Last Mango in Guaymas

Yesterday, with regret,  I ate the last mango of the season. It was one of those big spotty, unlovely green ones from the Guaymas market, and it was perfectly ripe, sweet and delicious with a sprinkling of walnuts.

Time zooms along, leaving me breathless and overwhelmed. I feel a little nostalgia for the recent past, when I felt only a little whelmed. But the bonus is that autumn is here, and early mornings are almost chilly, so we leave off the air conditioning until late in the afternoon.

It's been a month for miracles. I always used to think I'd have my own home when pigs fly. And then they did this month,  at the Royal Melbourne Show in Australia. My guess was that they were ejected from spring-loaded cages, but no, they have some sort of Astroturf-covered rubber launching pad, so they must have been trained to jump. Animal advocates deplore the practice, but doesn't he look like he's enjoying his flight? Some pig. Hope he had a nice, cushy landing.

The Capt is preparing our new condo for the big move while I finish production on our annual antique map guide, which keeps this boat afloat. Friday he and an amiable Mexican friend, Hector, finished disassembling the concrete bed, which turned out to be constructed like a sandbox—a frame of brick, filled with sand, overlaid with a little rebar and then iced like a cake with a layer of concrete. Contrary to rumors, they did not find Jimmy Hoffa in there. Today our Scottish friend Tim is going to help haul out the broken brick, cement and sand with a wheelbarrow. Then we'll go shopping for a queen-size mattress, and if such a thing can be found in Mexico, the Capt will go ahead and construct a wooden bed frame to fit. Otherwise, we'll go with a matrimonio, the old-fashioned double bed. Our king-size would take too much space, since half of the room is reserved for a music studio.

A friend of a friend gave us two bookcases, an unexpected blessing since the house we're leaving has all its shelves built-in. A couple in the Ranchitos sold us their oak entertainment center for a good price and then threw in a dishwasher that works fine, just needs its rusty baskets replaced. The jury's still out on whether I'll actually use it much, but it would be great to have for dinner parties.

Did I mention we have water issues? Last night I had just washed the last dish (by hand) when the water went dry...again. All over San Carlos there are cries of "Oh, no!" "Merde!" "Blimey!" and other expressions too salty to be repeated as people turn on their faucets and get nada. It's very unpredictable; sometimes we get water all day and it's shut off at night.  But yesterday it was off most of the afternoon, and when I got up at four I found it on. The big problem is that the water doesn't run long enough to fill the tinacos. There are mournful complaints on the Viva San Carlos internet forum, about homes where not a drop has been seen for days, so we should count ourselves among the lucky ones. Someone called for the governor to be brought in to deal with the water company, which was said to be operating with only one well (there were three before Jimena). Somehow I doubt Governor Bours would be much help, particularly since it's the gringos who are doing the complaining. The Mexicans, who are in the majority here this time of year, haven't said a word. Meanwhile the water trucks are doing a brisk business. And we continue to see streets flowing with water from broken pipes.

As I might have guessed, the library where I volunteered last fall was severely damaged in the storm, with all the books on the lower shelves ruined and mold growing by the day to destroy the rest. I couldn't unlock the door, and the library jefe, Pat, advised me that I needed to kick the door in.  We'll have to organize a work party soon to salvage what books we can, haul away the rest, and then have the whole place treated for mold. 

Today I'm taking a break with my friends, for a brunch benefit at the (ahem!) Yacht Club,  with entertainment by the local Athletic Club bailarenas. Photo ops abound!

Glimpses of the Burning Man

I've always been curious about the Burning Man happenings. (That's what I call them, being a throwback from the Sixties.) I'd probably go, if
1) I could stand the idea of spending a week camped out in the Nevada desert in September.
2) if I thought I was still wild, crazy and energetic enough to fit in with that geeky/techie/radical/dadaist/stoned-out-of-their-cranium-on-self-expression crowd.
3) if I hadn't just put myself in hock by buying my first home, probably precluding any travel adventures for the next five years.

But I found something that's almost as good, at least for voyeurs who prefer their comfort zone, in this video. It's definitely worth bumping up to full-size to get an idea of the flaming bizarreness of this unique event.


Evolution (Burning Man time lapses) from Delrious on Vimeo.

Another steenkin' badge for my collection

Earth at night, from the Smithsonian website

The general wisdom is that you can't do anything about the weather. That it would be like trying to put in an order with God: "Today we'd like a sunny afternoon for the baseball game, please, and some rain tonight for the tomatoes."

The growing consensus is that we have already done something about the weather, but there are measures we could take to counteract the mistakes of the past or at least slow down the present pace of deterioration. There are others, including good friends of mine, who say it's foolish and arrogant trying to alter God's plan…we get what we get.

I'm not going to go into the arguments right now, first I need to do some homework. I'll just point out the blue badge to the right, announcing this year's Blog Action Day for Thursday, October 15. Click on the badge and you'll find out probably more than you'd ever want to know about this very well-organized event.

Climate change was the overwhelming choice this year when the Blog Action Committee put several topics to a vote. And the vast majority of them don't even live in San Carlos/Guaymas/Empalme where Jimena roosted for two days like a hen on her eggs, soaking us in more than 25 inches of rain and forcing 75,000 of our less fortunate out of their homes.

Last year I didn't find out about Blog Action Day until the day itself, when quite a number of fellow bloggers sounded off on the subject of poverty. What a coincidence, I muttered. Duh!

Ta Daaaa!

I've been promising (threatening?) to upload one of the songs we're recording, and finally, here it is.

One of my favorite songs is the theme from the 1959 movie "Black Orpheus." The song has two different sets of lyrics. I prefer this much happier version, about Carnivale and its promise of excitement, romance and guitar-playing so beautiful it makes the sun rise. The other version, called "A Day in the Life of a Fool," is better known but somewhat depressing.

My accompanists are the Capt and our friend Daniel Perez Aguilar. Photos are from the Mazatlan Carnivale parade, 2008.

Black Orpheus (click to play)

Clothing donations seized

Washbasins full of food and cleaning supplies were packed up and distributed to the damnificados por el huracan Jimena

Small concrete house knocked off its foundation by the storm at Fatima, a colonia of Guaymas. Photos: Margaret Gadsby

I got a call a while ago from Sal Fazio. He had just crossed the border heading to Tucson. As his daughter had a bunch of clothes to send back with him for the needy, he stopped at the Aduana's to see if there would be any problems. He told me the Aduana took him into a room that was piled as high as could be with used clothing. He told Sal that they were not allowing any used clothing into the country. Mexico Mel, San Carlos

My friend Wendy is coming down from Canada in a few weeks, with a load of used clothing for the people displaced here by Hurricane Jimena. Many others have been planning to do the same when they visit here. But according to the local internet forum, used clothing won't be allowed across the border. There's concern that some of it will end up for sale at tianguis.

Wendy requested a letter from the Mexican Consulate in Vancouver which she's hoping will clear the way for her to bring down her donations, but we won't know until she tries it whether that works.

All I can suggest is to bring fewer items of clothing, pack them in a suitcase with all tags removed, don't declare them, and hope for the best. I brought a bag of baby clothes home that way yesterday. Otherwise they end up in a huge stack at the Nogales aduana's office, doing no one any good.

A report on fundraising efforts to secure everything from bedding to shovels to cleaning supplies and lime for covering animal carcasses says there will also be portable shelters set up where needed.

Meanwhile there are people who have lost everything, who were unable to save anything but their lives when their homes were destroyed. And autumn's cooler nights seem to be coming earlier this year.

"Black Orpheus"

One of my favorite songs is the theme from "Black Orpheus," which has two sets of lyrics. I prefer this one, a much happier version. (The other one, called "A Day in the Life of a Fool," is better known but is somewhat depressing.)

My accompanists are the Capt and our landlord and friend Daniel Perez Aguilar. Photos are from the Mazatlan Carnivale parade, 2008.

Black Orpheus (click to play)

Reality check

Back home after our luxurious hotel stay in Tucson, we find our water and cable (upon which depend our phone and internet) are still sporadic and unreliable. Thinking of a shower? Good luck, it's likely to run dry before you get the suds out of your hair. Got an urgent phone call to make? That's when the internet will go on the blink.

But yesterday a reality check made my problems seem infinitesimal. I joined up with a gringo gang that drives out to the ejidos once a week to deliver food to families affected by the hurricane. Our assignment was San Jose, where we passed out bags of beans, rice, canned ham and flour to about 275 people. Recipients were selected by local schoolteachers who know all the families and can best assess their need. Getting there on the rutted dirt roads, even in Jan's trusty Jeep, was an experience in itself. A car like mine, for instance, wouldn't last more than a week before the undercarriage, wheels, shocks, struts, etc. fell apart.

San Jose is mostly rutted dirt and dust now, but a week ago it must have been a nightmarish quagmire. While we waited for the food trucks (one carrying bags of flour, the other everything else) we stood in the shade and watched people carrying babies and towing toddlers, gather in a large open area, out in the broiling sun to wait for food.

Once the trucks arrived, we hustled to unload and stack black bags and shrinkwrapped packages of flour, and then began passing the goods back up to the folding tables, fire-brigade style, where they were handed out. Boys in homemade carts played on the road out front. Poised little girls, sticking to the "best seen and not heard" adage, hovered near, obviously thrilled to help when asked. Skinny dogs wandered by hoping there might be something for them too, and I longed for a giant bag of kibble. A smiling joven in a brown shirt took a station at the end of the line and kept himself busy whisking bags of flour to me, and disposing of the plastic wrappers.

We had enough surplus to take to the residents of the old men's home which was demolished by Jimena. (A story in itself—Jan says the 14 viejos were on the roof of their flooded home all night during the storm, and were airlifted from there by helicopter.)

Demetrius is the most popular of the viejos...in fact Jan was considering auctioning off a date with him, as a fundraiser.

They're staying temporarily in a men's and women's eldercare home in Guaymas, but according to Luz, the manager, they'll need to be out of there in four months. We met some of the old gents, and I took their photos while Jan circled the block trying to find a place to park.

Most are in wheelchairs, some seem completely out of touch with their surroundings, while others are very responsive and friendly. One, in a bright red T-shirt, got up to dance with a nun when a radio somewhere started to play a lively Latin tune. I didn't get his name, but I'm tempted to call him Mr. Bojangles from now on.

We quizzed Luz about whether they had adequate bedding, clothing, books, toothpaste and all the necessities, and she nodded yes to everything. Then I asked about dulces and she indicated with a smile that sweets would always be welcome.

Luz is meeting with a group of patrons to work out how their home can be rebuilt. We decided we need someone bilingual to meet with Luz and us clueless gringas, to help establish what we can do to further help los viejos.

Like a blessing on my efforts, the water and cable were both functioning when I got home.

The Capt, Lucille and Me

I'm sitting in a hotel room in Tucson, all packed and sipping a last cup of coffee, wondering where the Capt is. An hour ago, he went downstairs to organize the car so we can head home after a day of paperwork plus hunting and gathering. How long can it take? From the window, I see him sitting in the car two stories below. The window actually slides open (how often do you find that anymore?) so I call him, and that's when I realize: he's been spending the last hour getting acquainted with Lucille!

Recently he found a GPS unit online, called a GlobalSat Car Navigator, which he bought to navigate our way around the States and Mexico. It takes minutes to install, can be removed and used in another car, and has a dandy screen to be attached to the windshield with a suction cup. (Will it actually suck? I'm wondering, because they never seem reliable, but never mind...)

The driver can follow the instructions on the screen, or if reading while driving is too distracting, he can switch on a voice that issues all those backseat-driver commands usually so resented when issuing from a living breathing human (particularly female). The options are male or female voices in American, British or Spanish styles. Ironically, The Capt has chosen American female voice, explaining that they're easier to understand in noisy traffic. We've named her Lucille.

Too bad. I thought a British male who sounded like Hugh Grant would be rather fun. But I suppose when I'm driving, I can summon Hugh with a few pushes of a button.

Finally we finish loading the car and start for home, the Capt, Lucille and me. She has that same modulated, regionless tone I remember from my first talking car, a Nissan that would only tell us when fuel was low or a door wasn't closed properly. But Lucille is much more informative. At 400 yards, she tell us we're coming to a turn, then again at 100 yards. She even alerts us to keep to the right, or the left depending on which way we'll turn. When we get a little heavy-footed on the gas, she says in exasperation, "You are exceeding the speed limit." If we decide to ignore her directions, she'll say only once, patiently but firmly: "Off route." If we veered off the highway and plunged down an embankment, that's what she'd announce, but of course we wouldn't hear her with all the panic and screaming.

When we get where we're going, there's a discernible triumph in her voice when she declares, "You have reached your destination!"

Lucille isn't very accurately programmed for Mexico. She can direct you to a town, even a fairly small one, but can't show you how to get around once you get there. In Hermosillo, she tried to send us right when the Capt already knew (and the screen also indicated) that we had to go left. If I had been driving alone when this happened, I'd have been tearing my hair.

Still, it's very easy to get lost in Mexico, as I've discovered from reading other expats' blogs, so maybe Lucille will be helpful after all. And I might not have to try to decipher tiny map type while riding bumpy roads, a sure cause of queasiness. I can concentrate on tasks Lucille can't do, such as keeping the Capt hydrated and fed, and rubbing his neck when it's sore from hours of driving. Stomping on my imaginary brake pedal when it seems we're going to ram into the car ahead of us in heavy traffic.

So I needn't worry about being replaced by technology...yet.

Fingernail frogs and farewells

The Capt and I aren't sleeping all that well lately, with all that's going on in our lives, so it was well before sunrise when I took Chica out for her walk. I had just heard from Steve in Melaque that his dear Prof. Jiggs is gone, and his farewell post was a poetic eulogy that made me weep. As we trotted out into the early morning I appreciated more than ever the company of my little familiar. It's my favorite time of day, cool and peaceful, the air fresh and clean. Except for the toppled sign for the Captain's Club, you'd never know we'd had a hurricane a week ago.

Perhaps because of all that rain, frogs are multiplying down by the marina. There's a huge pond next to the hotel, that I've worried would become a vast mosquito nursery, so I was glad to see the frogs. They're the size of my fingernail, but move so fast!

Yesterday our landlord came over, looking dapper in white Bermudas and a Panama hat. We did some recording with "Black Orpheus" and "Somos Novios," a tune gringos know from Perry Como days as "It's Impossible." The Spanish lyrics are so much more beautiful—it's the perfect anniversary song. He brought three coconuts from his yard, which were chopped into snack-size chunks by an expert machete man, and doused in hot sauce and lemon juice. I made a big pitcher of jamaica.

I was dreading having to tell him we were buying a home and moving away, but it turned out the Capt gave him the news, and Daniel responded with the grace and humor we've come to expect of him. It helps that our friends from "Synchrony" are eager to take our place here in the duplex.

"So now instead of being your tenants, we will just be your friends," I said as I gave him a goodnight hug. "Next time you come see us you should bring not only your guitar but your bathing suit!" Daniel has become a regular part of our lives over the past three years. Once a month we'd have long conversations about music, when we took our rent to his office. Sometimes he slipped away from his busy life to jam with us and he generously invited us to take part in reunions with his professional musician friends. "You have changed our lives," I told him.

The Capt is mixing and adding a bass track to the recordings, and then I'll upload them here. I'm hoping they're just the beginning of a series, and they'll get better along the way. Like our life.

Our little piece of the world

Today is a historic occasion, bigger than birthdays, bigger than wedding anniversaries. We'll celebrate September 12 every year with ice cream and cake. We have found our own little piece of the world. Just a condo, nothing remarkable, but it will be ours.

As a renter, I have always been at the mercy of one or another landlord. Although I've lived in some great places, I've always had renter's anxiety. I've had houses sold out from under me. I've had rent suddenly increased by vast amounts. I've been required to move so the owners could remodel and double the rent. At least I was self-employed, and not at the mercy of both a landlord and a boss.

Something always seemed to disqualify me from owning a home. I was a single mom without child support, working in publishing, a field that offered job satisfaction instead of financial reward. After living single most of my life, I married a man who also didn't bring in the big bucks, but together we created a business that succeeded better than anything we'd ever done individually. Then we became boat people, owners of not one but two vessels, one a money-sucking project boat. For decades I've been contributing to an IRA, but when it plummeted by 50% in the past year, I put behind me any dreams of having my own place.

Teeny kitchen, but more cabinets than I had before

But my subconscious must not have go of the dream, because when an opportunity to buy a place suddenly appeared, I surprised myself with the intensity I felt about going for it. A friend and his wife were selling their condo, ready to bid adios to the Mexican dream and go back to Colorado. We had visited them a few times and admired their home, the most un-condolike dwelling we've ever seen, in an older, beautifully-landscaped complex with two pools and lots of trees (a big deal in the desert). Recently it became gated (not a big deal, to me anyway). It was originally built as a resort hotel. Their unit had one bedroom, but with two bathrooms. Two patios. A mini-split air-conditioner, gas stove, more storage than we have in our present two-bedroom duplex. Our friends were willing to carry the loan, so we put in a bid and crossed our fingers.

Thanks to Hurricane Jimena, we couldn't reach the broker for three or four days, and when we finally reached her, we were disappointed to hear that a cash bid had trumped ours. Naah, I wasn't disappointed. More like devastated. I had allowed pictures of us living in that place to move into my imagination, before we moved into the place. Bad idea. But my hope meter took a little jump when I remembered there's another unit for sale with identical floor plan just opposite it. We decided we'd have another look at that one.

Unfortunately, Hurricane Jimena got there first.

Front patio overlooks the golf course

When we went to look at it today, we were assailed by the odor of mildew and mold. It had been cleaned, but we could tell how high the water reached by the dampness in the exposed brick walls, four feet up! It had been furnished, but most of the furniture is now due for the dump. I know, it's insane to think of buying a place that floods, when we're currently renting a place that doesn't! But the Capt feels sure he can engineer a solution that will prevent it happening again, so we made a low-ball offer, and a couple of hours later we heard from the agent. For the first time in my life, I'm a homeowner.

The only usable furniture left is a funky swimming-pool-aqua dining table and chairs. Mural is one of three!

So much needs to be done before we move in. For one thing, there's a deadline and a press date to meet. The blinds, ruined in the flood, have to be replaced, and the horrible concrete bed made to disappear. Why do Mexicans build those beds anyway? They're not comfortable, they can't be altered if you want to go bigger or smaller, and you can't store anything under them. My friend Jan tells me she once had to deal with one when she moved to Mexico. "You hire a Mexican with a hammer and he'll make it disappear," she assures me.

I ask you: why would anyone make a bed out of concrete?

Between Jimena, my deadline and the new place, my mind resembles an anthill after it's been stepped in.

Here's the funniest part: I have absolutely no interest in golf. Never played, never wanted to. But my new home overlooks a golf course. My sister and her husband in Oklahoma are golf nuts who play every day. Think maybe they'll come visit me now?

Poco a poco

“Perseverance is more prevailing than violence; and many things which cannot be overcome when they are together, yield themselves up when taken little by little.”

―Plutarch

My priorities need a reality check.

I'm feeling remorseful that while my neighbors are helping people get their boats off the rocks, and gathering food and clothes for the people left homeless by Jimena, and networking on ways to help out, here I've been frantically trying to re-establish communications with clients so I can go to press on time. Who really cares if an annual publication comes out the first week of November or the second week? Do I have the perfect excuse for a delay — a hurricane, for pity's sake — or what?
Conditions are improving poco a poco. In one of the most devastated small towns, San Jose, 700 food packages were handed out yesterday by volunteers. Families have been taken in and fed at local schools. Here and there people are beginning to get tapwater again (not us), Internet connections are mostly functional (except for ours) and electricity is back on everywhere. To drive out of town, you take a dirt road turnoff at the Alcoholics Anonymous building and go a couple of bumpy miles back to the main road; reportedly they're grading the detour regularly to keep it usable. So today I'm going to drive to Guaymas, use the ATM, pay the rent and look for a place to donate a trunkload of clothes and food. Reports are that the Red Cross hasn't been seen even in the hardest-hit areas, surprising since they are so much in evidence normally, collecting cash donations at topes (speed bumps).

While it's tempting for our stateside friends to load up a collection of goods and rush them down to this area, the border authorities are not keen on allowing private vehicles loaded with stuff to enter Mexico, and a daunting amount of paperwork can be involved. Depending on who's deciding, a would-be volunteer could be turned back, or her vehicle impounded. Money donations are easier, and groups such as Sonora is Safe is active in collecting online PayPal payments and directing those funds where they're needed, by logging on to PayPal, and sending hurricane relief money to Sonora is Safe.

My landlord says the number of displaced residents is more like 75,000 (I'd been told 40,000) and it's a bad time to expect much help from government in Sonora. Since the elections in July, the mayor and governor and their retinues are all lame ducks, leaving office in the next couple of months. One thing the state did was impose a Ley Seca (dry law) on sales of beer, which forbids the sale of alcoholic beverages "until further notice." The restriction has been lifted now. As in election time, there was concern people will make bad choices in crucial times while inebriated. The Mexican version of the Nanny State.

Here's the best video I've seen yet of Jimena in San Carlos, from my videographer/musician friend Steve Schmersh.

Our neighbor Dave has been busy the last few days helping assess the damage in sailboats that were torn from their moorings in the anchorage. Apparently a freak gust of 95mph winds hit during the storm and most of the smaller sailboats were knocked loose then. But even sadder are the uninsured fishing and shrimping boats in Guaymas that capsized at the docks. My own livelihood may have hit a glitch, but these people's work is stalled indefinitely.

Time for a blessing inventory

Tony's popular veggie stand -- we may have to take a kayak to get there, but it looks like he'll be able to salvage it

Cell phone service was back on yesterday and I was able to get in touch with my friends to see how they are.

Ale has one dry room in her house and her tinaco isn't working, but instead of bemoaning her situation she has been out taking photos of the destruction in Guaymas, including shots of the church, San Fernando, without its dome, destroyed by the wind. I'm wondering if they're having services outside in the park this morning, since the sanctuary is full of rubble.

My maestra Lolita and her family is OK, and she has more than one tinaco for water storage, but she also owns a hotel with all its water demands. Her house is a block up the street from the church, high enough and well-constructed enough to have escaped serious damage. Alma, my doctor friend from the Ranchitos, stopped in for coffee with her husband and her mom. She's worried about the hospital where she's head of pediatrics, that the water situation is going to bring in more sick children and at the same time make treating them more difficult. She told me how to contact the water truck, which will come out and fill our tinaco, but since it's not well-filtered, it may only foul the tinaco and clog it up. At Marina Seca, British John dug out his mast yesterday and will be able to save it, though the spreaders and radar are lost. He has a glimmer of hope that his car is not ruined after all, though water rose as high as the seats. Jan made a run to Hermosillo and found a generator which will make their all-electric house more habitable; they'll need it when their new house is built, anyway. She brought back a couple of loaves of wonderful bread from Costco, so I'm looking forward to a peanut butter sandwich!

I'm hoping to see Brenda at Lolita's for Spanish conversation class on Tuesday, when we'll have a wealth of topics to discuss. Think I'll beef up my vocabulary a little before then. Words like inundated, mud, destruction and rubble...

My neighbor Joanne brought over a box of hand wipes, which I plan to make good use of, since handwashing is going to become a luxury.

We salvaged the generator from our old RV a few months ago, and the Capt set it up with British John's help, so we can run the fridge and fans a few hours a day, charge our laptops and the little charger that runs a 12-volt fan we use at night.

Still no shower, but thanks to Dr. Bronner's liquid soap and a plastic bowl, I can take a very refreshing Bronner bath once a day.

So our cup overfloweth in spite of some setbacks. With no Internet, television and other distractions (not even deadline, since I can't use my US phone), I've been giving a lot of thought to what can be learned from recent events. At the top of the list is the importance of friendship.

Do the aftermath

The authorities and experts are still calling Jemina a tropical storm, but around here she's earned the title of hurricane, and then some. A hundred-year storm was what I heard yesterday. Fifty-knot winds average with gusts to 75, twenty-five inches of rain. How about tropicane?

Yesterday when the rain petered out we took a drive in the Capt's heavy-duty old Dodge truck to assess the damage, and found everyone else in town was doing the same. First we took a look at the Bahia, having heard that at least 11 boats had lost their moorings and lay beached along the shore of the anchorage.

The Abyss at Charlie's Rock

We found impassable roads, downed power and phone lines and bar signs, displaced cars and boats, a wrecked drydock (now don't panic, M! I hear Jack is OK) and finally came, literally, to the end of the road. The main access road, all four lanes of it, collapsed at Charlie's Rock, leaving a 15-foot-deep chasm full of debris and concrete. A crowd was lined up on each side, peering into the abyss with wide eyes and shrugging their shoulders at each other.

Three powerboats floated out of the roadside storage yard and beached themselves on the median strip, blocking the main road

The only access in and out of town is on the notoriously rocky and unstable, unpaved and unpredictable roads through the Ranchitos, but drivers found a way, and even a city bus from Guaymas was spotted later in the day.

The storage yard at Marina Seca

Our British friend John was aboard his boat at Marina Seca (the workyard) during the worst of it. His mast, awaiting new rigging, was sitting on sawhorses under the boat. When he woke up the mast had floated up to the drydock gate and was wedged sideways, and a big truck had landed on top of it, along with several tons of mud. His car, in the parking lot, was submerged up to the doorhandles and is probably a total loss. Other than one American who was preparing to leave, John was the only person at Marina Seca through the whole storm. He stopped by yesterday and helped the Capt connect up our old RV generator to our house so that now everything works, as long as we have gasoline. Muchas gracias, John!

The Captain's Club and Tequila's signs toppled, bringing down powerlines with them

There's no water and no cable for our Vonage phone and Internet, no cell phone service. We heard predictions of up to five days to get services running again, but que milagro! This morning on the VHF morning net we heard much of San Carlos and Guaymas already has electricity back, the gas stations are pumping gas again (yesterday all they had for sale was water) and the Marina Terra Hotel, a block from our house, has their Internet service restored and is opening their doors to anyone who needs to get online. Gringos are trickling in, using their Skype to report to Stateside friends and share horror stories. But everyone seems to be in good spirits, and there are also plenty of accounts of heroism (in particular the guys from the electric company, who worked around the clock to get power going again) and generosity.

Now if only I could get a shower...

Jimena's shenanigans

It could only happen on a full moon. The base of Hurricane Jimena is still 75 miles away on Baja, but most of its effects have jumped the Sea of Cortez and arrived to slap us in the face. All night. Into the morning. At 8:42 it still shows no signs of letting up. A hurricane with remote control. Actually the authorities who decide these things have demoted her to a tropical storm on the Baja side, but she's exhibiting hurricane behavior here. "A Jekyll/Hyde thing," says the Capt. This explains why news reports and online sources all said she was headed away from us last night, yet we kept getting more and more weather.

Here's the NASA picture, to give you an idea of her shenanigans.

NASA satellite picture of Jimena this morning: the smaller blob at left is what they're calling the base of the storm, and the much bigger one is right over Guaymas/San Carlos

We had no electricity, but the Capt, ever resourceful, hooked up an inverter to my '71 VW van, sitting in the carport, to a series of power strips. So until the gas runs out, we have a makeshift generator. Our real generator is miles away, out at his work area for the Green Flash, and it's not a good time to jump into the truck and go get it.

Oddly enough, we still have Internet for now, being hooked up to MegaRed cable. So, knowing how all my dear followers are fretting over our status, I send off this post from the heart of the storm.

It's very exciting outside. We can't venture very far from the carport, because the winds are gusting around 50 knots. So far the worst of it has been not having adequate power to use our coffee machine, so I have to make tiny cups of espresso with the stovetop Italian pot. Better than nothing...

Dear friends with boats, please don't email me to go check the status of your vessel right now. Trust me, you wouldn't go out in this either.

Smiling like Stallone

This picture is taped over my computer with the legend: "COURAGE...Do one brave thing today...then run like hell." Well, I did two brave things, so I guess I can take the rest of the day off.

First thing this morning I went to my dentista in Empalme, to be uncrowned. That is, she took a couple of old crowns out in preparation for replacing them with new ones. This prospect was a lot more attractive than what I thought I was facing: two root canals! But I knew I was in for some pain because they don't use gas in Mexico. You get the local, you brace yourself, you endure. The urge to run like hell is overpowering now and then, but I really like Mariann, my lovely, gentle dentist, and wouldn't want her to think she was making me suffer. And her assistant, Gerardo, is challenging me with sexy amber eyes over his mask, which he never takes off so he reminds me of Zorro. If I saw him unmasked, on the street in sunglasses, I wouldn't know him. And stunningly beautiful Beatriz, the receptionist, stationed outside the door; I wouldn't want to humiliate myself in front of her, either. Beatriz looks like a Carnivale princess, dressed and made up every day as if prepared to climb onto her sparkling float and cruise the streets of Empalme.

It's not Mariann's fault I have an overdeveloped gag reflex that makes me want to hurl when she stuffs the silly putty in my mouth for impressions. The worst was when she said, "Now you'll feel a little tap," and she banged on my tooth with a hammer! Caramba! Then there's the sickening crunch as the tooth finally gives way, after endless banging. I asked a lot of questions about what she was doing, what she called various things in Spanish, because I've found that curiosity can trump fear, if it's strong enough.

In the car, I inspected her work in the rearview mirror and discovered that with the anesthesia still numbing the left side of my mouth, my smile looked just like Sylvester Stallone.

Cost for the two crown replacements is $3200 pesos. Current exchange rate is 1 peso = .073339 dollars. I pay with my debit card. My friend Ale says Mariann's prices are "a little high," but I like her references.

Back home, I called my blogbuddy Jan and we went to La Palapa Beach to watch the surf kick up in advance of Hurricane Jimena. It was so awesome I went back to fetch the Capt and my camera. Giddy with negative ions, we guzzled limonada and oohed and aaahed at the huge, thundering waves, all lathered in white foam. Spindrift flying through the air, making our lips salty. Gusts of wind trying to knock us off our barstools, tossing over any that were unoccupied. The Palapa manager wavered between delight at all the customers pouring in for ringside seats and terror that we would all be washed away. I had never been at sea level when this kind of weather was coming in, satisfied with a perch on my safe, dry bluff high above the tumult before. But now I'm hooked. Bring 'em on!

Brave Mexicana stands a few feet from ferocious waves at La Palapa Beach.