A Junk-et with a Message

Decidedly not a pretty boat, but pretty unusual: Junk sails for Hawaii. This photo is a still from the video of their departure from Long Beach, CA June 1

First there was Thor Heyerdahl, with his Kon Tiki, and now Dr. Marcus Eriksen's Junk, a raft floating on huge pontoons filled with--get this!--15,000 plastic bottles! Like Roz Savage, whose rowing trip across the Pacific I blogged earlier this month, Eriksen has an environmental message, specifically about all the plastic that's being dumped in our oceans and its effect on wildlife. He's also addressing the impact of certain chemicals such as Bisphenal A, found in baby bottles and toys, on the human body.

But his adventure, shared with Joel Paschal and Ann Cummins, is even wackier than Roz's (just look at the boat for a giggle) and at the same time more practical since he's using four sails to get up some speed and they've installed a considerably more comfortable cabin on board: the cabin of a defunct Cessna.

Their blog, Junk, is maintained from shore by Cummins. It's a Blogspot Blog of Note this week, and I'm adding it to my bloglist. How can I resist? It's got sailing, recycling, hunky crew, alternative energy, and as the icing on the cake, Hawaii as the goal.

With youthful optimism, Eriksen estimated the trip to Hawaii would take six weeks and they'd have arrived by now, but a Google map tracking their progress currently puts them here. We wish them fair winds, a safe landing and all the glory they can stand.

The S/V "Junk" is a project of the Algalita Marine Research Foundation.

A 'You-Think-You-Got-It-Bad' Story

The coast of Baja is stunningly beautiful, desolately remote

High drama has been taking place next door the past few days, while we went blissfully about our daily lives. Today my neighbor J. came over with a desperate request and I heard the whole story. Disaster on the high seas, Mexican medical mysteries and all.

Yama, a Japanese man in his 30s, bought a sailboat with the assistance of my neighbor, who was working for a vessel broker here in town. On Yama's maiden voyage across the Sea of Cortez to Baja, he made a navigational error, something we all do at some point or other, but his was fatal. For the boat, anyway. He smashed into some rocks, broke his leg as he abandoned his sinking boat, and somehow made it to a small island where he was stranded until a sailboat came by and the Mexican crew managed to rescue him and get him to Loreto. Thus rescued, on his way back to civilization, his troubles were over, right? Wrong.

The medical facilities in Loreto weren't equal to the task of mending his leg (!) so he was taken to Constitución, where the tibia was operated on six days after it was broken, and a long gauze bandage wrapped around his entire leg from knee to calf. He has no explanation why he wasn't given a cast of some sort. His English is somewhat limited and his Spanish is nil, which must have been an even worse handicap than the broken leg in some instances.

Somehow he was transported back here to San Carlos where he is now staying at J's house (since she's the only person he knows in Mexico). He has nothing but his crutches and the clothes he was wearing when the boat went down. Everything else he owned, including passport, visa and credit cards are all at the bottom of the sea. His leg is causing enormous pain and he wants to go home. For a couple of days he couldn't even contact his sister in Japan, because he lost her phone number, so there would have been no one to meet him at the airport when he arrives. My neighbor has been on Skype for two days, locating the sister, getting medical, airline and legal information he needs to get temporary papers, a proper cast on his leg and a flight back to Japan.

She came over to ask me if she could wash his one set of clothes (which he'd been wearing for a week or more), having persuaded him to accept a clean shirt and pair of shorts. She said Yama stubbornly refused to go to the hospital.

Tomorrow she and her partner have to go to Tucson where he'll get some help with a possible detached retina. Unable to walk, in pain, Yama will be here alone, or in a hotel somewhere, or ???? And so the drama continues. I've offered what help I can, and have been trying to think of something I can cook for him. Did I mention he's diabetic?

Lessons learned:
• Before our next cruise to anywhere, we have to get together that "ready bag" we've been talking about for ages, with changes of clothing, ponchos, mylar emergency blankets, toothbrushes, copies of our important papers, bottled water, food, pesos, phone list for reaching friends and relatives, a good knife and a flaregun, in a waterproof bag.

• Check that the Spotter is in good working order and the contact info uploaded on it is current. The Spotter is a satellite messenger device slightly larger than a cellphone that works on GPS to call for help and give coordinates in emergencies, and also to regularly notify family and friends where you are, and that you're OK. It works on land and sea, is more portable and costs a lot less than an EPIRB unit, and doesn't require costly periodic recharging. Yama could have really used a Spot.

• Don't break any bones in Loreto!

UPDATE: Yama was taken by a determined J. to the hospital in Guaymas where they'll keep him overnight. He has an infection in his leg, not a good thing with diabetes. J and her partner are changing their plans so they can be here when he gets out. And then help him with whatever comes next.

The (New) Street Where We Live

After all that grumbling, I have to admit the new brick street in front of our house does look good. They made it wider than I expected. I asked them if the baby plumeria tree would be spared, and they assured me it would be protected, although the earthmover has already knocked off a couple of branches loaded with blooms.

When the earthmover had more or less leveled the ground, plowing under our gravel, the workers covered it all with beach sand that had been sieved through a screen to remove rocks and shells. Then they marked off a section at a time with sticks and string, and smoothed it out carefully using a long two-by-four. Finally, they began laying the bricks, which are shaped like identical jigsaw pieces, and hammered each in place. Today they're spreading sand over it all and spraying it with water to work it into the cracks. Next they're framing the sides with planks and aluminum, and then they'll fill in all the gaps with concrete which they mixed with a shovel in a small pile.

The workers have been unfailingly polite and friendly, in remarkably good spirits in the punishing heat and seem to appreciate being addressed in Spanish. They take at least two hours off at midday. This morning it's raining a little, just enough to keep them cool, and they seem to be enjoying the respite from the sun.

I'm wondering if I should set up a table on the porch with bocadillos and bebidas for them when they're finished.

What Better Place for a Bookworm?

My Reading Deprivation Week opened up a lot of doors and windows for me, getting me out of the house, bringing new people into my life, re-awakening old enthusiasms. Not that I've given up reading entirely, but I needed to correct an imbalance that had me spending whole days with my nose in a book. Escapism. Pick up an interesting novel and it becomes a slippery slope. My name is 1st Mate and I'm a reading addict.

I am nothing if not inconsistent. Two weeks ago I did not permit myself to read a single book. Today I began my new career as a volunteer librarian.

Imagine! A singing librarian, like Marian in "The Music Man!" (This is Barbara Cook, who won a Tony for that role in 1957.)

I'm still reading, but I'm going for quality instead of quantity. I want to discover unfamiliar authors and genres and be more knowledgeable about what's available. That's what I admire about Sue--she can make reading recommendations off the top of her head. She seems to have read everything!

Here in Mexico we don't always have access to the newest books, but because of the nature of San Carlos, the many gringos who pass through here leave a bounty of reading material. There are exchange libraries all over the marina area especially, and from October to May, we have our own well-stocked lending library, where I propose to educate myself.

Meet Pat and Sue, volunteer librarians, and my mentors

Last year I had mentioned to Sue, one of the volunteers at the TAC Library, that I might be interested in volunteering. Our travels this spring prevented me from getting involved sooner, but today I finally took the plunge and had my first training session.

It's not just a matter of getting books back on the shelves like it is in the typical three-shelf book exchange. This is a two-room library. We separate by genre, look for duplicates or "dupes" as there's no space for more than one copy of a book, so we cull those out and send them elsewhere. We have to decide what's mystery, historical fiction, classic fiction, Western, sci-fi, how-to, self-help, and what goes into the category of General Fiction. Boring, you might say, but this is the best part, because we examine each book except the obvious, like Stephen King or Louise L'Amour. So this is where I get a chance to find new authors. Each genre has its own colored sticker, so it only has to be examined once, and from then on it's easy to shelve.
Those dupes go to exchange libraries at the marina laundromat and the bathrooms, or to the local animal advocate group which has a terrific book sale every year (you pick out what you want, and then pay what you want, such a deal!)

One hazard faces the library that could eventually destroy it: termites are creeping in through the wooden supports and shelves, and they like books as well as wood. Years from now, Sue says in resignation, everything will probably crumble to dust except the cedar furniture. But by then, maybe books will all be digital, who knows?

Gripe Du Jour: The Cost of Civilization

Our landlady is not to be outdone by the Caballeros (the wealthiest landowners in town, whose beach house is close by). Last month, Señora Caballero had the entire area in front of her palatial casa paved, and this month our Señora has decided to pave the area in front of our duplex and the casita.

Having just paid to lay gravel over the area in question last year, we are disappointed. Having been told we will be assessed $1,000 US to pay for the work is a concern, too, though we've been assured we can pay it off over the next year. The Texan, a multimillionaire who owns the house next to us, gets a free ride; the paving leads all the way to his house but they haven't asked him to contribute. And, hovering like a dark cloud over our heads is the suspicion that the property may go up for sale after all the improvements the owners--and we--have made.

Unloading two more truckloads of brick. That makes five truckloads so far
Seconds after I took this shot of Jose, a big dust cloud blew up. No more open doors and windows for us, for at least a few days

The earth mover started work even before the rains stopped a couple of days ago, closely supervised by Alberto the jefe (left)

Paving the street here doesn't mean asphalt. It means laying interlocking concrete bricks, and several truckloads of brick have been delivered already. Since there was a low place in the parking lot, it's being leveled off. So much for our little monsoon lake. I'll sorta miss it, as it always drained off before it became a problem.

But, speaking of rains, what's going to happen if we get a heavy downpour before they get the brick down? Tomorrow, in fact, rain is expected. We will be wading through a sea of mud to get to our car. The dogs will have to be carried out for their excursions or they'll come back looking like lumps of mud.

But my biggest gripe? If I were going to shell out $1k I would have liked to use it to build a big palapa on the roof. Now that would have well worth the cost.

Crossing the Pacific, a Stroke at a Time

Next time I'm confronted with the opportunity to do something brave, I'll keep Roz Savage in mind.

Following her goal of being the first woman to row (that's right, with oars, in a rowboat) across the Pacific, Roz left Sausalito on a calm midnight in May. Her boat is well supplied with a small cabin, a computer, satellite phone, video camera, iPod, backup oars, a collection of stuffed animals sent to her by kids as mascots. There's a chase boat in range to help keep her safe, a good thing after her last attempt when the boat capsized three times in gale conditions out of Crescent City and she had to abandon it and go back for it later. But it's Roz and only Roz who's making this crossing, a stroke at a time.

It's unclear to me why she chose to row exclusively instead of installing a mast so she could sail part of the way. But this her undertaking, not mine. One can only imagine the muscles she's developed, particularly since she's already rowed across the Atlantic.
Roz has devoted her efforts to publicizing her concern for the environment. On her website she writes:

When we are gone, the Earth will recover from the mess we’ve made. Even though our effects on the planet appear to be catastrophic, it’s ourselves that we’re harming. The Earth will continue. We may not.

Those interested in her progress are following her through three weekly podcasts hosted by Leo LaPorte on iTunes, a whole collection of YouTube videos, updated email newsletters... She may be alone but Roz is a social animal with lots of admirers.

It doesn't hurt that she's also gorgeous, with an irresistible London accent.

Why I Wish I Could Vote in SF This November

They may have an easier time getting voters to the polls in San Francisco this fall. A measure seeking to commemorate President Bush's years in office by slapping his name on a San Francisco sewage plant has qualified for the November ballot...

"We think that it's important to remember our leaders in the right historical context," said ... a member of the group that was formed after friends came up with the renaming idea. The rest of the story is here.

Zorra Loses Her Head

The Capt decided to get an early start this morning, a very lucky thing. It's been raining buckets and he knew the dinghy would be full of water, so he headed for the marina to pump it out. Moments later he was back.

"Get a towel and come with me," he commanded.

A block away, Zorra, my favorite feral feline, had her head stuck in a tin can and was struggling mightily to get loose. Worse, she was unknowingly lying in the middle of the road! The Capt, in his efforts to rescue her, had already gotten some bloody scratches. Twice we tossed our big beach towel over her, and twice she sprang loose, growling ferociously the whole time. Finally he bound her up, lifted her, and I gently twisted the can a couple of times.

Success! Having regained her head, Zorra leaped out of the towel with a hissing blur, and went flying through the patio of the Samoyed Death Squad. Luckily the Samoyeds were out on a walk or they would have been after her. I've seen them demolish at least one cat, while their owner stood idly by, holding the other end of their leash.

If the Capt hadn't been in a hurry to bail out the dink, if the Samoyeds hadn't been out for a walk, if a car had come along before we got there with the towel, Zorra might have been a goner.

Not that she'll ever wag her tail and say thanks, but we have dogs for that.

An Offer I Couldn't Refuse

(clockwise from left) The Capt, Franca, Laura, Franco, Almita and Lucia

Sometimes people can blow through your life like a refreshing breeze and though your time together is brief and you may never see them again, you feel a gentle shift in your whole outlook as a result of knowing them. That's how it was with the Italians.

Franca, Franco, Lucia and Laura are on a three-week vacation from their home in Northern Italy near the French border, and they're making the most of every moment. They had arrived from Baja where they had put in considerable beach time, and were on their way to El Fuerte, a historic fort town, and after that to the train tour of Copper Canyon. We met them when they were looking for a restaurant in Guaymas, and gave them a ride to their hotel in San Carlos.

They had one day to take in the sights in San Carlos and I was their self-appointed guide. I had other things to do, places to go, but I made an abrupt decision to sweep all my commitments aside and concentrate on enjoying my day with the Italians.

The pool pass for the Marina Terra Hotel came in handy, as they were in the mood for swimming and lolling in the sun. These folks seem to have no fear of Ol' Sol, and other than slathering on a little sunblock they took no particular precautions. They played in the pool like waterbabies all morning, doing somersaults, playing leapfrog, synchronized swimming and water aerobics, and I went right along with them. They all seem to be thoroughly in touch with their inner bambinos. In spite of two sunblock applications, I came home with a bit of a sunburn, but it was worth every moment.

Then in the evening I met them back at the pool and they offered me a home-cooked Italian meal. An offer I couldn't refuse! An hour later they showed up at our house, banished me from the kitchen, and proceeded to put together a pasta dish with fresh tomatoes, olives and tuna, while Almita and I practiced singing together. (When I told Almita I had a houseful of Italians for the evening she was eager to meet them, and I thought she'd enjoy their company, especially since she has expressed an interest in learning Italian.)

All four are teachers: Laura teaches physical education, Franca teaches Italian history, Lucia teaches a general curriculum in primary school, and Franco is a retired professor of engineering. Our conversations tended to drift into language differences between Italian, Spanish and English, and I found a lot of my newly-acquired Spanish was useful in understanding their rapid-fire chatter. Franca also has excellent English and acted as interpreter for the rest.

Franco loves jazz, so we wound up in the studio, where the Capt and I did our reworked guitarless version of "Take Five" with Franco singing along. Laura, sporting the Capt's porkpie hat, and Franca danced and clowned, not the least inhibited by the cramped space. These people really know how to make the most of a good time.

They were leaving this morning at the crack of dawn for El Fuerte. We've been invited to visit them in Italy and stay in Franca's daughter's guesthouse, and I'm starting to think, "Perché no?"

Sometimes you just have to drop what you're doing and let life have its way with you.

When Bloggers Meet, Waiters Wait...and Wait

"Oh, there you are!" Late as usual, we find our fellow bloggers and mates. Mike and Cynthia on the left, Brenda and Roy on the right

Bloggers united last night at Los Barcos restaurant on the Malecon in Guaymas. Cynthia invited the Capt and me, Brenda and Roy for dinner and we became so embroiled in conversation the waiter had to come over and force us to order. That was when we found out the kitchen closes at 6:30. Caramba! Just goes to show you that sometimes talk is more important than food.

Photos: Los Barcos is a lovely large, airy space with a walled garden in back, distinguished by the obelisk directly across the street, and an enormous palapa roof. (So why did I have so much trouble finding it before?) Below is what the roof looks like from underneath.


After dinner (everyone had shrimp in a delicious concoction of one description or another), we were shooed out. In no hurry to dash away, all six of us were standing in front of the restaurant admiring the obelisk across the street and chatting some more when four Italians came up, very disappointed that the doors were locked. They had just disembarked from the Santa Rosalia ferry, a 10-hour boat ride, and were tired, starved and in need of a shower. Their hotel reservations were in San Carlos, so the Capt offered them a ride. We stuffed them and all their gear in the back of my little Ford Escort and drove them to their room and the Captain's Club for dinner. A roof over their heads, food...they were so happy, we were all singing "Santa Lucia" by the time we had driven a few blocks.

As for the rest, well, that's another blog. Ciao, bambinos!

Hallelujah! The Muse is Back

Almita's quinciniero portrait...isn't she beautiful?
•••

Things are heating up in the music department again and I'm stoked! I was sad to see our guitarist go, but now it looks like we'll survive, musically speaking, until he gets back.

Much of our new material will be in Spanish, which was on my wish list of things to bring into my life.

• I found a violinist! Almita is only here for a couple of weeks, visiting her tia Alma in the Ranchitos, but we plan to make the most of it. She has been playing with a band at home in Guasave (pronounced Wasabi, like the sauce for sushi), and she sings, too, with a sweet voice and a big range! She's 17 (I first met her when she was 15), studies hard and has made it to the top of her class. A computer whiz, so we can share songs when she goes home. Yesterday we located one of her favorite songs on iTunes and sang it together, and it was still running through my head when I woke this morning. It's called "Vivo Por Ella," the version we bought is by Andrea Bocelli and Marta Sanchez and it's stupendously popular here in Mexico. The "Ella" of the title is not a woman, but music.

"Ella se llama Música" (Her name is Music)

When I took the lyrics to my singing teacher Lolita yesterday, she became very excited, said it was one of her favorites too, and translated it for me word for word.

• I'm still hoping that Tia Alma will be enticed into singing with us, too. She used to be in a band in college.

• Our landlord, Daniel, is interested in working with a violinist, and wants to come this weekend to meet Almita and maybe work on some songs.

• The skipper of "Vivid" is back from Utah and will be doing her songs at the Captain's Club Sunday, so I'll harmonize with her on a few of them. Her collection leans toward contemporary folk, songs like "Fisherman's Daughter," by the Waifs, an Australian duo. Good tunes for two-part harmony.

• Daniel told me there's a singer in his group, Juanito, who'd like to do some songs with me. I met Juanito once: an older man who has sung professionally all his life, his voice is opera-quality and muy fuerte. Guess I'll have to turn up my mike.

• On Friday we had my birthday dinner at JJ's, a popular taco place, and there was a fellow I had sung with at the Captain's Club a few weeks ago. We really had fun with "Hit the Road Jack." He said he'd been back to the Club looking for us, and I promised we'd return soon. He's about 25, the size of a football lineman. African American, black or whatever the current politically-correct term is. But the important thing is he loves to sing. Hmmm, maybe he'd like to meet "Mustang Sally"...

What, ANOTHER new gizmo?

I love to try out new bells and whistles, gizmos and gadgets. Well, I love it if they work, anyway. So, since I've heard from friends who don't have gmail accounts that they haven't been able to comment on this blog, I've installed a new Cbox tagboard, which seems to be functioning just fine. Just type in your name and email and a message in the tiny boxes at the bottom, and they'll pop up like magic. Don't know yet how long a message you can leave, so it's up to you to push the envelope.

So go ahead, type in a message. Try to keep it clean, I haven't figured out how to delete from it yet.

I'll be waiting to hear from you. Right here by the computer, holding my breath.

Well, not really...

A Field of Red Balloons

Is the methane from cows destroying the ozone? Argentine farmers decided to measure how much methane is emitted from grazing cows, and they went about it the way you'd imagine a 10-year-old would do it: by strapping big red balloons to their backs.

This Reuters news clip tells it all--except they keep referring to "cow burps" which may a euphemism but is anatomically misleading. I've heard the problem actually originates from the other end of the cow.

Who knows, with our fuel costs going up, maybe all cows will be sporting red balloons someday.

Mercado y Tianguis!

It's not just about the shopping, although the thrill of the hunt is obviously involved. But wandering through a Mexican mercado is considerably more fun than shopping at the typical supermarket. Of course it's funkier than a supermarket, and you can turn a corner and be confronted with a dead cow's head or other distressing sight (I tend to avoid the meat and fish markets). But it's only distressing because we're used to seeing everything all tidily packaged, gringo-style.

The first mercado I ever saw was in Guadalajara, decades ago. It was housed in a three-story building and I spent three days there! I'd probably need even more time there now, since I know more about what they have to sell.

The vendedora de verduras (veggie lady) at Mercado Mazatlan. Tomatoes were three pesos per kilo. Go ahead, do the math. A peso is roughly equivalent to a dime. A kilo is roughly two pounds. (These prices were from spring, 2007)

Thanks to a blog by Jim Johnson in Mexico City, I found this list of mercados to take with me next time I go traveling. The list is part of an engrossing website, Mercados: Traditional Mexican Markets, which also includes a page with advice about eating mercado food. For those of us in our first year in Mexico, it's probably a good idea to follow this advice closely. After a year or so, apparently our intestinal flora adapts well enough that we can be braver about what we eat, and where. But I don't think I'll ever be ready to buy meat or fish that has been sitting on a counter in a mercado for hours. No, gracias.

(A friend told me about a meat vendor in a mercado who was boasting that while other stands were fly-infested, no bugs were hovering over his merchandise. Then he brandished a can of Mexican bug spray with which he proceeded to liberally douse his stock, while my friend backed cautiously away.)

Herbal baths to help with business, virility and bad luck, in a fascinating booth selling charms, herbs and incense at Mercado Mazatlan
•••

The list is probably not complete -- it doesn't mention the one in Guaymas where I found potatoes as big as a baby's head, or the one in San Blas where I tasted my first mamey.

Here, of course, we also have tianguis, four of them in the area. Tianguis is like a mercado, only outdoors and not open daily. In fact, I have to cut this post short and get ready to leave for tianguis this morning at Empalme. The Capt is looking for a cushion for a new stool I can sit on while I sing. I'm looking for bandanas to add to my collection (a buck apiece) and some veggies for a stirfry.

The fruit lady at Empalme tianguis

Why I Don't Live In Mexico City (nor should you!)

A post from Mexico City columnist Jeremy Schwartz:
"Here’s yet another reason (and perhaps the most graphic) why Mexico City residents have a deep mistrust of police: according to the city’s attorney general’s office, 80 percent of the reported kidnappings in recent months occurred at the hands of criminal bands dressed as law enforcement agents" continued at Uncovering Mexico, posted July 2

Moving the Furniture Around, Changing the Slipcovers

Sometimes I just need a change. So I thought I'd go with white, float the columns and do away with the blocks of color. Please let me know if this blog is harder to read, less visually attractive or makes me look fat.

Go Ahead, Try This at Home

This is sure to add fuel to the cell phone vs. your health controversy. I never wear mine.

Téléphone Portable + Maïs = Pop-corn - Video

'Tis the Season for Torturing Fish

Dorado, aka mahi mahi, is popular prey in these parts
•••

Front page news in the current English-language paper, the San Carlos Tribune: "It's Tournament Time!" To dispel doubt as to what kind of tournament, there's a photo of a marlin standing on its tail in the water, with the Tetas in the background.

While there's no tournament this weekend, there are still plenty of gringos here in town avidly seeking close encounters of the finny kind.

The July 4th Billfish Blowout, the Ladies' International Fishing Tournament (LIFT) and the Yacht Club Tournament are all over for the year, but everybody in the charter business is gathering their gear for the 61st Annual International Billfish Tournament July 31.

Marlin on the hook. Oh, we're having a good time now!
•••

Nowadays, with the pressure to protect certain species, marlin and sailfish must both be released after catching, so a circle hook is required. All the fishermen get to keep is a photo, maybe a prize and fond memories of what they perceive as fun and fulfillment. They seem to view the whole process like a game of "Tag, You're It!" with the fish being good sports about it. They're not about to let a little wound in the mouth and a half hour in the searing sun on somebody's boat spoil their day.

Taxidermists are feeling the pinch, since fewer fishermen are bringing in their billfish catches to be stuffed. But reasonably lifelike facsimiles made of plastic are selling well.

However, dorado, tuna and wahoo are dead meat. I remember a dorado the Capt caught on our sailboat, a day south out of San Diego with the Baja Ha Ha in 1997. I watched it die in the cockpit, its dazzling metallic colors gradually changing as its life drifted away along with my appetite.

Sailfish meets human. "Relax, big boy, you'll be back in the water in a jiffy."
•••

The Rescate Tournament offers cash prizes, but the big money is in the side bets of up to $1K. Ladies of the LIFT pay $50 each to toil all day in the sun for the chance to win a crystal salad bowl, but at least they don't have to handle yucky bait, live or dead. "Thank God (it's) a lure-only tournament, so that our hands don't stink, we don't have to change and replace bait all day..." said a competitor.

So the fish doesn't even get a taste of bait to sweeten the deal a little. Is this fair, I ask you?

Yes, the fisherman is king here in San Carlos. Certainly more of a contributor to the economy than sailboaters. I even remember a big van at the marina with a bumper sticker that read "bloodonthedocks.com," but when I googled that URL I found no such site. Like the species it proposes to decimate, it's extinct.

The fish are not biting much this year, according to the San Carlos Tribune. Could it be that survival of the fittest principles are at work here? Are they getting smarter?

But, thank God, they are not as intelligent as we who kill them; although they are more noble and more able.

Ernest Hemingway, The Old Man and the Sea

Nuts and Bolts of a Dream

Google map shows Patzcuaro, its proximity to Morelia and Mexico City
•••

When you find a blog that entertains and informs, it's worth checking out. A case in point: La Vida Bouganvillea, a single previously deleted, now restored post by Michael Dickson, who lives in Patzcuaro and offers no pie-in-the-sky illusions about living in that part of Mexico. "Frigid, dusty, mountainous" were the words he used. But the elements he really objects to are "unsuitable sorts toting cameras, real estate brochures and fat checkbooks" who seem to be swarming his hometown of late.

"Frigid" doesn't sound too bad to me, at the moment. Let's load up the car, Capt, and go visit Michael. I'll take my camera, but hands off the real estate brochures. No worries about fat checkbooks, no hay.

(Remember the joke about the idiot who exclaimed, "I can't be overdrawn, look at all the checks I've got in my checkbook!")

What Michael does offer is some nuts-and-bolts advice that can be applied to just about anywhere in Mexico. A little different approach from his usual amusing meanderings.
Here's what he says about bringing cars (and I'm beginning to think he's right):

If you bring your U.S. or Canadian car down here, you will be perpetually involved in little problems regarding insurance, driver´s license, registration, etc. These problems will mostly be insignificant, but they will be as persistent as a tsetse fly. Sell it.

Buy a Mexican car here, and cops will notice you less.

La Vida Bouganvillea is on my bloglist, and though it's unclear whether Michael plans an update, it's worth a read if your dreams include exploring or moving to this perplexing, fascinating country.

Gracias, Michael.

Lets see the Dog Whisperer do this!!

Not Just About Me

A birthday isn't only about the person who was born that day. Another person who has a right to celebrate is the one who did all the hard work and delivered that baby xxxx years ago. I was first struck by that thought on April 13 when my son marked his 40th, and again today, when my mother called, with the help of my sister, from Oklahoma. My mom can't easily make a phone call anymore even though her phone has my number in its databank and she needs only to push a button. If she succeeds in making the call and gets my answering machine it throws her into confusion. My mother suffers from dementia, possibly Alzheimer's, and is in an assisted living home.

So I had to remind her where she gave birth to me, her firstborn...Kingsville, Texas. And I asked her if she remembers anything from that long ago day, but it's gone from her memory. Because I live so far away, someday she may not remember me, either. But I won't dwell on that. For now, she's still delighted to hear my voice and we can have a brief conversation. And maybe later my sister will open this blog and show it to Mother and she'll be pleased that I remembered what a significant day this is for her, too.

Happy Birth Day, Mom.

A Virtual Birthday Gift

Nobody ever wrote me a poem before. What a special birthday present! And with it, Sue in Oregon sent me a photo of a flawless pink rose from her garden. How did she know the pink ones were my favorite?

A Birthday Wish to Bliss

Although I've never met you,
It seems as though I did!
Reading your blogs and E-mails,
Like "sometime when I was a kid?"

Some of our likes are different,
Though some seem a lot the same.
As I travel on business through Oregon,
Seems I'm always spotting your name!

I do hope your Birthday's a pleasure.
Do things musical, fun and bold!
Remember you don't have the monopoly!
For all of us just keep getting OLD!

Sue Keith, 7/8/08

Actors' Studio Meme

Sunset on San Carlos Bay

Meme (meem) - an element of a culture or system of behavior that may be considered to be considered to be passed from one individual to another by nongenetic means, esp. imitation.

I've never posted a meme before, but better late than never. If you've ever watched Actor's Studio on TV you've seen famous people scratching their heads over these kinds of questions. Now you get to do it too! Here they are, with my answers. Feel free to insert your own and post them on your blog.

1. What is your favorite word? Albondigas (means 'meatball' in Spanish, always makes me chuckle.
2. What is your least favorite word? appropriate (so prissy)
3. What turns you on creatively, spiritually, emotionally? Singing in harmony. Long walks in beautiful places at sunset (is that corny, or what?)
4. What turns you off? Hateful material on the Internet
5. What is your favorite curse word? Jeez Louise
6. What sound or noise do you love? Ocean waves, the sound of sails when the wind fills them
7. What sound or noise do you hate? Sudden screech of brakes
8. What profession other than your own would you like to attempt? Singer
9. What profession would you not like to do? Public school teacher
10. If Heaven exists, what would you like to hear God say when you arrive at the Pearly Gates? Ah, there you are! the choir is looking for another alto!

High tech cherry-pitter

Yesterday I was wondering what my friend Sue used to pit the homegrown cherries for her yummy cherry crisp, and here's the gadget. Still can't figure out how it works, never was much good at mechanical doodads.

Tomorrow's my birthday. But what I'm really looking forward to is Saturday, the final day of Reading Deprivation Week.

Ah, books! No calories, no fat, no electricity required (at least in the daytime), no admission fee, no place I have to go to enjoy them. Such a variety, I could never run out of books, even here in Mexico where there's no Barnes & Noble, but the books I come across here are usually free. If nothing else, this week has reminded me how much I love books.

Learning to Let Go

Zorra used to hang out on the kitchen window ledge for hours

I have a confession to make. Since they were babies I had been feeding a family of feral cats and although they weren't tame, they had grown up relying on me. But I was outvoted by my next-door neighbors and the Capt, all of whom tell me I'm interfering with Mother Nature by putting out kibble for them everyday (not to speak of the times I'd slip chicken, tuna and sardines to them). So I regretfully had to close the free feral cafeteria.

The feeding made it possible to have them neutered, as I'd never have been able to round them up if they weren't expecting food. The problem started when we went cruising and I didn't leave enough kibble for them, not realizing we'd be gone three months. When it ran out they stormed our neighbors, who have their own cat and, therefore, a kibble supply. One of them tore up the neighbors' screens while we were gone, another knocked down a pricey propeller in his workshop and all five were swarming the front door at the crack of dawn every morning. Although they continued to put out water for the ferals, the neighbors were exasperated by the time we got home. They're not really fond of cats other than their own. But thinking of how betrayed and desperate those hungry cats must have felt, I still feel like crying.

The last litter...Zorra didn't get neutered in time and these babies arrived last fall
•••

"They'll learn to hunt," everyone assures me, "and then we won't have mice anymore." There's a field behind us, one to the side and another one in front, so the mouse population is probably enormous. I try to comfort myself with that thought.

Friendly Zorra, her timid twins, the handsome Felipe, the talkative Chucho...I've seen each of them from time to time, glaring at me like the vile traitor I am, but they all do look healthy. And at least I won't fret about them next time the Capt wants us to head off on a three-month cruise.

The twins, a neighbor cat, Chucho and Felipe at the feeding station

•••

Yesterday I found a new cat, one I don't have to feed, fix or take to the vet. I was shopping for gadgets to add to my blog and adopted a sweet cybercat. I can even take him cruising, and he won't mark his territory, leave poop or claw the curtains. He purrs if I rub his belly, talks if I touch his nose, blinks and breathes. His pupils dilate, his tail and whiskers twitch, he bats at the cursor and his big green eyes follow it around the page. Best of all, the neighbors won't object to him. If you want one, he's a Google widget called Maukie.

Maybe I should take a hint from the behavior of mother cats. They adopt, feed, raise the babies and eventually wean them and set them free. Here's a sweet mama cat story:

"Newborn red panda (the furball without the stripes) suckling on a domestic cat together with the cat's kittens. The red panda, born June 30 and rejected by its mother soon afterward in Amsterdam's Artis zoo, has been adopted by the domestic cat, the zoo said on July 9, 2008. Red pandas look like raccoons and when fully grown are slightly larger than a domestic cat."

As the Fragrance Wafts From The Kitchen...

Well, Sue, we've been waiting all day for that cherry crisp to come out of the oven, but it was worth it. Here it is in all its golden glory.

Knowing Sue, she probably used an antique cherry pitter to get the stones out. And it probably worked as well or better than anything we'd find today. When did you last see a cherry pitter for sale?

The Subject Was Cherries

Photo: Royal Anne cherries, by Sue Keith

Day Three of Reading Deprivation Week and for some reason I'm obsessing on food. So I check my email, and here's what I find from my friend Sue in Aloha, OR.

Royal Anne Cherries, on the tree, at 7:30 a.m. by noon, were in jars, ready for the Winter! These are sour, but I made four crisps (freezing cherries for one), and canned 14 quarts! All by noon today. Of course, with John's help! I would still be working on them if he did not help!

If you thought that shelf of canned cherries I pictured yesterday looked delicious, this shot of Royal Annes still on the tree, destined to become cherry crisp, will have you salivating like Pavlov's pups! Ding! Isn't she a fabulous photographer?

Sue also shared her recipe, such a generous soul. I keep telling her she should start a blog of her own, but meanwhile, I'll pass on her photos and inspirations to the rest of the world anytime. Just wish she could send me some of that cherry crisp!

You use fresh fruit, just like you were making a pie...sugar, spices... however you like it. Then, sprinkle a DRY cake mix over it, just covering the fruit. All this is in a flat dish. Then dribble melted butter or margarine over it, not covering it all, but almost, but not so it runs over. Put in the oven at 300 or so, and cook about 45 min. till brown. We like ours brown and crisp. It is so easy, it is neat to do. If I can, I'll take a picture of a "done" one that is in the oven. I do it with apples, rhubarb, cherries, blueberries, and whatever I have. This year I mixed the rhubarb and strawberries.

She wondered what fruit we have here in Mexico. Let's see, last time I looked there was mango, apple, papaya, banana, pineapple. (I bet the pineapple would be best)

What we don't have here are cake mixes.

I'm Seeing Red Today

On Day Three of Reading Deprivation Week I learned some interesting things about myself and the world that's been waiting out there for me to get my nose out of a book.

For one thing, I love having company. And not just because it makes us keep the house clean. During certain seasons we get lots of company, when our fellow cruisers are returning from their adventures, buttoning up their boats at the drydock. We have them over for dinner, but we are the real beneficiaries since they empty out their food supplies and bring everything to us. Our cupboards are bursting with goodies we've never tried before and old favorites. All I have to buy this month is fresh produce, meat and milk. But their visits also give us a chance to swap cruising tales and compare notes on favorite and not-so-favorite anchorages, trade email addresses and make vague plans to get together again in the fall.

Someone even left a bag of food at our doorstep a couple of days ago, and my biggest regret is I might never know who it was, and where they're going. Anybody got any good recipes using 1000 Island dressing? They left three bottles!

And now, in addition to our cruiser friends, we're making local friends. Fellow blogger Cynthia and her husband Mike who live in Guaymas joined us at the hotel pool yesterday evening, and then back to our house for papas rellenos (stuffed potatoes). While at the pool we met Georgia, who has a rustic furniture store next door to her husband's real estate office, in the same building with the hotel.

Because Cyn is going to teach English to 3-6 year-olds beginning next month and Georgia is a former teacher, we were hoping to glean some good advice on classroom discipline, especially since Georgia was called upon last year to help "shape up" a couple of Mexican teachers who were being driven to tears by unruly niños. It's the little boys you have to watch out for, Georgia advised with a grimace, because they're raised to believe they're little princes who can do no wrong. She says although the school doesn't want the teachers using Spanish with the students, it's impractical to think the kids can be managed without some Spanish commands.

Over the dinner table we had so much to talk about, even though Cyn and Mike are neither sailors nor musicians. Yes, there's a life outside those arenas, and some of it is pretty interesting. But we did talk boats (how could we not?) and Mike confessed a yen to have a sailboat. We're going to take them out on the Bay in our boat sometime very soon.

Cyn brought me my first birthday present of the year, a pretty bag decorated with Red Hat* slogans and filled with...OMG! Candy! Chocolate and caleta de cabra (goat's milk caramel), our favorite. I can see that next week is going to have to be Sugar Deprivation Week.

*I'm hoping sometime to invite Cyn to join me at a meeting of the Red Hat Society here in San Carlos. She's already a dedicated Red Hatter and I'm sure she misses the fun she had with them back in WA. It's a huge 'women-of-a-certain age' organization with chapters all over the world, claiming no real purpose other than to have a good time over lunch or tea. Does that sound decadent? Hey, the guys have been doing it forever, only over beers. You can spot a gaggle of Red Hatters by their (what else?) fancy red hats and outrageous purple outfits. The whole thing started with Jenny Joseph's poem, Warning.
"When I'm an old woman, I shall wear purple
And a red hat which doesn't go and doesn't suit me..."
So first off, I have to find a red hat.

That's something else I've been learning: that coming of age has its compensations.


Meanwhile, my friend Sue in Oregon has been putting up fruit from her trees with help from her husband John (now there's a prince who deserves the name). This week it was cherries, 28 jars of them! Aren't they gorgeous?

Oops!

I have to be honest with myself and admit I'm surfing, i.e. reading. I have to get away from this computer and get involved in meatspace (that's the Other World outside of the cybernetic one. It was added to the Oxford dictionary in 2000.)

Maybe I'll go goof around and get some ideas!

Where do I get my ideas from? You might as well have asked that of Beethoven. He was goofing around in Germany like everybody else, and all of a sudden this stuff came gushing out of him. It was music.

I was goofing around like everybody else in Indiana, and all of a sudden this stuff came gushing out. It was disgust with civilization.

-Kurt Vonnegut 2004

My Lost and Found Bloglist

My new cheer-up T-shirt, ten pesos at tianguis
•••

Don't you hate it when you accidentally purge something really important from your blog? In this case, I was trying to get my friend Brenda's blog inserted in the new blogroll, hit a glitch of some kind, and tapped the DELETE link, thinking I was just erasing one error. But noooooo, there went the whole blogroll!

Luckily the Capt, who is Master of All Computer Glitches, was present and in the mood to fix things, so he sat down and got me started restoring all my amigos. He went to a cached version of my blog on Google, found a post I'd done recently and obtained the source code for the blog list on that page, which he copied and pasted into TextEdit. Then to make it easier for me to spot them, he boldfaced each URL. All I had to do was go to Layout, start a new Blog List, and add each URL. It took about 10 minutes.

As you may imagine, I used a few choice words when the blog list disappeared. And then I started thinking again about an area of Spanish I've neglected: Latin epithets. Not that I plan to start a collection, but it would be good to know if somebody aims one at me.

Google dredged up a few websites with really nasty Spanish words related to bathroom functions or sex, that just aren't my style. Then again, I'm not fond of religiously-themed profanity either. What's a person to do when overcome with the urge to utter something...um...forceful?

I'm getting a bit bored with "Aaaarrrrrggghhh!" and "Oops!" So I found an entry on Wikipedia that opened a whole new window on the subject. I had no idea that cussing could get so complicated!

• Dysphemistic swearing - Exact opposite of euphemism. Forces listener to think about negative matter. Using the wrong euphemism has a dysphemistic effect.
• Abusive swearing - for abuse or intimidation or insulting of others
• Idiomatic swearing - swearing without really referring to the matter.. just using the words to arouse interest, to show off, and express to peers that the setting is informal.
• Emphatic swearing - to emphasise something with swearing.
• Cathartic swearing - when something bad happens like coffee spilling, people curse. One evolutionary theory asserts it is meant to tell the audience that you're undergoing a negative emotion.

So until I find the right "interdental fricative" I'll just have to go back to %@rix&*! Now, how would I pronounce that?

La Lista

My friend and fellow blogger Ale in Guaymas made a list of things she wants to do soon, and I have almost got it translated. That got me thinking about making my own list. So I won't be listless anymore. Lists are another of my addictions.

I don't even go to the store without a list, so how am I supposed to get through a week of reading deprivation sin lista? I remember my stepfather sitting me down and showing me how he made his lists, with a little carrot (>) next to each item. For years I kept on making those stupid carrots on my lists. I disliked and pitied my stepfather, a sadistic, hyperactive drunk who passed on lo! these many years ago (vaya con dios! I could say, but he was an atheist). However, there's no escaping the influences he had on my life. For one thing, I avoid sadistic, hyperactive drunks like the plague.

Anyway, I've made a start on a list. And I think I'll use bullets instead. I'm sure my stepfather wouldn't mind. (Actually, it's not healthy to put the concepts of bullets and my stepfather in the same paragraph, it might give my fevered mind ideas...)
• Learn how to use some of the cool bells and whistles on Blogspot. A certain amount of reading will be required, but it certainly won't be escapist reading.
• Play with the "Inner Pollock" drawing program at the bottom of my blog when I just want to doodle. Curious? Get on down there and try it out! They've changed the program so now it's a penpoint instead of a fat brush.
• Get up, walk away from the computer and sew a couple of summer frocks. (Don't you love that word 'frocks'?) In Spanish it's vestidos, which reminds me too much of 'vestments.'
• Come up with something ultimately fabulous to do on my birthday. NOT a party. Something different I've always wanted to do and never had the nerve. Even if it kills me, whatta a way to go, no?
• Pack up everything in this house that's not being used, is just in the way, and makes me irritated to look at it, and give everything to the orphanage. (Don't worry, Capt, I'll keep hands off your stuff.)
• Take a hike up Nacapule Canyon with my camera and a picnic lunch. This will put me mano a mano with my fear of snakes and scary bugs.

My fleet: (L to R) a '91 Nissan, best-looking, best-running beater in town, and a '98 Ford Escort my mom gave me last year, with only 40K miles on it.

• Spend a morning cleaning my cars inside and out so they look pristine. Then sell one of them. They're both running so well, I'm stumped on deciding which one to get rid of, but my neighbors have been muttering about all our vehicles (the Capt has his pickup, too). One's got a more comfortable ride and a sunroof, but more than 200K miles. The other's younger (only 40K miles) and has airbags, but isn't comfortable for long road trips with two dogs. It's like having two lovers, one a father figure and the other a young stud, each with his own good points, and trying to choose between them.
• Find the strikeover key on my keyboard, if there is one.
• Spend a morning calling people I haven't talked to in a long time. My mom, my sis Judy, my other sis Leslie, my sis-in-law Jane, my cousin Gene, my friend Susanna... Maybe it'll take a whole day.
• Learn how to use a couple of new photo/graphics programs: Seashore and GIMP, because my new operating system won't work with PhotoShop. Mierda!
• Spend an hour each on Spanish, singing and our publishing business, each day.
• Do some research and come up with a place to visit in Mexico for a few days in August. Someplace in the mountains, with cooler temps and lots of 'cultural tradition' for want of a better word.
• Start translating my blogs into Spanish, with help from Lolita, and then set up a link from here to the translation for my growing number of Mexican friends. I'm sure I can do better than Babelfish.
• Record Lolita and me harmonizing on Beethoven's "Ode to Joy" in Spanish, and upload it for you, dear readers and music lovers.

This is obviously going to take more than a week.

Bookless and Listless

Six-thirty on Day Two of my reading deprivation week. I'm finding myself disoriented, grumpy and a little depressed without a book to submerge myself in. When I made this crazy decision, I was alternating among three books. Yes, I've been known to be promiscuous in my reading, but then again sometimes I'm so faithful I plow through a book in a day.

I started to use the word "listless" to describe my feelings and I got to wondering where that word came from. Listless? As in 'without a list?' Well, that's easily enough remedied with a pen and paper or my nifty Google "ToDoist" program.

I'm still surrounded with unread books. Should I fill a big box and hide them away? Would it be a little like Christmas opening it again after a week? It's hard to give them up while they're all around me, like going on the wagon while working in a liquor store.

Photography may yet save me. Here's Chica, doing her cheesecake impression. Six-forty-five now, it'll be dark in a couple of hours and I can go to bed. Chica and I and my camera will take a walk.

Outboard Blues: From Propeller to Impeller

You lubbers may have heard a lot about the endless list of boat repairs all us boat people are enmired in, never to escape, unless we, too, become lubbers. Not bloody likely, Mate!

Diesel engine, watermaker, wind generator, water pump...these are a few of the problems the Capt is currently dealing with on our Morgan 33.

But even in the unlikely event that everything was working on the boat, there's another issue: the dinghy with its gasoline outboard. Since we gave up on inflatable dinghies with their perpetual puncture problems and got our hardshell Livingston, all we have to deal with are endless outboard failures. The Capt had just repaired the propellor that was quitting on us mid-bay, leaving us stranded more than once. Now it's not spewing water as it should. The motor is water-cooled, and if it's not spewing, it's not cooling. Yet another way to get stranded mid-bay.

Today Capt downloaded instructions from the Internet on this very problem. The outboard and dinghy were lugged home and now sit in front of the house awaiting his expert attention.

See the little rubber wheel at left? It's called an impeller because it impels water to move, i.e. spew. The spoke thingies sticking off the rim? There are supposed to be six. Of the two left, one's about to break off. No spokes, no spew.

We have a second 3 hp outboard, the one we lent to "Arigato Jack," which left that skipper stranded mid-bay a number of times. The pull cord has apparently been pulled for the last time and must be replaced. I asked the Capt what it would take to get it working, but he only grumbled something unintelligible, and I think it's a subject better left alone.

What happens to an outboard when it's toast? Unfixable? Here's one solution. But first one would have to become a lubber. One thing you don't need on a boat is a mailbox.