Day Three on the boat in the marina at Mazatlan. Day One I spent recovering from the 12-hour drive down here, doing as little as possible. Day Two we made arrangements for some repairs on the van at the Nissan dealership, and I learned a new song on the guitar, actually got it to the point that I could play the rhythm part with the Capt doing lead. Sounded great! Well, not really.
Today the pace picks up as we rush the van to the shop at 8am, and I try to meet-up with my fellow blogger Nancy.
The marina has changed so much since the first time we were here in 1998, I wouldn't have recognized the place. Back then, there was always a Full Moon Howl, with cruisers gathered around a bonfire telling stories, doing skits, singing. A ragtag get-together like that would be frowned upon in these glitzy surroundings.
In its favor, the marina now boasts a good coffeehouse on the malecón. A cruisers' lounge for internet, exercise classes, card players and music jams. Easily acquired and fairly reliable wifi. But the store on the malecon carries only booze, sodas and the usual snack foods. The boutique store across the highway sells their produce as though it were some rare and precious commodity... an apple for 16 pesos, for instance. At least a dozen upscale restaurants have sprung up, everything from pizza to steak, all catering to the deep pocket diner. Where once there were acres of open space between the docks and the highway there's now a row of condo complexes, parking lots and promotional kiosks. At least none are higher than eight stories, unlike the gargantuan citadel resort hotel we passed near the once-pristine Playa Bruja.
But there are still trees. Palm trees in tidy rows, a requirement for any self-respecting Mexican coastal development.
Maybe today while the Capt is packing up what he wants to take home, I'll take a bus to Old Town, my favorite part of Mazatlan. Hit the mercado where apples may not be as pretty but I can get a whole bag for 16 pesos.
The boat is safely tucked into a slip in Mazatlan where it'll stay until the winds are favorable for a four-day sail north, probably a month from now. Time to collect the Capt, his two guitars and some other essential things he wants to bring home. He's convinced he's solved the alternator problem, the cooling system is working well and he just needs to replace some batteries. That's nothing new, boats are always in need of new batteries.
The new music room, formerly a patio, has now been roofed over and walled in, a ceiling fan, AC and lights installed. I've emptied a closet and half the bathroom shelves, cooked up some soups and beans to freeze, and cleaned out the minivan. Today I'll wash and vacuum the van, check all its vital fluids and tire pressure, under the supervision of Earl, my car guru. Sofia has had her bath, trim and tick treatment, and Chica will get hers today.
The plan is to leave at first light so I can make as much of the drive as possible in the cool morning, because the air conditioning isn't working, and because I'd like to get there well before dark. I'm taking along a book on tape to shorten those nine long hours. It'll be just me, the dogs and James Lee Burke.
It feels like new chapter is about to begin.
Anticipating the return of the Capt, who is now in a rolly anchorage north of Puerto Vallarta, I'm reminded of the wives who lived along the East Coast in the 1800s and spent their time wearing a path along the widows' walks atop their houses, staring out to sea for signs of their husbands' ships.
Lacking a widow's walk, I jump at the ring of the phone or the "zoop" sound from my Mac that means I've received an iChat. He has had good wifi connections all along the coast, and has contacted me almost every day to keep me up to date on his location and situation.
Ongoing failures, with both the electrical charging system and the cooling system, mean the diesel could potentially overheat or if the motor dies while underway, it might refuse to start again. Or both could happen at once, just to make things really interesting, especially since the seas are rough even though winds are inadequate for sailing. Inadequate for our boat, anyway.
Picture yourself jammed into a tight engine compartment, a screwdriver between your teeth and a wrench in your hand, troubleshooting a balky engine while your vessel is being slammed right and left, up and down by the waves. Ribs already sore from a previous 8-foot fall from a ladder. Sleep-deprived, because the previous night was spent pondering what could have malfunctioned this time. Such is the life of the single-handed sailor.
Zoop! Here comes an update. Aha, it's a broken quarter-inch bolt on the alternator this time. Too corroded to remove, so he has to drill a hole down the middle of it to get it out. Try that when the boat's being rocked like a cradle in the hands of a mad nanny.
The radio weather oracle, Don Anderson, says there'll be no wind for the next couple of days, so the boat is going nowhere until the diesel is running. Maybe I'll make some soup while waiting for the next zoop.
Mexico Bob recently posted about Marilyn Moss (Mexican Trailrunner), a blogger in the emergency health care field who published an e-book all of us ex-pats, visitors and would-be visitors to Mexico should have: Emergency Medical Spanish.
It could be the best ten bucks you ever spent, if you're ever in a situation when you need medical help and your Spanish isn't fluent (which describes most of us). Use it to explain where it hurts, how you got hurt, and comprehend instructions from a non-English-speaking med tech or doctor.
I'm just passing on the link to obtain the book and to learn more about it at Bob's blog, since he covered it, por siempre, better than I ever could.
I have a copy on my desktop computer and one on my laptop and I plan to print out a copy to put in a looseleaf notebook. I'm sure Marilyn would approve. It's so comprehensive that just browsing through it will improve your Spanish, even if you haven't been stung by a scorpion, lost an encounter with a stingray or suffered first-degree sunburn.
Dinner in a new restaurant last night with two couples. Beautiful place, fantastic live music, mediocre food. As we were settling the check, one of the husbands started asking me about this whole blogging thing. What is it? Why do I do it?
There was a look of barely disguised horror on their faces when I talked about it. Clearly they were wondering, why would I reveal myself on the Internet this way, when there's so much evil, avaricious intent—hackers, viruses, ID thieves—out there? Why would I open myself up to strangers? Do I actually make friends with people I've never met face to face?
My answers at the time were inadequate. There was no way I was going to budge them from the belief that I'm some kind of nut for exposing myself online as I do, as though I'd done a striptease on American Idol. I woke up at 3am thinking of what I might have said, but alas, much too late.
At the time I simply explained that writing is something I do and I wouldn't be happy not doing it. A writer is happiest when there's an audience, however small, to respond, however briefly. Otherwise writing becomes a very lonely pasttime. I have thoughts and ideas to share, and no amount of fear inhibits that urge to speak up. It goes beyond ego, beyond wanting to toot my horn. (Unless I'm doing a magnificent job of self-deception.)
Trying to explain to some people what it's like to be part of a blogging community is like trying to describe what the wind looks like, or what the color red sounds like. They all do e-mail, but only with people they know—family, friends and neighbors back home. Maybe they never had pen pals, I didn't ask.
All I know is so far I've now been blogging for four years as of January when I first started writing about our sailing adventures, and so far have no regrets. It's more likely I'll think back someday and regret times in my life when I didn't write a post, when some really stupendous event took place.
Speaking of stupendous events, today I'm remembering a morning 42 years ago when I woke up in a San Francisco hospital after giving birth to a baby boy. Couldn't have blogged that one, didn't even have a computer then.
¡Feliz cumpleanos, m'hijo!
For years my son, now in his early 40s, has sworn I will never have grandchildren. So I resigned myself to never spending much time with little ones again, and feeling just a little wistful. Well, maybe sometimes a lot. But now it looks like, ready or not, here they come.
Imagine my surprise when I opened my door this morning and saw not one but TWO kiddies standing outside. I had invited my little neighbor M, age 10, to come over and make an apron for our next cookie project. But her parents both had to work today and apparently thought it would be no extra trouble for me to take her six-year-old brother O. too. Plus the dog.
¡Caramba!
I last spent time with a boy child of that age when mine was six, decades ago, so my boy-handling skills were rusty. O. arrived toyless, looking a little forlorn. And his big sister was annoyed, being used to having me all to herself and terrified that I might just send the both of them packing. So what could I do but adjust my face to my best bienvenidos expression, open the door and my heart wide and wave them in.
So much for the sewing project.
We immediately headed for the nursery to find a plant for my Talavera pot. We wandered over every inch of Carmelita's green acre, sniffing flowers, admiring various colors and talking over the pros and cons of a dozen different varietals before selecting one. Then home for lunch.
O. is sweet-tempered, bright and well-mannered, dishing out copious "thank-you's" (possibly his only English words) for every little kindness. At least a couple of times his sister chided him in Spanish for some error and brought on tears, but he bounced back after only a brief pity party. He likes to draw, so I gave him paper and pencil and soon he had a major battle going between good ninjas, evil pirates and a bad king who came to a gruesome end. He was more than happy to dramatize every detail for me, in Spanish, so I count that experience as my immersion for the day. Then he found my measuring tape and we began measuring everything that would hold still long enough.
Meanwhile M. was busy on my computer with kid-versions of virtual reality, everything from animals you can feed and pet to cutesy cartoon dolls you can dress in infinite variety while syrupy music played in the background. Yuck! I remembered a news item I'd read a couple of days ago, about a Korean couple who were so involved in virtual reality games at a internet cafe they forgot their real-life baby at home and let her starve to death.
Deciding a little reality was in order, I announced that anyone willing to walk with me to the store could have ice cream with chocolate sauce and nuts. Of course they were both ready to go, but M. began to wilt halfway to the store and her sparkly but useless plastic shoes didn't help. O. was a little trouper and kept up with me the whole way. On the way we met their parents driving home, but the ice cream trumped going with the folks.
After our sundaes I exercised my pseudo-abuela prerogative and told them I needed a siesta, and their parents were waiting for them at home. Sat down to write this blog and found that my blogroll disappeared and my sound system no longer works. Probably not a coincidence, should have kept a closer eye on M. I'll try to fix it after my nap, in time-honored abuela tradition.
Known for its beaches and boating, my town undergoes a major transformation every year at this time. From November to the end of March, the population is largely comprised of retired gringos...gray heads on the beach, silver heads in the restaurants, white heads on the golf course, bald heads on the boats. Then they suddenly beat a hasty retreat to escape a sudden influx of young, scantily clad Mexicanos. The view is better, but traffic creeps through town at glacial speed, each night drums throb until dawn, and every morning the streets are strewn with millions of plastic bags, bottles and other fast food remnants. We hear rumors of empty vacation homes being ransacked, strangers passing out in private patios. Visitors fill up the hotels and the RV parks, they camp on the beaches, they sleep on bus benches. Beer flows in astonishing quantities from streetside tiendas that have sprung up like mushrooms, surrounded on three sides by sturdy hurricane fencing in case of riots. Mexico is a young country, after all, and young people do crazy things, especially after a number of cervezas.
Those of us who didn't leave town hole up at home with our stockpiled snacks and TVs, refusing to venture out for any reason. Yesterday I tried to drive two blocks to the nearest store and it took me an hour to get home. ¡Caramba!
Here's our usually uncrowded beach as it looks this weekend, from a travel site called Mexico Guru.
But the bright side is that every morning a hardworking crew cleans up the streets and it's possible to take a walk or a drive while the youngsters sleep off their all-night shenanigans.
Another benefit was that I got to know my neighbors better. In the morning my little friend M. came over and we planted tomato, lettuce and cilantro seeds in old plastic containers I've been saving. Afterward I asked if she was hungry and she said she had to go home for lunch. Moments later she ran back to invite me to her house. Her dad did the cooking, Cuban-style, and served up a savory lentil soup flavored with lots of cilantro, along with grilled chicken and vegetables. A very talented fellow, her papa. We talked for a couple of hours, M's family and I, about their trip last week to the historic mining district of Moctezuma, stirring up once more my urge to explore more of Mexico. I'm so lucky to have such congenial neighbors who'll still be here when almost all my amigos norteamericanos have gone for the season.
I've saved the best news for last. Tomorrow Semana Santa will be almost over and I have spent the time in a decidedly joyful frame of mind. The Capt came home after a five-month separation, and our 20-year marriage had a resurrection of its own.
So salud! Let everyone celebrate. I have something to celebrate too.
