="attachment_3123" align="aligncenter" width="864"] 18. Still trying to wrap my head around 18.[/caption] [caption id="attachment_3120" align="aligncenter" width="505"] Seems like only yesterday he was making jokes about how you check someone's heart rate.[/caption] [caption id="attachment_3119" align="aligncenter" width="640"] Climbing up on all the counters.[/caption] [caption id="attachment_3118" align="aligncenter" width="640"] Steve teaching Eli how to drive Uncle Mikey's tractor.[/caption] [caption id="attachment_3116" align="aligncenter" width="355"] Every time Steve wore this sweater, Eli wanted to be carried like this.[/caption] [caption id="attachment_3115" align="aligncenter" width="640"] Since it took him longer to sit up and crawl, Eli explored the world upside down. He'd inchworm all over the place....on his back.[/caption] [caption id="attachment_3114" align="aligncenter" width="500"] Smiling at Daddy on our first boat (39' Cross Trimaran).[/caption] [caption id="attachment_3113" align="aligncenter" width="640"] Making faces at Grandma Nina's house.[/caption] [caption id="attachment_3112" align="aligncenter" width="513"] Checking out Paul Irving's cornet. We love you Zongo All-Stars![/caption] [caption id="attachment_3111" align="aligncenter" width="492"] Sitting in our friend Donald's racecar.[/caption] [caption id="attachment_3110" align="aligncenter" width="864"] A fish just jumped in the pond. He's gonna catch it.[/caption] [caption id="attachment_3109" align="aligncenter" width="504"] Doofing around in speech class.[/caption] [caption id="attachment_3107" align="aligncenter" width="468"] Bathtime in the sink.[/caption] [caption id="attachment_3108" align="aligncenter" width="640"] Every year, around his birthday, San Luis Obispo put on I Madonnari, a street painting festival. For Eli's first birthday party, our friend Jessica Irving decided to make an Eli Madonnari festival on the patio :-) It was awesome.[/caption] [caption id="attachment_3106" align="aligncenter" width="640"] All the kids had so much fun. Grownups, too.[/caption]
We went to Burros the other day, a little surf spot not too far from La Cruz, and had a blast. It was my first time there. I can't wait to go back. With a better camera. [caption id="attachment_3066" align="aligncenter" width="640"] Henry in his natural habitat. Yep. The truck's name is Henry. Thanks to Dawn and Mike on Destiny for letting us borrow the truck to go surfing.[/caption] [caption id="attachment_3067" align="aligncenter" width="650"] Flock of semi-tame propane bottles, resting gently on their perches.[/caption] [caption id="attachment_3068" align="aligncenter" width="640"] Eli modeling the newest hipster craze...facial hair that is actually just leaves. 100% organic and renewable. Plus some other popular buzzwords.[/caption] [caption id="attachment_3069" align="aligncenter" width="640"] Walking down to the beach. After they've moved out of sight, it occurs to me I've never been here before and does the path only go to one place? Because if there's a fork in the trail, I'm screwed.[/caption] [caption id="attachment_3070" align="aligncenter" width="640"] Lovely tree with unfortunate dermatitis issue. Or sunburn. Hard to know. I don't speak tree fluently.[/caption] I reached down to pick up a big piece of shed bark and right before my fingers made contact, a thought skittered through my mind...wonder if it's poisonous? Then my brain gave a giant snort of laughter and told me to quit being such a dork. I mean, come on--this is Mexico, not Australia. Everything I see is not trying to kill, maim, poison, or otherwise feast upon my entrails. Which is when this caught my eye... [caption id="attachment_3071" align="aligncenter" width="640"] WTF, Mexico? Are you trying to give Australia some competition in the "Everything I See Wants To Kill Me" category?[/caption] When my eyes zoomed a little further out, I noticed an enormous web that I almost stuck my head into. With a spider in residence that, while not Australia-worthy in any way, still had a leg span of like 3 or 4 inches. I took two pictures of it. The camera's autofocus decided to nope all over my spider pics, and when I was scrolling through later on, all I got was blurry foliage. You know how, for instance, you're in the bathroom trying to have a satisfying morning constitutional and then you spy a spider looking at you. Waiting. And you have to keep it in your sight at all costs? As I was flipping through the pictures, looking for my spider shots, I got increasingly anxious, for no good reason, because I couldn't find the spider I was supposed to be keeping an eye on. Stupid brain. [caption id="attachment_3072" align="aligncenter" width="640"] Theoretically, the point of no return. Also the place where nobody who walked by gave any fucks at all.[/caption] [caption id="attachment_3073" align="aligncenter" width="640"] It was so jungly and awesome; The explorer in me wished there were boots on my feet, instead of flip-flops.[/caption] [caption id="attachment_3074" align="aligncenter" width="640"] The 3 Pillars of Vine, sacred temple consecrated to all that is Vine. Also, a place Vine addicts will never actually see, since they can't tear their eyes away from their phones long enough to navigate the trail.[/caption] [caption id="attachment_3075" align="aligncenter" width="640"] Not road apples. Some kind of seed pod or remnants of an alien invasion.[/caption] [caption id="attachment_3076" align="aligncenter" width="640"] Beautiful plant that wants to be in the aforementioned Australia competition. Would be great if it was like aloe, because in the process of obtaining a sample, you'd hack great holes in your hands and the aloe goo is already conveniently packaged inside. They should put little aloe packets inside those impossible to open plastic blister packs of whatever you really need in a hurry.[/caption] [caption id="attachment_3077" align="aligncenter" width="640"] Literally, needle sharp thorns that are almost as long as my thumb. Where the frack did I put that aloe?[/caption] [caption id="attachment_3078" align="aligncenter" width="640"] The one sign that everyone did give some fucks about.[/caption] [caption id="attachment_3079" align="aligncenter" width="640"] And suddenly, we were out of the jungle and onto the beach. What we didn't know at the time is that this was a magical beach, full of attractive girls who obligingly walked back and forth in tiny bikinis. For some reason, Eli always wants to go to this beach.[/caption] [caption id="attachment_3080" align="aligncenter" width="640"] Rachel from Emerald Lady, showing off her surf moves while Nala takes advantage of shade. Steve split his time between surf lessons for Rachel and just plain surfing, while our friend Katrin (s/v Lila) was wowing the guys in the lineup :-)[/caption] [caption id="attachment_3081" align="aligncenter" width="640"] Beautiful sea urchin remnant. Fun fact: it takes almost no force whatsoever to break these off in your body while surfing. Just brush up against one and it's instant impalement. They break off and you have to dissolve them away by soaking your feet (or wherever you got jabbed) in vinegar for just under 100 years. After surfing in Mexico for the last 3 years, Steve is about 5% sea urchin spines.[/caption] [caption id="attachment_3082" align="aligncenter" width="640"] Nala, luxuriating in the shade, enjoying her spa treatment.[/caption] [caption id="attachment_3083" align="aligncenter" width="640"] Having just discovered the cave behind him is apparently only a place for people to pee. Two steps inside and the urine smell billows up all around, wrapping you in a hot, moist cloak of disgusting.[/caption] [caption id="attachment_3084" align="aligncenter" width="640"] After observing a number of impossibly perfect bikini butts walk across this rocky patch, Eli was strangely compelled to find out exactly where they were all coming from.[/caption] [caption id="attachment_3085" align="aligncenter" width="640"] Turns out there's a couple of resorts the next beach over and apparently, their clients are almost exclusively everything guys like to look at.[/caption] [caption id="attachment_3086" align="aligncenter" width="640"] Random shot of supercool house at the beginning of the trail. Only saw it as we came back to the truck. I am totally observant.[/caption]
Sometimes, nerve damage is like a superpower. Most of my left side has pretty minimal sensation, which is all kinds of awesome when you’re fighting off super villain assassination squads or, you know, if you happen to be in mild mannered alter ego mode, elbow deep in a diesel engine, trying to reach that one impossible bolt. It's useful then, too. The downside to this kind of superpower is that I sometimes hurt myself and don’t realize it. Servicing the lower unit on an outboard the other day and I smacked my index finger hard enough to split it open. Not hard enough to actually damage myself, mind you, but just enough to annoyingly bleed all over the damn place. The first thought bubble that popped up next to my head was, “My nails!” Because, yes, even though I channel my inner diesel dyke on a regular basis, I do, on occasion, bust out with the girl thing. For my husband’s birthday, I went all out. Sparkly black bad girl high heels? Check. Slinky tight dress that’s stretchy in all the right places? Check. Charcoal smoky eyes and lipstick? Yup. I even painted my fingernails. The fingernail in question, survived relatively unscathed. Yay! I’m lucky if I can get even 24 hours out of nail paint. Even when I prep my nails like a boss. We’re talking crosshatch sanding with 220 grit wet-dry sandpaper and a thorough wipe down with acetone. Since I’ve never actually had a manicure and thus lack professional guidance, it’s entirely possible I’m fancy nailing it all wrong. Probably, there’s some feminine arcana involved that I don’t know about. Nails are such a pain in the butt that I find myself reduced to the only color that makes any kind of sense for a girl mechanic in the high season. Black. Why black? Five reasons. One for each finger:
Thing the First: No matter how hard you scrub, it’s nearly impossible to get those last little bits of grease out from under your fingernails. It’s like that shit is tattooed into your skin or something. This is what makes black the perfect color of nail polish. It camouflages the grease.
Thing the Second: After you’ve finished bleeding the fuel system on a Perkins 4-108, you can cover the inevitable chips in your manicure with a black Sharpie, in a pinch. And come on, show of hands, how many of us don’t have a black Sharpie in our tool box? Anybody? Right. Sweet, everyone’s covered.
Thing the Third: Shit goes with everything. Doesn’t matter what you’re wearing or even where you’re wearing it. Also looks good when you’re wearing nothing. Not that your special someone will pay any attention whatsoever to what your nails look like once those clothes come off. Promise.
Thing the Fourth: It’s cool. It’s edgy. Not that you care. Because, face it, if you seriously gave any fucks about whatever bullshit stereotype the world thinks you ought to shoehorn yourself into, you’d be doing other things. Perhaps, studying your 1952 Betty Crocker cookbook to find out how to be the perfect little woman. Seriously. I have that book. It’s a trip.
Thing the Fifth: If you go with the shiny patent leather look, your nails will help reflect light into those hard to see places. Really useful when you’re folded like an origami swan between the oil pan and the bilge. Note: pumice based hand cleaners will kill the shiny every time, no matter how careful you are.
Mexico's love affair with the VW Bug has been going on since the 50's and the fact that Volkswagen stopped making them (dear God, why??) has only made them more popular than ever. We got to wander through the 3rd Annual Riviera Nayarit VW Festival, snapping pictures, gawking like tourists, and having a generally all around good time. Steve Swihart, this post is for you :-). [caption id="attachment_3008" align="aligncenter" width="640"] Pretty much defines cool.[/caption] [caption id="attachment_3009" align="aligncenter" width="640"] Endless fascination[/caption] [caption id="attachment_3010" align="aligncenter" width="630"] Love this Mystery Machine vibe![/caption] [caption id="attachment_3003" align="aligncenter" width="640"] Rust as a design statement.[/caption] [caption id="attachment_3005" align="aligncenter" width="640"] This guy was just so freaking proud. For good reason.[/caption] [caption id="attachment_3004" align="aligncenter" width="640"] The side mural kind of reminds me of Apocalypse Now.[/caption] [caption id="attachment_3002" align="aligncenter" width="640"] Has its own Mini Me.[/caption] [caption id="attachment_3006" align="aligncenter" width="640"] Checking out the cool ride belonging to one of the cooks at the marina restaurant.[/caption] [caption id="attachment_2997" align="aligncenter" width="630"] Loved this one :-)[/caption] [caption id="attachment_3000" align="aligncenter" width="640"] My father-in-law, Ken, would have gotten a kick out of this one.[/caption] [caption id="attachment_3001" align="aligncenter" width="640"] One of my favorite interiors ever.[/caption] [caption id="attachment_2999" align="aligncenter" width="640"] So much want.[/caption] [caption id="attachment_3007" align="aligncenter" width="630"] They look like they're exploring. Curious beasts :-)[/caption] [caption id="attachment_3016" align="aligncenter" width="640"] Because, why not?[/caption]
It's been something like 6 years since we last visited Sayulita and in the interim, it looks like the money fairy dumped a load or two on what used to be a sleepy little surf town. You can still see the bones of what used to be, but there's no denying that a lot of Sauylita now looks kind of like Disneyland. For stoner hippy surfers. With money. It's not necessarily a bad thing. Unlike Punta Mita, where there's a lot of bad vibes because a substantial portion of the town got displaced by the government so rich bastards could turn the waterfront into exclusive playgrounds for the rich and infamous, Sayulita seems to have grown in a more natural way. The economy is thriving, there's a healthy mix of international and in-country visitors, and that kickin' little beach town heart is still thumping away. [caption id="attachment_2958" align="aligncenter" width="630"] Side of the road next to the bus stop.[/caption] [caption id="attachment_2959" align="aligncenter" width="630"] That green rooftop looked like it had a killer view and would catch all the breezes.[/caption] [caption id="attachment_2960" align="aligncenter" width="630"] Mexicans are never afraid of color.[/caption] [caption id="attachment_2961" align="aligncenter" width="630"] Camping out.[/caption] [caption id="attachment_2962" align="aligncenter" width="630"] Hot stone therapy upstairs and who knows what downstairs. Something cool, no doubt.[/caption] [caption id="attachment_2963" align="aligncenter" width="630"] Makes you want to see what's at the end of the street, doesn't it?[/caption] [caption id="attachment_2964" align="aligncenter" width="630"] Chilly Willy's[/caption] [caption id="attachment_2965" align="aligncenter" width="630"] Awesome dragon street art.[/caption] [caption id="attachment_2966" align="aligncenter" width="630"] Courtyard hallway.[/caption] [caption id="attachment_2967" align="aligncenter" width="630"] Mermaid[/caption] [caption id="attachment_2968" align="aligncenter" width="630"] Like a cross between Disneyland and Key West.[/caption] [caption id="attachment_2969" align="aligncenter" width="630"] Turned the corner into this... :-)[/caption] [caption id="attachment_2970" align="aligncenter" width="630"] The light was shifting around as the afternoon squall approached and we came up on this wall right a some sun was peeking out.[/caption] [caption id="attachment_2971" align="aligncenter" width="630"] Swallows making themselves at home.[/caption] [caption id="attachment_2973" align="aligncenter" width="630"] I'm a sucker for skulls.[/caption] [caption id="attachment_2975" align="aligncenter" width="630"] We passed by this restaurant and it smelled so good we had to stop.[/caption] [caption id="attachment_2976" align="aligncenter" width="630"] Wasn't until we were seated and had already ordered that we noticed monkey dong, just kind of hanging out there, saying hi, I guess.[/caption] [caption id="attachment_2978" align="aligncenter" width="630"] Then we looked up and saw his cousin, also freeballing it. Mind you, this is a family restaurant.[/caption] [caption id="attachment_2981" align="aligncenter" width="630"] I blame this excellent selection of liquor.[/caption] [caption id="attachment_2982" align="aligncenter" width="630"] The overcast sky gave a little relief from the sun...it was deliciously hot.[/caption] [caption id="attachment_2983" align="aligncenter" width="630"] There's always surfboards for rent on the beach and hawkers selling all kinds of stuff, including beach umbrellas.[/caption] [caption id="attachment_2984" align="aligncenter" width="630"] And here comes the squall. We ran up the street, got a coconut to share and made our way to the bus stop, which thankfully has a large covered area with seats and everything.[/caption]
So, I fell the other night. It's a thing I do. Chalk it up to nerve damage, tiredness, and the inherent klutziness that spawned my childhood nickname, "Grace". Blame it on the dark and Mexico's famously uneven and potholed sidewalks. Whatever. All I know is one minute, we're all having a fine time, walking through the warm velvet embrace that is a summer night in Bucerias and then in the space of a heartbeat, I'm kissing dirt. Again. Sprained both damn ankles and pulled a muscle in my left leg, because, hey--If you're gonna do a thing, may as well do it all the way, right? I'd love to say I'm ok with falling. That I focus all my energy on gratitude that I don't have to use a wheelchair on a regular basis anymore. That I don't have to use a cane, though Eli wonders if maybe I ought to get one. You know, just in case. Wheelchairs and canes are a part of my not-too-distant past and will likely be a part of my future. In my present, though...I'm conflicted. I should simply be happy with where I am, but truth be told (because I'm a sucky liar), falling pisses me off because mobility is a hard fought battle that I fight every single day. Sometimes I win. Sometimes I embody total epic failure. Like the other night. When Eli was little, and just learning how to walk, he'd fall all the time, too. He was a topheavy little sucker, with T-Rex arms, so we had to teach him how to fall and not get hurt. Protect his head from getting whacked and adding to his concussion count. Protect his trach, so it wouldn't get bumped and bleed. Threw some psychology in the mix as well, because we didn't want him to become paralyzed with fear and stop trying to do regular kid stuff. Every time he took a fall, it was, "All right! Good fall! Way to protect your head! Good job, kiddo!" You should've seen the dirty looks launched our way from the Mommy Brigade at the playground down the street, but it was totally worth it. Watching him jump back up, smiling and ready to take on the world. When I fall now, Eli claps his hands and says, "Good fall, mom!" And then I usually hop back up and off we go. Not this time. There is a space between the start of a fall and the impact, where time stretches out like watermelon flavored Hubba Bubba. I thought, "Crap, I'm falling." And felt...shame? Anger? Flashed on all the things I hate about this kinda broken body I live in. It's hard to pin down, exactly the mix of emotion--the thing is...it's fucking terrifying, for the people you love, when your body runs off the rails and generally craps all over everybody's parade. I hate to see them look at me that way, hate to know I'm the one who put them in a place where they're helpless and miserable. And then I hit pavement and my world narrows down to brick red pain and the grey concrete of trying to breathe and dark clouds moving like a squall across my mind as I wonder for the briefest nanosecond if I've broken something. In my mind, when I play back the footage between falling and getting back to the boat, it's patchy and disconnected, because every time I tried to put weight on my left foot, I blacked out. Eli says the part that freaked him out the most was when I was not blacked out, in the taxi, talking a mile a minute to the driver...completely in Spanish. After blacking out on the sidewalk, in the taxicab, and all over the grassy bits of Marina La Cruz, Steve decided to put me in a dock cart and wheel my ass back to the dinghy. I maneuvered my way gingerly onto the pontoon, where we normally sit, feeling pretty pleased with myself. Steve and Eli heaved a shared sigh of exasperation and gave me The Look. You know, the one that says, "Really? En serio? Are you freaking kidding me?" Eli said,"Maybe you should sit more...in the bottom of the skiff, Mom." "So you don't pass out and fall overboard between here and the boat," said my husband. I really hate it when they're right. We buzzed back to the boat, my feet sticking up in the air, and I managed to heave myself up onto the boat, wounded sea lion-style, and slither down the companionway and into the bed. It was not a pretty sight...even with two unsprained ankles, I'm not exactly what you'd call graceful. I wrapped my stupid ankles in ace bandages and our good friend Dawn from Destiny lent us a couple of ice packs, a ziploc baggie of real, honest to god ice cubes, and a bag of frozen soy beans. I moved and stretched through the pain. I hobbled around the boat and stretched some more. I did some pretty aggressive lymphatic massage, trying to keep the swelling down. I did Range of Motion exercises. Rinse. Wash. Repeat. By the middle of the following week, it seemed everyone in town knew that the goofy güera with the crazy hair had hurt her ankles. When I started getting up and about, it was like running a gauntlet, albiet a wonderful and loving one. Everybody in the marina wanted a status report and offered help and encouragement. The guards made sure I was doing my stretches and excercises. And the people who live in town...it was surreal. Everyone, from Nieves--the guy who sells amazing ice cream out of a pushcart and keeps trying to set Eli up with his beautiful daughter, to Becky, who owns the restaurant on the first corner up by the marina...they all had to know what the heck was going on with me. Was I ok? What happened? Why did I fall down? How come sometimes they see that I walk with a bad limp on the left side and other times I'm pretty good? Do I need a doctor or some medicine, because they could borrow a car and take me there right now, if I needed it. Everybody had their own recommendation for medicated creams or ointments that we should be massaging into my ankles and legs. The woman who owns the carniceria we go to was pretty adamant that Steve was the one who should be doing the rubbing in of cremes and ointments. One of the marina guards is a basketball coach and when he saw me getting wheeled out to the Thursday night movie in a borrowed wheelchair, he stopped us and said, "I know how to fix this." Propping my foot against his legs, he deftly unwrapped the Ace bandages, probed the swollen joints with practiced fingers, and applied a gentle traction, loosening everything up. He looked up and said, "This is a fast motion, quick and necessary. Do not be worried." In one smooth movement, he rolled my ankle into alignment and firmly shoved up on the ball of my foot. He did this a couple of times, helping the elastic muscle fibers remember what the hell their jobs were. It was magic. Less pain, better range of motion. Then he gave me a quick rundown of the kinds of stretches and exercises I should be doing to get back on my feet as soon as possible. He and all the rest of the guards made sure to harangue me every day, making sure I wasn't slacking off. It was like having 15 different physical therapists riding my ass. And so it was that after triumphantly walking up to the Kiosko for water at 11pm on a Sunday, a 20 minute walk that took the better part of an hour, I returned to the boat feeling better than I'd felt in a long time. All the anger and frustration had been leached away, siphoned off by each and every person who stopped me to make sure that everything was ok.
Late Friday afternoon of Memorial Day weekend and Mexico is melting into summer. The air is heavy with moisture and mountains of puffy white cumulus clouds dot the previously unbroken blue in the sky above. In the afternoons, clouds pile up in huge grey drifts, threatening rain and rumbling to themselves, but so far all they’ve managed to do is squeeze out a few sprinkles here and there. Enough to wet the ground, but not enough to trigger the yearly aerial termite invasion. Right now, they’re growing wings and after the first torrential downpour, they’ll rise up in great clouds from the jungle, looking for new chomping grounds, and descend upon the town and marina like a plague. A few hours of frantic flight and then they’ll have gone to ground again, leaving a million cast off fairy wings in their wake. In La Cruz, we wait for the rains to begin, as the first big storms start pinwheeling their way up the coast. On the water, gossip has turned away from people and the things they may or may not be doing and instead consists mostly of weather rumors and big storm stories. In the pueblo, the question of rain is on everyone’s lips. “Lluvia?” they ask, pointing skyward not with their hands, but by hitching their eyebrows toward the heavens and giving the tiniest upward nod of the chin. It’s a Mexican thing, chin pointing—best I can figure, it probably has a lot to do with the part where they’re always busy working and when they’re not working, there’s a lot of walking around with your hands full of stuff, so chin pointing kind of makes sense. Steve has been gone running errands in Bucerias and it’s only after he’s used most of the cash we have on hand that he discovers there’s a problem with our bank. “Went to the ATM and couldn’t get any money out, can you get online and figure out WTF is going on?” he asks. Sure enough, there’s a freeze on our accounts, but no explanation. I check our mail and our email, too…they remain frustratingly mute on the subject of WTF. All the bank can tell me is that CA BOE has placed a levy on all our accounts for an unspecified amount of money and the levy will remain in place until CA BOE determines that the debt has been paid. Rat bastards. The California State Board of Equalization is who business owners pay quarterly sales tax to and when I call their number, I find out that there is nothing I can find out until Tuesday morning. Holiday weekend and all. We have less than 200 pesos in cash and four endless days and nights to trudge through before we know just how badly we’re screwed. It is not enough. Even eating only beans and rice, mostly. One of our friends finally twists my arm and makes me take a $1,000 peso bill. Just in case. “You have a child,” he says. “A dog. There’s four of you to feed. Take this, please.” Even though he, like us, lives job to job and can ill afford to make a long term loan of so much money. One of the tienda owners lets us charge what we need until we figure this out. He is also a friend. Tuesday morning brings more sprinkles of rain and a person to talk to at the BOE. They've levied our accounts for more than $1,000 in unpaid sales tax for the first two quarters of 2011. They are very sorry that we've been inconvenienced but this kind of thing has to be taken care of. “Where did you get that number?” I ask. “Oh, well, they looked at your past sales tax quarters and came up with a number they felt was appropriate. Based on previous quarters.” Which means they pulled it out of thin air. Because we never had any quarters that looked like that. “Why didn't you guys just contact us?” I ask.”I don’t even think we were in business then. We were wrapping everything up in preparation for leaving California. Leaving the country.” “Well, if you closed your business, you have to notify us in writing,” She says. “And give us your correct mailing address. We did mail you a number of notices, but they went unanswered. You also have a history of not paying your sales tax.” She is right. Last year, the BOE pulled this very same levy crap on us, for unpaid taxes in 2012 and 2013. They figured we owed them nearly $10,000. Another number from the air. “We did this last year,” I said. “If you look further into our file, you’ll see that we were in Mexico for most of those years. We closed our business in early 2011, sent you guys a letter and you still tried to pop us for a bunch of money. We re-updated our address with you last year. After investigating things, you guys erased the tax bills from 2012 and 2013, since we a) closed the business, b) weren't in the country, much less the state, and c) weren't even residents of the state of California at that time. You’ll also see that during the time we actually were in business, we always paid our sales tax.” “We can lift the levy,” she says, “but you need to file for those two quarters. We need to see your financials, invoices…that kind of thing.” Steve asked for 30 days. She gave us two weeks, which is more than enough time. Everything’s on the backup hard drive anyway. As it turns out, we racked up a whopping $64.42 in sales tax for both those quarters combined. I’m pretty sure we paid it at the time, but I’ll have to go digging through our bank records to prove it. After two days, the rains still haven’t come and the levy has not been lifted, even though our new friend at the BOE emailed us a copy of the levy lifting paperwork. I called the bank. “Usually it takes 24 to 48 hours to process that, “said the nice bank guy on the phone. “Wait a minute, you said it was the state of California who levied your accounts?” he asked. “That’s right,” I said. “Let me check that we even have it in our system,” he said. “State of California does this all the time. They’re broke and don’t want to admit it. They don’t care how long they hang on to your money—even if it’s just a few days, every little bit helps.” He paused for a minute, tapping away on his keyboard. “Call them back, “he said, “We don’t have any record of a fax from them. They do that a lot, too. Hey…didn't they do this to you guys last year?” Sooo…yeah. We called back, got the BOE to refax the document and call the bank to confirm it was received and an hour and a half later, the levy was automagically lifted. Sucked to be us for a week or so, but the reality is that, in an emergency, we weren't alone. When we were first scrambling around, trying to figure out how to make things work until we could straighten everything out, Eli said to Steve, “We should talk to that guy with the restaurant, Enrique. The one who saw you give your shoes to that old man. Remember? He said if we ever needed anything to talk to him.” “Well…,” we said. "You know, it was late and he was maybe a little drunk…I don’t know. Probably he didn't mean it…” Eli gave us The Look. The one that says we really should be listening to him. Last night, walking up to Kiosko, we passed Enrique. “Heyyy, amigo. How you doing? Where you been?” Steve told him the BOE saga and as it turns out, Enrique was a little pissed. “Why you don’t come talk to me? I told you—you have a problem with something, you talk to me.” And that is how it is here. Earlier in the year, one of the marina guards had an emergency. His wife, who was 7 months pregnant, nearly died from pregnancy complications. They lost the baby and his wife was hospitalized for a while. The whole town came together and had a fundraiser to help with medical bills. A month ago, Wayland, who owns the Jardin del Pulpo, was working on his roof, getting it in shape for the rainy season. He fell three stories and couldn't feel anything from the neck down. Again, the whole community pulled together to help and Wayland's $300 peso a plate benefit dinner was completely sold out. Amazing food and incredible music, yes…but even if there was no dinner, no entertainment, the town would still have poured out all the pesos they could spare. Even some pesos that couldn’t really be spared. It’s a small town, La Cruz de Huanacaxtle, and you could make the argument that they pull together in times of need because everyone knows everyone. If you’re not already family, you’re as good as family. And yet…Steve went back to Bucerias yesterday, to get money from the ATM. Finished his transaction, said hi to the guy next in line and left. He crossed the street and got on the bus to go a little farther up into town. After he got off, this guy screeches up in a truck and starts yelling, “Amigo! Amigo! Su tarjeta! You card!” It was the guy he said hi to. Steve left his ATM card in the machine and this complete stranger jumped in his truck and chased the bus all over town, until he saw Steve get off, so he could give him the ATM card back. Just because. This is, perhaps, the greatest danger Mexico poses. I know the media would have you believe Mexico is full of drug runners and tourists get shot and kidnapped if they come to visit. That it’s full of opportunistic crooks, just looking for the chance to rip you off. This is true of any major city in the US, and it’s true of some places in Mexico, but generally speaking—unless you’re involved somehow with drugs, you’re not likely to run into those kind of problems. Since we’ve been in Mexico, we’ve had our bank accounts emptied three times by people who were not us. Each time, it turned out to be the State of California. Twice for imaginary sales tax and once for back registration on a car we sold in 2011. The new owners never registered it and even though we dropped off a “sold the car” form at the SLO DMV, they somehow neglected to put in into their system. We eventually got that money back, as well. The biggest danger in Mexico isn’t any of the horror stories you see on the news…it is a danger of the heart. Of falling in love. With the food. The culture. And most of all, the people. We can go all the way around the world, I think, and my heart will still be here.
