Lessons From Abaco

Top Ten Reasons Hurricane Season is Like Christmas 10. Decorating the house (boarding up windows) 9. Dragging out boxes that haven't been used since last season (camping gear, flashlights) 8. Last minute shopping in crowded stores 7. Regular TV shows pre-empted for "specials" 6. Family coming to stay with you. 5. Family and friends from out-of-state calling. 4. Buying food you don't normally buy . . . and in large quantities 3. Days off from work. 2. Candles. And the number one reason Hurricane Season is like Christmas . . . 1. At some point you know you're going to end up with a tree in your house!

 

I know exactly what the people in the Abacos are doing today. They're sweeping up, fixing up, and "manning up". They sure aren't waiting for some government agency to come and help them or tell them what to do. They already know, they've done it before. On their own…with a little help from their friends.

Six years ago I was living on my sailboat in the Abacos, Bahamas when Hurricane Francis decided to pay a visit. I'd never been through a hurricane before and I'll admit this girl from Kansas where tornadoes wreak their havoc, usually in the middle of the night with little advance warning, held some disdain for a storm that announced its arrival well in advance. One of the first questions you encounter when you decide to live on a boat is "What are you going to do if you find yourself in a hurricane?" so you read everything you can get your hands on about the subject in the hopes that you'll never have to use that knowledge. But there I was with a hurricane bearing down so now it was time to put the disaster plan in action.

We were in Marsh Harbour at the time, at a little marina called the Port of Call. Hurricane Frances was still about a week out and in all probability would veer from its expected path and miss us all together. And there was a big party planned at Baker's Bay that everyone, and I mean everyone was going to. For a change, the cap'n and I decided to listen to our heads instead of our livers and decided to skip the party. You see, we weren't supposed to still be in the Abacos. We were supposed to have been long gone from that chain of islands and be clear down in Venezuela waiting out hurricane season somewhere south of latitude 12. Alas, the tides of friends and parties had kept our docklines tied firmly to the Abacos and now we found ourselves without a prearranged hurricane hole to "hole-up" in. We knew we didn't want to stay at the dock, we'd seen enough videos of marinas during a hurricane on the weather channel and we didn't trust the holding well enough to anchor in "Mushy Harbour". Luckily, we managed to score the last mooring ball available in Hope Town on Elbow Cay and instead of putting off the inevitable for one more day (or two or three depending on the severity of our hangovers) we skipped the party and started making our boat hurricane ready. We used the information we'd gleaned from years of reading about the upcoming momentous event and more importantly we listened to others that had been through hurricanes before.

We moved the boat to the safe harbor of Hope Town while all of our friends were moving theirs to Man-Of-War cay which was considered to be safer. We had waited too long to secure a place over there. We took all of the sails down and stowed everything that was possible down below. If it could move, it was tied down, if it could chafe, it was wrapped. With Francis still a couple of days out, we found ourselves sitting in our bare cockpit with nothing left to do but worry while all of our friends were still scurrying around moving their boats and making ready. We watched as self-appointed harbour masters shoo'd late-comers desperately seeking shelter from the storm back out of the harbour entrance. Only a handful of boats were allowed into Hope Town and we were lucky to be one of them. We finally accepted that there was nothing more we could do and what would happen would happen and decided to take the ferry back over to Marsh Harbour and our friend's house where we would be staying even if it was two days before Jeanne was supposed to arrive on the scene. That decision was just another lucky happenstance since the ferries which had been assuring everybody that they would be running the next day, all of a sudden had the keen insight that maybe they ought to secure their own boats, and announced the next morning that they would not be running after all.

I won't go into the details of the hurricane itself because I've already been long-winded enough and that's a whole 'nother blog about the plight of a house full of old boaters marooned in a house during a four day hurricane and the desperate measures they take when the booze runs out. Just envision "Lord of the Flies". LOL. Truthfully, we relished the luxury and good food and wonderful company provided by Patty and Bob at Blue Dolphin in our hour of need. Patty practically had to show us the door to get rid of us.

I've found that a boat is a lot like life. If you take care and protect it, it will return the favor. Some of life's lessons are hard to learn and there were lessons which that bitch Frances taught me that have helped me weather other storms whether they be storms that Mother Nature bestowed on me or storms I have brewed up on my own. Here they are in no particular order:

1. Find a safe harbour. One where the holding is good and you are protected from the brunt of the storm. No matter how rough that safe harbour gets, no matter how much it tosses you around and leaves you sick and feeling like you might die, don't sail back into the storm. Ride it out. The storm will eventually pass over your harbour but if you cast your lot with the storm you can't know how far she will carry you from safety or to what depths she will drive you.

2. Surround yourself with people that are concerned for your safety and will help do whatever is required to help you get secure because they know that if you are not secure, you could break loose in the storm and drag into them, doing damage that could cause them to sink or lose their own safe holding causing both of you and whoever is in your path to end up broke and battered on the rocks. Don't let other boats that could be a threat to you in your safe harbour.

3. Listen to the advice of the people that have weathered storms before. You may receive different and even conflicting advice but listen and discern which advice is applicable to your situation and your "boat" and then apply it. It's great to read and listen but it only works if you do the work. All of it. No skimping and no half measures allowed, because the storm will find any weakness you have left unprotected and that's where she'll take her opportunity to destroy everything you've tried so hard to fortify.

4. Use every lifeline you have, even if it's a little frayed.

5. Stow or get rid of anything that could become a missile and cause a hole or do damage to your "boat".

6. The friends that stick with you through the storm will be there afterwards to help you clean up and will be there to guide you away from or see you through future storms.

7. When the storm has passed, stick your head out and assess what damage it has wrought and then get off your ass and start cleaning up and rebuilding. Find the weak spots and make them stronger so they can withstand the next storm, if it comes. Don't wait for someone to do the work for you, your friends are there to help but it's your boat and it's up to you to make it seaworthy again.

Our boat made it through the storm with no damage and was as dry as a bone inside. Although it did look like someone had picked her up and shook her real good and not everything I though was stowed securely was. Several of the boats that crowded into Man-O-War dragged and damaged each other. A couple of weeks later, Hurricane Frances was hovering on the scene and while the weather forecasters said she was not going to be a threat, we were skeptical so we kept everything stowed and tied and sure enough she swept in. Once again the boat did fine but I learned another lesson.

8. There are always more storms on the horizons, you have to watch out for them and keep your defenses in place.

So today I'm out there doing my best to check my defenses for signs of fatigue and sending out my karmic lifelines to my friends in the Abacos even if some of them are a little frayed.

 

 

Sunday Morning Dreaming

We'll see the sun come up on sunday mornin'

And watch it fade the moon away

I guess you know I'm givin' you a warnin'

'Cause me and moon are itchin' to play

I'll take you on a trip beside the ocean

And drop the top at Chesapeake Bay

Ain't nothing like the sky to dose a potion

The moon'll send you on your way

Moonlight feels right, moonlight feels right

 

From the song Moonlight Feels Right by Starbuck

 

I've long dreamed of a parade of convertibles with their tops down winding their way down a southern east coast interstate. We're the only cars on this lonely stretch. It's 2 am and the full moon is lighting our way. I'm in the lead car and my friends are following behind. A cool southern rock station is playing on the radio, the cap'n is at the wheel and I've got my feet up on the dash and my head layed back, counting the stars and singing along with the radio in the sultry night air. At about 4:30 am we pull into some all-night greasy spoon for some "joe" and red-eye gravy and grits then hit the road again. As the dawn is starting to lighten the sky we pull off to the nearest beach. Hatteras, Outer Banks, Wrightsville, Folly…we'll hit them all. We pull old blankets and picnic baskets out of our trunks and head over the dunes. The seabirds are awake and wheeling out to sea and there are still some stubborn stars and the waning moon hanging around when the first sunrays start to turn the lingering indigo of the night sky to lavender and pink. The lights on the shrimp boats are winking on the waves. When the sun peeks over the horizon my friends pour wine and toast a new day while I watch with my arms wrapped around my drawn up knees. Perfectly happy. The morning show is over too soon and we jump back in our convertibles, tired and no longer alone on the lonely road. Before long we pull into an old 60's style motor inn and sleep the heat of the day away in the blissful arctic air of our window air conditioning units. Later, as the sun is bidding adieu we venture out of our cocoons and head for Shem Creek in search of a crab shack where we'll wash our crabs down with ice cold beer and dance barefoot on its rickety docks until the clock strikes midnight. Then we'll hit the road again. Wanna come?

Today all my dreams seem like possibilities.

So today I'm out there doing my best to dream up new possibilities.

Home Sweet Home

Before we left Mexico a month ago, a friend of mine gave me an assignment. You see, she knew I was beginning to feel the pressure to move to Mexico full time. The cap'n is getting tired of working full time and would like to retire completely. I can't blame him. Thanks to him, I basically retired fourteen years ago. Unfortunately, while we could live like kings in MX on our retirement income, we can't continue to support two households (plus that freaking boat). So the time for making a choice is drawing near. I'm not ready. So my friend gave me the assignment of writing a blog of why I love my home in Colorado.

Several of the reasons are simple:

1. The ease of living in my own country. The familiar language and laws. And if you are an expat from Mexico, the cleanliness and the plethora toilet seats.

2. The music. No, not the stuff coming out of the radio, although I do miss that, too. I miss the gurgle of our stream, the chatter of the squirrels, the scolding of the blue jays and the whisper of the wind through the pines. Mexico has its own music, beautiful and exotic. It's just not my music… yet.

3. The smell. The early dawn air scented with woodsmoke after a fresh snowfall. The musty perfume of sun warmed pine needles on a summer afternoon.

But the BIGGIE, the main reason is harder to explain, but I'll try.

My Grandmother died when I was very young. Lucky for me and multitudes of cousins, we had Aunt Irene and Uncle. Aunt Irene and Uncle Paul had no children of their own but they helped raise hundreds. Their modest country home was a monument to continuity. Through all the years I visited, with the exception of new photographs of great nieces and nephews taped to the glass front of the china cabinet, it never changed. The same pictures adorned the walls, the coloring books were always in the same drawer, the toys were in the closet in the first bedroom and the cookies were in the same Dutch Girl cookie jar on top of the refrigerator. More importantly, the rituals remained the same. Mornings started in the kitchen breakfast nook with the toaster on the table amid an array of homemade jellies and jams to choose from. The day was filled with trying to catch rabbits or fish or each other as we played hide-and-seek in the cornfield. When the stars came out the grown-ups would be on the front porch watching as we chased fireflies. I'm sure I complained many times of being bored but I loved that house and the people that peopled it. There was solace in knowing there was one place in my ever changing, growing-up world that would remain the same. A place where I could expect the expected.

That's what I want for my children and grandchildren and, possibly, their children. I want my cabin in the mountains to be their haven from this frenzied world. I want them to know the comfort of coming up the drive and know that there will be a welcoming fire in the woodstove. The coloring books are in the buffet, the old favorite board games are in the closet in the first bedroom, and the fishing rods are leaning in their corner of the living room. Mornings will start with hot chocolate out on the deck. The days will be filled with trying to catch chipmunks, fish or each other as they play hide and seek among the bristlecone pines. When the stars come out the grown-ups will warm themselves by the fire in the fire pit while the young ones roast marshmallows and tell ghost stories in the night shadows of the forest.

Idealistic? Probably. But more than possible because I've already lived it . I just can't see Mexico with all of its strangeness and its distance fostering these kinds of memories. I worry that it will always seem an adventure instead of a homecoming.

But I'm greedy. I want them both. Good thing I have tonight's winning lottery tickets in hand.

Warning About Foster Dogs

They are robbers and they are thieves, these helpless pets that you take in. They steal your heart. In early March there was an urgent plea for someone to take in a dog or else she was going to go to a shelter in 3 days. This was not a no-kill shelter so you could pretty well predict what her fate was going to be. I only live in the Yucatan until May but I and another part-time resident down there, El Nido, decided that between the two of us we could extend her time until mid-June. Surely by then we would be able to find her a good home. Daisy came to live with me within a few hours of me saying yes. I hardened my heart and tried to keep my distance but Daisy would have none of that. Although at first, very timid and docile she soon began to show her playful and affectionate side. Don't think you're going to quit petting her until she is ready for you to. The vet said she was never a street or beach dog, somebody owned her. She is housebroke and spayed and has all of her vaccinations. She loves any human being of any age and she is good with other animals. She tolerated our blind bichon pestering her endlessly and recently she has been keeping house with a newborn kitten.

But now it is mid-June and Daisy has yet to find a permanent home. All of the snowbirds have gone home and the permanent residents are up to their eyeballs with foster dogs. I would have loved to have taken her home with me but the airlines are not very sympathetic and it would cost over $700.00 to fly her back and forth. El Nido and I are more than willing to time-share her and take her back under our roofs when we return next winter. We have only a week left before Daisy's fate once again will be either as a street dog or waiting out her few days left in a shelter. (All of the no-kill facilities are at capacity). Please pm me if you can help.
***Warning to those who are considering fostering dogs! You may be giving them a few months of comfort that they never would have experienced but in the end you may just be delaying their fate and returning them to a life that they are now not well equipped to live.

BREAKING NEWS! Daisy has found a home. Her other foster mother, Kay, found her a wonderful home with 3 young kids a yard and a pool. Thank God. I was making preparations to ship her here to CO and I have to admit I'm a little disappointed because I'm going to miss her but this is a much better solution. Good Luck Daisy! We love you.

NOB (North of the Border) Brain Disorder

I've been back in Colorado for a few days now and I'm having to re-learn everything.

"Now where do I keep the toaster and which drawer is the silverware drawer? " I can't even ask myself, "Now where would Gaby, (our girl Friday in Mexico) put this?

"Oh look! I have a dishwasher!" (Clapping hands excitedly).

I've finally remembered where the button is that rolls down the window in the car but the one thing I can't seem to retrain my brain to do is turn on the hot water in the kitchen. It should be easy. It's just one of those simple faucets with a handle that swivels to the right for cold water and, of course, swivels to the left for hot water. What's the problem? This is universal, isn't it? Umm…not necessarily. You see, after I had our plumber/electrician guy (they are often one and the same in Mexico) hook up our new kitchen faucet, I found that he had hooked them up the opposite way. If you swivel the faucet to the left you get cold water. If you swivel it to the right you also get cold water… for about twenty minutes at which point the water instantly turns boiling point hot for, again, about twenty minutes then it turns cold again because you have depleted the 5 gallon hot water tank. For some reason our house has a bathtub you could almost swim laps in. I have no idea why. It would take me until the next Olympics to fill the thing. If you are asking me why I didn't just call the plumber/electrician guy and have him come back and re-plumb the faucet correctly, you've never lived in Mexico.

Monday morning:

Me: "Hola, Miguel. Como esta?"

Miguel: "Bien. Bien." (Miguel is thinking, "What does the gringa want now?")

Me: "Miguel, there seems to be a problema with the faucet. Could you come by sometime today and look at it?"

Miguel: "Si. Si. (Miguel is thinking, "Posible, I will have time on Thursday.")

Me: "What time?"

Miguel: "9:00" (Miguel is thinking, "Why do they continue to ask me this stupid question?")

Me: "This morning?" (Disbelief)

Miguel: "Si. Si. " (Miguel is thinking, "These gringos, they will believe anything.)

Same Morning, 11:00 am

Me: "Hola Miguel. Where are you?"

Miguel: "I am on my way. I will be there in 15 minutos." (Miguel is thinking, "Posible I will have time on Friday.)

Me: "Okay, because I have to be somewhere at 1:00 pm"

Miguel: "Si. Si." (Miguel is thinking, "So what?")

Same day, 3:00 pm:

Me: "Hola Miguel." (I'm not even going to ask.)

Miguel: "Lo siento, Senora. I will be there manana." (Miguel is thinking, "If she would have stopped calling me, I probably could have made it on Sabado.")

So instead of being held captive in my own home for a week, I decided that I would just wait until the next time I had to call "Miguel" for another more urgent problem and then I would corner him and not let him leave until he fixed my faucet. In the meantime I would just learn to use the faucet the way it was wired, I mean plumbed. Not! And I have the scald marks on my hands to prove it.

I swear up until the minute I left, I continued to make the same mistake so why now that I am back in the states has my mind finally decided to rewire itself and start working the way I wanted it to in Mexico?

Oh, I get it. It was waiting for manana.

"Ow!!! Damn that water's hot!"

 

P.S. The pic above is some of our workers not waiting for manana.

Starfish Throwers

I was walking our stretch of beach this morning and I decided to poke around a new batch of rock that was uncovered by the uncommonly low tide. The cap'n I used to do this regularly in the Bahamas and after the hurricanes we found old coins and all kinds of assorted treasure. (Don't tell the Bahamian government). My treasure hunt didn't turn up any bootie but I did find a starfish that had been marooned on the beach by the low tide. It was still alive so I picked it up and flung it back into its salty home. It reminded me of a story the priest told at my mother's funeral. He said Mom was a starfish thrower. Many of you have probably heard this story but it's a good re-read.

Once upon a time, there was a wise man, a scientist but also a poet, who used to go to the ocean to do his writing. He had a habit of walking on the beach before he began his work. One day he was walking along the shore. As he looked down the beach, he saw a human figure moving like a dancer. He smiled to himself to think of someone who would dance to the day. So he began to walk faster to catch up. As he got closer, he saw that it was a young man and the young man wasn't dancing, but instead he was reaching down to the shore, picking up something and very gently throwing it into the ocean.

As he got closer, he called out, "Good morning! What are you doing?" The young man paused, looked up and replied "Throwing starfish into the ocean."

"I guess I should have asked, Why are you throwing starfish into the ocean?"

"The sun is up and the tide is going out. And if I don't throw them in they'll die."

"But young man, don't you realize that there are miles and miles of beach and starfish all along it. You can't possibly make a difference!"

The young man listened politely. Then bent down, picked up another starfish and threw it into the sea, past the breaking waves. "It made a difference for that one!"

His response surprised the man. He was upset. He didn't know how to reply. So instead, he turned away and walked back to the cottage to begin his writings.

All day long as he wrote, the image of the young man haunted him. He tried to ignore it, but the vision persisted. Finally, late in the afternoon he realized that he the scientist, he the poet, had missed out on the essential nature of the young man's actions. Because he realized that what the young man was doing was choosing not to be an observer in the universe and make a difference. He was embarrased.

That night he went to bed troubled. When the morning came he awoke knowing that he had to do something. So he got up, put on his clothes, went to the beach and found the young man. And with him he spent the rest of the morning throwing starfish into the ocean. You see, what that young man's actions represent is something that is special in each and every one of us. We have all been gifted with the ability to make a difference. And if we can, like that young man, become aware of that gift, we gain through the strength of our vision the power to shape the future.

And that is your challenge. And that is my challenge. We must each find our starfish. And if we throw our stars wisely and well, I have no question that the 21st century is going to be a wonderful place.

 

I am so fortunate to know so many starfish throwers. If I tried to list them all I know I'd miss someone but you know who you are. Thank you for all you do and keep flinging those starfish no matter what.

 

 

Chelem Christmas Dreams Toy Drive

I have a big favor to ask but it's not for myself. As some of you may know, I have become very involved in the Chelem Christmas Dreams Toy Drive. It's part of my "giving my all" to my new home. Last year we gave away 875 bags of toys. For most of the kids these were the only toys they received. Toys are very expensive and poorly made in Mexico but for us to try to ship toys down from the states is very expensive. If any of my friends would like to donate a toy and ship it to me, I will figure out how to get them down there. I will also take gently used toys. While we had several Barbie dolls donated last year, we didn't have enough to go around. It was heartbreaking to see the faces of the little girls that didn't get Barbies. Every little girl should have at least one doll. So if you have any gently used (or new)Barbies, Barbie clothes and accessories, or other dolls send them my way. Of course, we can also use boy toys (action figures)and baby toys. We also take money. We have a Paypal button on our website but, of course, Paypal has to make money too so they take a chunk out of the funds we receive. If you are kindhearted enough to send a toy please keep in mind that I will have to "mule" all the toys down in suitcases and we're weight limited. Please visit our website. http://chelemchristmasdreams.com/
If you have a little gambler blood in you, you can check out our online raffle http://chelemchristmasdreams.com/raffle/ If you win it will give you an excuse to visit our new neck of the woods. If you're interested in giving (and I know you will be)send me a comment down below with your email address. All of these comments go to my email first and won't be published here. I will respond with my shipping address.

I apologize to my facebook friends that have already seen this. Facebook automatically publishes anything I publish to my blog, http://firstmatemary.blogspot.com/. That's where all my long-ass posts on fb come from. You're welcome to visit and read my other blogs about living in Mexico, living on a sailboat, living in Colorado, and I guess just living.

P.S. Hey, I'll lower myself to begging if it's for a good cause. That or a Jack and Diet Pepsi. Thanks, all

You Can Go Back Home

I'm back in Kansas, the place of my birth and the following 40 some years. And while the cap'n cringes when I say this, it feels like home. It's hard to explain but it just feels like there is some kind of recognition deep in my DNA. My heart beats more sure. I know the smells and the feel of the air. The way the sunlight slants on an autumn afternoon is a touchstone for all other afternoon suns. I can tell what the day will be by the light that shines in my morning window.

I was born with wanderlust though. Always dreaming of faraway places and the unfamiliar. A wishful restlessness. And so I wander. To distant shores and lands that are as different as imaginable from where I came from. I'm not sure what it is I'm looking for but I haven't found it yet. I'm a little afraid that it's back here where I started. But it could be in Mexico. I had forty plus years to let Kansas seep into my marrow. I've been in Colorado for six "half" years and it's just starting to feel like home. I'll give my new home a fighting chance.

The cap'n is starting to sweat bullets while he reads this. Don't worry cap, I'm not ready to put the house in Mexico up for sale and move back to Kansas. Not even! I'm excited about our new life down there and the undiscovered possibilities. But just like anyone that moves on a boat or to a new place, foreign or not, I sometimes feel nostalgic for "home". That's okay. That's normal. But it's easy to mistake that homesickness for unhappiness with our new surroundings. It takes time and effort for strangeness to evolve into familiarity. It's scary, especially if you don't speak the language. And it's so tempting to surround yourself with only the familiar and do only the things that you already know how to do. But where's the fun in that? You have to confront the things that scare you, if you don't you are not giving yourself or your new "home" a fair chance. You will always ask yourself if you did all you could. Most importantly, recognize if it is yourself or the place you are unhappy with. If you are not happy or comfortable with yourself, no place is going to provide those things for you. (How was that for a Zen moment?)

However, if you have given your all and you've given it all the time you think you can spare, it's okay to say, "This isn't what I want." It can be heartbreaking to admit that the dream wasn't what you thought it was going to be. Plus, when you leave a "fringe" community like the boating or the expat community, you may feel or be made to feel that you've failed. You're abandoning ship. This is so not true. You tried. By God, at least you tried, which is more than most people do. It is more important that you recognize that you are genuinely unhappy and do something about it. If that means leaving and trying something else, so be it. Life's too short. I stayed on the boat longer than I should have. I waited until the cap'n admitted he was unhappy. I squandered some precious years and tinged a lot of happy memories with resentment.

Move on. Go back home if that makes you happy or keep searching until you find a place that feels like home. It's okay. You have my permission.

Desperately Seeking Fellow Yucatecans

The cap'n and I were paying our tab at a Mexican Restaurant in Great Bend, KS the other night when I noticed a large map of Mexico hanging on the wall. The map was faded and several cities and towns had been penciled in.

"You don't have Progreso or Chelem on there," I pointed out to the cashier.

"You know Progreso?" he said, obviously surprised.

I explained that we had a casa in Chelem, which is very close to Progreso, and that we spent our winters there.

"There is another couple that lives here in Great Bend that has a house in Progreso", he informed us.

"Really?"

We were incredulous. We know of only one other couple from Kansas, Steve and Mary from Salina, that has had the good judgment to buy property down there. If this kept up the Kansans might be able to steal the expat majority title from those blasted Texans.

"What are their names?" we demanded.

"I don't know", replied the cashier, "but their son, Joel, works at Verizon."

The next morning I set off for the Verizon office with all of our important contact information in hand. Email address, stateside telephone number, Mexican phone #, Magic Jack #, stateside address, a hand drawn map to our house in Chelem. I even included illustrations of all the notable landmarks along the way. The Glorietta (that's what they call a roundabout in Mexico. It sure sounds prettier), the police checkpoint manned with friendly policemen armed with not-so-friendly looking guns, the big piece of rope laid across the road that is used as a speed bump, the coconut stand, uh make that the dozen coconut stands, The Modelo cervaza store, the little red tienda at the turn to our house. There use to be a pole with a rag tied to it and that's how everybody found the way to our house. But in the hot Mexican wind the rag frayed and eventually disappeared. Now sometimes even the cap'n and I miss the turn but that's usually when we're coming from Las Dunas or Playa de Chelem, two of the local drinking establishments.

It was a very nice map. I would have written out our address but I didn't have enough pages of paper for that and they'd never find it because Mexicans have very little regard for street signs. No Necessaria, the locals already know where everything is.

So I went up to the Verizon counter and inquired if they had an employee named Joel. The young man at the counter said, "Yes, but he is with a customer right now. May I help you?"

"No," I said, "I need to talk to Joel."

The young man and his other 14 yr. old counterpart shot me a quizzical look but they assured me that Joel would be just a few more minutes and left me wander about the displays of IPODs, and Blackberries, and other strange devices while the two of them tittered behind the counter trying to figure out whether I was Joel's long lost birth mother or a "cougar" he picked up in a very dark bar while a very inebriated state. Courtney Cox, I am not. Damnit!

Finally Joel finished with his client and I cornered him as he returned from walking her to her car.

"Joel, um, you don't know me and this may seem crazy…um, but do your parents have a house in Progreso?" I blurt.

Blank stare looking back at me.

"Progreso, Mexico? " I offer a little desperately.

Enlightenment dawns on his face.

"My parents have a house in Yoomah,"

"Where is Yoomah?" I ask thinking of all those strange Mayan names on the highway signs. All those unpronounceable "Dz" towns.

"In Arizona," he replies, "Yuma, Arizona. Is that close to Progreso?"

"No," I mumble. I ramble some explanation about a guy at a Mexican restaurant that gave me his name and said he might know someone. It's beginning to resemble a drug deal gone really wrong and Joel is starting to get that deer in the headlights look.

"Here," I shove my map at him, "If you're ever in Progreso, look me up." The guys behind the counter snicker.

I scuttled out to my car, jumped in and busted out laughing at myself.

If you've ever been in the Walmart in Merida desperately looking for an item and have been rescued by a fellow gringo who knows the lay of the land a little better and knows that in Mexico the baking soda is kept in the pharmacy not in the baking aisle, you understand that previous scenario. And you know that by the time you and your savior part ways you will have shared all the information mentioned and probably more. We expats band together, we're brothers and sisters in arms so I guess I was looking to reconnoiter with some fellow soldier

Just for fun, for the next week, I parked in the Verizon parking lot and waved and winked at Joel as he scurried back and forth to his car.

P.S. Dave, I hope you don't mind that I "borrowed" a picture of our sign. I owe you a cervaza if you ever cross over the bridge.

Another Day, Another Park

In my transient lifestyle, I found myself wandering the paths of another park. This one was not littered with the refuse of humanity but that was okay because I was feeling pretty bottom of the proverbial garbage pail about myself. It was one of those weeks when I had found myself to be embarrassingly human and even though the bruises weren't readily observable to the human eye, I was feeling pretty tender from the ongoing onslaught I was inflicting on myself.

The cap'n kept trying to reassure me that I was a good person, a nice person, a kind person but….he has to say that because he loves me and he was desperate because it ain't fun living with me when I am in this state of mind. So I didn't believe him.

So I'm on this path early one morning and I see an elderly gentleman ambling toward me. He has the rolling gait and the vacant stare of a Parkinson's patient. I am really in no mood for any kind of encounter but my good manners kick in and I smile and say, "Good Morning."

The man's vacant eyes light up, and he says, "Not everyone is friendly. I just passed a couple and said Good Morning and they didn't say anything back." He says, "I speak to everyone."

I go a few more steps down the path and dissolve into tears. I know that man was Jesus.

P.S. Please don't write and tell me I'm a good person, that's not the point of this little article. Instead I challenge you to stop yourself today every time you tell yourself that you're stupid, fat, ugly, weak…..You're human and you're doing the best you can!

Borrowed from my friend, Marlee
"Dear God, Please help me see the truth about myself no matter how beautiful. " - Alan Cohen

JESUS DON’T LIKE PIZZA

Years ago we were stuck in St. Augustine, on the boat of course. But as far as cities go, St. Augustine is one of my favorite ones to be stuck in. I had gotten into the habit every morning of jumping on my bike and pedaling over to Café St. George for their wonderful ham and cheese croissants. My trek took me over the paths of one of the city parks and past several of the city's citizens that lived in the park, or at least slept there. Now the Sisters of Divine Torture from my Catholic school days had always taught me that every person is God's child and when you help a stranger you could be helping Jesus. I think we even used to sing a song that went something like…"When I was naked, you gave me clothes, When I was hungry, you gave me something to eat" Well, something like that. We always giggled when we got to say naked in mass because we were six years old and it was the sixties and naked was still a "dirty" word to six year olds.

Anyway there were a lot of Jesus' maybes lying around in the park and I could feel the steely finger of Sister Irene drilling into my back as I drove past them. So of course I picked up a few extra croissants at the bakery, after all it wouldn't be right to offer Jesus a lowly bran muffin while I hate hot flakey croissants. As I made my way back through the park I sniffed past the bundles of humanity and kind of threw the greasy sacks of croissants at them. With my final sack in hand, I approached the last of my lucky beneficiaries. I had to force myself to go up to him. He scared me. I had seen him lurking around the marina and he was one of those guys that stared at you with these spooky eyes but if he caught you looking at him he skittered away. He was wrapped up in a dirty parka and had a stocking cap on top his nest of snarls and mats. I slowly extended the bag to him and he took it just as slowly and said a very quiet "Thank You". I rode away.

A few nights later I wheeled back to St. George Street in pursuit of the best pizza in the world which is to be found at Pizza Alley. Their Garbage Pail Pizza is twelve big slices of paradise right here on earth. I was riding through the park inhaling that heavenly scent when I saw two of my favorite Jesus' waving at me. Fart! Oh well, sacrifice is supposed to hurt. I steered their way and offered them two slices. They smiled their beatific gummy smiles and proceeded to propose to me. And I think they planned to be married to me at the same time because I had a feeling these two did a whole lot of unsavory things together. Relieved, I was able to explain that I was already married and that's a good thing because as every man that has every dated me can attest I am easily convinced. All two of them.

I was headed for the exit when I spotted my scary friend huddled on a bench. I sighed and went over to him.

"Would you like a piece of pizza?" I gently asked.

"I don't like #%*&ing pizza," he snarled.

I jumped back and wagged my finger at him.

"No more #%*&ing croissants for you, Jesse!"

Then I rode away to try to explain to the cap'n what happened to those other slices of pizza.

Beauty Is In The Eye Of The Beholden

The birds have spread the word that we are back and our feeders are busy this morning. I took my first wander up the mountain but I didn't make it as far as usual because my lungs haven't quite made the adjustment from sea level to 10,600 feet of altitude. It was one of those glorious mornings when the air is crisp and the sun is shining and you break a sweat even though it hasn't broke 40 degrees Fahrenheit yet. I took a deep breath and looked around and for about the millionth time congratulated myself on living in a place most people only dream of living.

And then I thought of our other home, Chelem,Yucatan, Mexico. Just a tad bit different. We had guests stop by for a short visit there a few weeks ago. They were on a cruise ship that made a stop in Progreso so they thought they'd take a gander at our new digs. We picked them up at the Mercado….. and then took them on a drive down the Malecon and then by the nicer homes of Progreso. It was a short tour. Then we crossed the Yucalpeten Puente (bridge). The weather was playing nice that morning and the sun speckled waters made the boats in the marinas look shiny and new or at least seaworthy.

We drove them by our favorite watering holes, our favorite place to grab a taco on the square, our favorite hardware store, Tocha, where we go first before we head off to the Mecca of Merida and her box store temples. Our guests were polite. They made nice noises. They actually oohed and ahhhed when we drove by a little tienda all freshly painted white with its bright red recumbent Coca-Cola bottle displayed on the side of the building. They said nothing about the trash that lurks in the corners and escapes across the dusty roads or the air of neglect that seems to permeate a good number of the buildings. They didn't have to. We knew what they were thinking. We knew because we think the same thing every time we take a drive. Why are we here?

The answer is always the same. The beauty.

The beauty is found in a crumbling bar at the table of a disparate band of expats struggling to figure out ways to make the burdened lives of the people of their adopted home more congenial without forcing their own ideas of "better" upon them.

It's there in a hot summer night with the sound of foreign and native laughter mingling in the joy of a child's first birthday.

It's there on an early morning beach in the shy smile of a sea worn fisherman as he offers a beautiful shell to the gringo lady he has seen devotedly combing the sands much in the same way he searches the seas.

They are both treasure seekers.

Beauty is that nugget of hope that if we look deep enough, work hard enough, and dream high enough, we will find the treasure.

 

P.S. I've added a link down on the left for one of the "nuggets" we have going in Chelem, The Chelem Christmas Toy Drive. Take a looksee.

P.P.S. Well fart! I guess we can't link facebook pages. Check out Yucatan Coast Animal Aid and Chelem Christmas Toy Drive on facebook. There is also a Toy Drive in Chuburna and several programs that support the local schools and there is so much more that needs to be done. So if you were wondering, that's what all of us loafers do down there all day....when we're not in the middle of construction projects.

Jimmy Buffett Laments the Fouling of his Paradise

Well, it took a monumental natural disaster to get me off my ass and start posting again. And for this post I'm cancelling my moratorium on cussing. You might have noticed that the title of this blog is "Jimmy Buffett Laments the Fouling of his Paradise". Oh Thank YOU, JIMMY! Read further along on the Margaritaville site and you will see that Jimmy is actually lamenting that the opening of his new hotel in Pensacola might be delayed. In the words of the Great Man Himself, the fucking fucker is fucked! Jimmy, your songs used to be the anthems of my life. Then I watched you singing at that TYCO party in Greece ($250,000 is probably small change for you). Cancel your Vegas concert and get your ass down to Mobile and hold a free concert for those eleven men that lost their life on that rig, the rig workers that are now out of work, the shrimpers, the oystermen, the waiters, the hotel housekeepers, the guy with his guitar case open on Bourbon Street.

Start being the man you sing you are.

Until then I'm holding a personal moratorium on anything "Jimmy Buffett" I will no longer drink from a Tin Cup Chalice, I will never buy anything with the Margaritaville logo including the mixes and the mixer(Hello? Who were you marketing to? The people who are rich enough to buy this shit would never wear that logo and the people that do buy it are probably up to their eyeballs in debt. I've been there. You?). I will never again coax bar crowds to go search for lost shakers of salt, I will never again win every trivia question having to do with you at the Schooner Wharf Bar in Key West. Do you remember that place and that bar? I think you used to have a studio right behind there. I went through a hurricane with my sailboat tied to the docks there. You? Your books sent me off on an adventure. I've lit the fresnel lens at the Elbow Cay Lighthouse, I've seen G.E. doing its best while sitting at anchor at Cane Garden Bay, and I've skated for 14 hours during a Labor Day Jerry Lewis Marathon when I was 12 years old and "Come Monday" was on the charts.

I will not be buying " A Pirate Looks At 70" because I don't see you as the same guy that bought his Dad an Oyster Po'Boy at the Mobile docks.

My friend, your Grampa has his hand on the starboard rail and he is just shaking his head at you. He doesn't recognize you. Neither do I.
Ever so humbly, Mary Kay

P.S. Always a PS. The cap'n only has two requests for his funeral: One is that I play "It's been a Lovely Cruise" the other is that I don't bring a date to his funeral. Of course, I will honor one request. Which one?

Escape From Reality

This is my new place to go to escape from reality. And it's just up a flight of stairs. This is the dome/cupola at our house here in Chelem. Before it was just naked old white big round thing at the top of the house. Then along came Jim Grafsgaard and it became a tropical wonderland. If you want to check out more of Jim's art his website is http://www.jimgrafsgaard.com/ Thanks Jim! If you guys down here see a long lock of blonde hair hanging out the window of the dome, please come rescue me. The cap'n probably locked me in.

Midnight at the Oasis

We had been diligently following Dave's "Driving to Mexico" Brownsville to Merida coastal route http://www.quadro.net/~shirley/Brownsville-Merida/ today's drive had taken longer than expected and dark was beginning to fall when we hit the outskirts of Minatitlan. We went in search of the only "excellent" hotel in town but after several rounds around busy downtown Minatitlan, and probably countless passes right by the "excellent” hotel we gave up. We had spotted the "Oasis" as we turned off hwy. 145 into town. We turned back toward it.

We paid scant attention to the razor wire adorning the high walls of the compound as we pulled in because...Hell, almost every place has razor wire in Mexico. I'm thinking of winding twinkly lights arounds ours next year for Christmas.

The clerk rushed out of the building to greet us. "The people are just so darn friendly and helpful down here." I thought to myself once again.

Did we want a room? She inquired.

"Si."

"Do we require anything "special"?"

"No, just someplace soft and warm to sink into." replied the cap'n.

"Si." the clerk nods knowingly.

"Cuanto cuesta? (How much?)" inquires the cap'n.

The clerk replies with an exceedingly reasonable amount.

"Boy, they weren't kidding when they said things were cheap down here," I think to myself once again.

It takes a minute for our sluggish brains to translate. She'd said per hora not por dia! Per hour not per day! We look at each other. Disgust and dismay are racing across my features while a salacious grin is blooming on the capn's.

We've landed at one the notorious hotel de paso. "A Love Hotel!"

"We'll take it!" the cap'n announces.

We park outside our assigned den of iniquity. Because we're hauling a trailer full of treasures for our new home, we can't fit into the attached garage. It doesn't matter. Because instead of sneaking in and out of this place like their usual client the cap'n is strutting around like a rooster for all to see.

I hurriedly run in to throw back the bedspread and check the sheets. Why the hell do I do this? If you could see the "critters" I'm afraid of catching, nobody would ever catch them. I can't imagine a conversation like the following ever takes place.

"Um... I notice you have quite an infestation going on down there. But what the heck? You only live once right? Let's go for it! C’est la Vie!"

The cap’n is now inside admiring the dance pole. My evil twin Kary May would have loved it. For my my uninformed amigos in Mexico, Kary May doesn’t dance with men because they spin her too fast and dip her too low. She only dances with trees and poles. Sadly, she still manages to fall down. Thank God I left her behind on Guana Cay in the Bahamas.

While I’m checking out the bathroom, the cap’n is busy surfing the channels.

“I’ll be damned! Four! Count them! Four adult movie channels!” Talk about a kid in the proverbial candy store. I can almost see the smoke billowing from the remote. At least they don’t require subtitles.

I’m starved and am relieved to find a printed room service menu taped to the wall over the phone. When I place my order, I am informed that it would be delivered via the little turnstile in the wall. I really didn’t understand why we had to be so secretive about a dang hamburguesa. But when in Mexico...

Let’s just say an hour later when my order was delivered, my Cuarto de libro, doble carne was not quite what I expected. I later found a full color brochure in drawer of the nightstand that illustrated the other “las especialidades de la casa”. Do people really buy that stuff or do they rent it? Por hora? Ewww!

No wonder there was a notable silence when I replied to the clerk’s inquiry,

“Nessecita el condons?”

“Si. Mas ketchup.”

Obviously, she hadn’t been asking if I needed condiments.

With all my appetites effectively killed, I fell asleep while the cap’n click, click, clicked away on the remote.

The next morning I’m showering in the see-through plexiglass shower while the cap’n click, clicks, clicks.
“Sweetheart, do you remember what channel the weather channel is on?”

“Yeah, right.”

I wonder what’s on the breakfast menu.

Happy Valentines Day!

GOING COMMANDO IN MEXICO

You can take the girl out of the ship,

But you can't take the ship out of the girl.

So I guess that means I'm still full of ship!

When I lived on a boat all my friends back in KS used to say, "Ooh la la! You live on a yacht." And of course I did nothing to dissuade them even though there was nothing further from the truth.

So now I live in Mexico and all my friends in the states go "Ooh la la! You live in Cancun!" But when I try to explain the difference between living in Cancun and living in Chelem they look at me as though I have frogs coming out of my mouth.

So in the quest for total honesty in my new life I'm going to present two scenarios and let you decide which one the "real" Mary starred in.

Scenario #1: Mary is stuck in a bathroom at a resort in Cancun

Mary glides into the marbled mirrored lavatory at the Pinche Fresa Temple Resort. She opens the stall to the gleaming fully assembled toilet and perches on the rim of the seat that is, of course, "down". Mary finishes her business. She delicately wrinkles her nose as she daintily disposes of her tissue in the receptacle (you don't flush TP in Mexico) making sure to avert her eyes so she doesn't see anything "unsightly" (shudder!). She stands and straightens her clothes and moves to leave the stall. The latch won't budge.

"Oh no! What will I do now?"

A tiny worry line creases her forehead.

"This is so mortifying," Mary cringes.

"Uhmm, Conchita?" Mary whispers.

"Si Senora. Esta bien?" replies the attendant, attentively stationed at the door.

"The latch seems to be stuck."

"De nada, Senora," Conchita replies. And with a quick sleight of hand opens the stall door from the outside.

"Oh dear!" wails Mary as she diligently scrubs her hands in the shiny gold sink.

"I think I've chipped a nail!"

Scenario #2: Mary gets stuck in a bathroom in Merida

Mary and the cap'n have just arrived in Merida on the late flight from Miami and have been transported to the rental car agency in downtown Merida. Mary waits in the vehicle while the cap'n goes to negotiate and arbitrate the pre-arranged rental contract. As usual this takes longer than expected and Mary needs to use the facilities.

No problem, right?

Every rental car agency has a bathroom and so does this one.

So what if it doesn't have a door.

So what if the doorway faces the glassfront of the agency.

So what if this rental agency is on a very busy street in downtown Merida.

So what if the rental agency shares its parking lot with an OXXO convenience store.

So what if the parking lot is teeming with people chatting and strolling and HONKING.

So what if it is 1:00 am. T.I.M. (This Is Mexico).

At this point I'm getting desperate. I don't care if the whole Mexican National Football Team shows up to watch. The manager of the rental agency however is a little concerned about this possibility. He's not the one with a bladder the size of Texas. He quickly employs his employee to accompany me to the little corridor between the agency and convenience store which conveniently houses the facilidades necesarios. However, (there is always an however) it cost 5 pesos to open the gate.

Do I have 5 pesos? No.

Does the attendant have 5 pesos? No.

"De Nada. Not to worry," says the attendant ( I think).

Apparently if you jiggle the gate just right it will open.

So we jiggle. We wiggle. We jimmy and we shimmy. Hell, we're doing the freakin' la cucaracha with it. The cabrona ain't budging.

My bladder is now the size of the Louisiana Purchase.We walk back into the rental agency.
Does the cap'n have 5 pesos? No.

Does the manager have 5 pesos? No.

The manager and employee now engage in an animated conversation that I am praying will develop into a solution of my problem. But the real translation probaby goes something like this.

Manager: "It is fun to watch the gringo lady squirm, is it not?"

Employee nods fervently, "Si, Senor Jefe."

Manager: "See how her eyes are starting to bulge. She will not last much longer. She is no longer young and her bladder grows floppy."

Employee nods fervently, "Si, Senor Jefe."

Manager: "Uh oh, she's crossing her legs. You better hurry before we have a mess to clean up. Do you still have the key?"

Employee nods even more fervently, "Si, Senor Jefe.

Employee heads for the door.

Manager: "Just one more thing. Did you remember to remove all the toilet seats and toilet paper?"

"Si, Senor!" Nod. Nod Nod.

After a quick sleight of hand the employee opens the gate. Relief is at hand. I am unprepared for the lack of clean up accessories as usual. After several minutes I decide air drying is not an option in this humidity and pull up my pants. I move to unfasten the latch. De ja vu! The cabrona ain't budging.

I survey my options. Correction. Option. Yep, looks like there's only one way out of this predicament and it's through that 6" space under that 12" wide door. ( You know that measurement dyslexia problem us girls suffer from swings both ways. Some days it's longer, some days it's shorter. It just depends on how you treat us.).

Time to go commando !

Now I just want you to picture this in your mind's eye for a minute. A blonde gringo chica whose most apt body description is ample is down on her elbows with belly on the floor of a Mexican toilet stall that is built for the very petite Mayan people. And she's trying to wiggle her way out. And she's wearing white. Of course.

So did you guess which one is the true story? It was the chipped fingernail that gave it away, wasn't it? You all know I'm a biter. I don't have any freakin' fingernails.

As the Cap'n used to say:

"You can dress her up, but it doesn't matter what country you take her to, she's going to end up crawling around on the floor at some point."

Adios & Vaya Con Dios!

P.S. Sorry to disappoint all my pervert friends who thought this article was going to be about the other kind of commando. Maybe next week.

A HEARTBREAKING DANCE

I am going about my usual business this morning, listening to the news on the TV with about a half an ear and an even lesser percentage of my mind when the newsperson announces,

"A roadside bomb killed three U. S. soldiers this morning,..."

Everything stops!

"Where?"

"Where?" my mind screams, now on full alert.

"in Northwestern Pakistan," the announcer continues.

"Oh good," my mind thinks. "Far away from Iraq or Kuwait where Matt is."

A few seconds later my heart catches up and I realize for thousands of soldiers' loved ones the hell of this day is just starting.

Every Mom and Dad wonders if one of the fallen soldiers is their son or daughter.

Every wife and husband wonders if one of them is their husband or wife.

Every daughter and son wonders if one is their Mom or Dad.

Every sister and brother wonders if one is their brother or sister.

Every grandmother and grandfather wonders if one is their grandaughter or grandson.

Every boyfriend and girlfriend wonders if one is their girlfriend or boyfriend.

Every friend wonders if one is their friend.

For most of us the day will end with relief, elation and a little guilt that we feel this way.

For the loved ones of the three heroes, their everlasting heartache is just beginning.

And this is the dance we do.

Everyday.

Vaya Con Dios
Go With God.

P. S. The above picture is my son, Matt, who is currently serving in the Air Force in Kuwait driving supplies through Iraq, my grandson, Landon, and my daughter-in-law, Chantel. Chantel is also in the Air Force and was stationed in Afghanistan last year.

Alive and Loving Life SOB (South of the Border)

She's Back!!!! I can't believe it's been so long since I've written. I have been busy and I've got a lot of catching up to do. But guess what? I'm going on vacation back to the Abacos. I can't miss Pete's Birthday Party down at Pete's Pub. If you want to read a modern day Swiss Family Robinson story just google Pete Johnston or his father Randolph Johnston. If my math is right this is Pete's 15th annual 50th birthday party. But just so you know I've been busy, here is a link to check out what I've been up to and after more than a year of doing this blog I've finally posted my pic. The people that know and love me will recognize me right away. Just to see how well they know me, let's ask them what's in that glass. Here's the link to the Chelem Kids' Christmas. The guy that did this video did a fantastic job. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xQeYlW8eKgw

Survival 151

How did two 80+ year old nuns end up sitting in their lawn chairs, wearing their bathing suits and drinking Kalik at Baker’s Bay?

Now remember, what happens in Abaco stays in Abaco. No calls to the Vatican, please.

I am about to share with you my most valued advice. A treasured piece of advice I share with only my closest confidants. It is………………………………………………..

How to throw a great party in the islands.

What?

You say you’ve heard that all you have to do is make an announcement on the radio and people will come from islands unseen just to party.

Damn! Somebody must have leaked my secret.

The cap’n and I had been hiding out at Baker’s Bay for about 3 weeks and were running dangerously low on the essentials of life like coconut rum, anejo rum, spiced rum, dark rum, light rum and just plain old rum. We were contemplating doing something desperate like pulling up anchor and heading to civilization and I was looking forward to putting some clothes on when the cap’n came up with one of his brilliant ideas.

“Let’s have a party!”

“Honey, remember how we just discussed the fact that we don’t have any booze. Can you tell me how many bottles of booze I’m holding up?” I patiently ask my obviously sun-addled cap’n.

“Uh…, Zero?” guesses my proud cap’n.

“Exactly!” I sneer. “Which is exactly why we can’t have a friggin’ party!”

The cap’n waggles his finger at me and raises a diabolical eyebrow.

"Just watch."

He picks up the VHF mike and makes our distress call.

“Party at Baker’s Bay at sunset.”

Later that afternoon I’m dessicating in the cockpit and contemplating which finger I’m going to prick to suck life-saving sustenance from. The capn’s finger, of course. His blood has gotta be at least 90 proof. I’m licking my cracked peeling lips when a mirage appears on the horizon. White billowy, puffy things shimmering on the waves. I lift my weak skeletal arms and give out a pitiful croak.

“What the hell?” “They’re real!”

I jump up and holler down at the cap’n.

“Put some clothes on, for Chrissake!”

We’re saved.

An hour later there are close to 40 dinghies pulled up on shore. There is live karaoke, thanks to our best friend Tom on sv Becky Thatcher, there is meat sizzling on the grill and best of all there is rum.

Glorious, makes-life-worth-living, rum!

And that is how two 80+ year old nuns ended up in their lawn chairs, wearing their bathing suits and drinking Kaliks at Baker’s Bay.

Mary and the Cap’n got thirsty.

P.S. We weren't sure if the cap'n was channeling his inner Elvis in the lower pic or if he was having some sort of seizure. Sometimes it's hard to tell.

P.P.S. These pics are stolen from the website of Patrick on Synchronicity. I'll make you get in touch somehow, Pat.

Paradise Lost

“Memories are the playground of the mind.”
(From a fortune cookie given to me by a very special someone.)

From the log of Agur’s Wish:

January 6, 2004

As we approach the deserted beach we spy structures peeking through and, occasionally, towering above the dense foliage. We pull up to the abandoned dock. Alongside are the remains of pens that we imagine used to house winsome sea creatures forced into captivity for the pleasure of the inhabitants of this deserted stretch of island. Legend has it that one of these charming creatures escaped after being abandoned and left in the pens to die after the former occupants disappeared and never returned. Now locals tell how on sunlit days they catch glimpses of her and her offspring frolicking in the sparkling turquoise water that is their rightful home.

We creep our way into the dense jungle. The tall casuarinas filter the sunlight into shadows and their needles muffle our footsteps on the well worn path. The only sounds are the calls of the birds and insects and the roar of the ocean crashing on a beach we have yet to discover.

“Wow!” the cap’n whispers.

Before us is a huge amphitheater built with rough hewn logs. What did they use it for? Ancient rituals? Human sacrifices?

As we continue along the paths we come upon more ruins. Large open air structures perhaps used for communal meals and celebrations. A large tower that may have been used to spy approaching enemies or to send signals to neighboring islands. Rusting modes of transportation including a cart on a rail that might have been used to transport the weaker members of the tribe.

Eating and cooking utensils are strewn about. It looks as if they left in the middle of a big party. Where did they go. What happened to them?



“We could just settle here.” says the cap’n. “We could live off the sea and the land like Brooke Shields and Chris What-ever-his-name is in Blue Lagoon. We’d never have to put a stitch on!”

I actually consider it for a moment…until I swat my 457th no see-um.

And always that distant roaring ocean is calling us. We look for a break in the verdant overgrowth that will allow us access to this elusive beach but can find none.

We head back to the beach to see if we can find a path there. We come across two more settlements. These are small and rudimentary. Obviously camps for transient tribes in search of shelter and sustenance for a short time on their voyage to somewhere else. Each has left his mark. Their homelands are far-flung and their destinations unknown.

Finally we come upon another path. We wind our way through mangroves and past a tree adorned with an array of moldering footwear.

Finally we reach.

Endless beach and ocean greet us.

A beach that is unblemished except for what the ocean has cast upon her shores.

We are full-up with the wonder of that majestic ocean. She made this island and the reefs that protect it. She and her creatures are the only true stewards of this place.

But for awhile we’ll make it ours.


We were very blessed to have called that place our own for a time. Of course, we shared it with a lot of people who also thought of it as their own. Times change though. And now that place is just a fabled memory for those of us that loved it.

Remember though, even if we can’t call it ours anymore, we still have the responsibility to act as stewards to it and places like it.

Yes, there are still magical places out there.

NOW GO OUT AND MAKE SOME MEMORIES!

P.S. Jumping off my soapbox now. Can anybody guess where in the world Agur’s Wish was on January 6, 2004?