BLACK-EYED G AND THE PEA PICKERS

We sat around our kitchen table, reading the Corpus Christi Caller Times newspaper and drinking coffee. Mother was the only one of us who still lived in the house, but my sisters, Barbara and Doris, and I, still thought of it as ours. It was the place we had lived from the day we were born until we went off to school and points further down the line, and we tried to reunite there for a visit every summer.
Mother exclaimed, "Here's an ad for a place in Aransas Pass where you can pick your own black-eyed peas,"
Barbara's husband, Phlete, came in the back door while Mother was speaking, and said, "Mary and Gino didn't come all the way from California to Texas to spend vacation time picking peas." We females all looked askance at his statement. "Oh. Is this a girl thing?"
"Probably," said Doris. "Among hunter/gatherers, I think most of the hunters were men and most of the gatherers were women. We must go gathering."
"Besides," I said, "the only fresh black-eyed peas I can get in California have green dye added to them."
"We could take the car ferry over to the island afterward, so Gino could play on the beach." Mother cleverly enlisted her five year old grandson's interest in the outing.
We set off from Corpus Christi early the next morning, dressed in long pants, long sleeves and sun hats, in an effort to avoid too much summer sun. When we arrived at the large sandy field of peas, Gino proposed a contest between the three generations of pickers to see who could fill their bushel basket first. We all accepted the challenge. Mother separated herself from the group and bent to the task, moving methodically from one low bush to the next. In her calico sun-bonnet, ruffled in back to protect her neck, she had an old fashioned look that went back further than her actual years. Gino looked at his Grammy with a mixture of disappointment and new respect when she won the contest.
Nothing stimulates the appetite like hard work, fresh air, and feelings of virtue. We were ravenous. We went to a seafood restaurant on the Rockport harbor. Without looking at menu's we ordered fried shrimp and oysters. Like our peas, they'd just been harvested that morning and still tasted of the salty Gulf water. Softness of small oysters off-set by coarse, crunchy corn meal crust. Sweet white shrimp in fluffy golden batter. Incomparable.
As we ate and sipped tall glasses of iced tea, we watched a shrimp boat arrive in port from the Gulf of Mexico. A raucous entourage of black masked Laughing Gulls followed the boat, ready for their lunch too.
Mother said, "Except for the watermelon and that itty bitty bag of okra, the trunk of the car is full of black-eyed peas."
"We sure are good pea pickers!" said Gino, his black eyes wide in amazement.
"We should call you black-eyed G," Barbara said to her nephew. “In the dark of your eyes I see my whole family, but none of us have whites like yours. They’re so perfect and bright.”
"Now we have to shell all those peas," said Mother, her tone neither resigned nor

discouraged. She sounded like the fun had only just begun.


Heading down the two lane highway to the ferry boat landing, Gino pointed to a Great Blue Heron wading in the shallow lagoon that embraced with side of the roadway. Although we couldn’t yet see the landing, it was already the only possible destination. The blacktop charged straight ahead to land’s end, but blinking lights and automatic roadblocks prevented us from driving off into the water.
“Here comes a ferry,” said Doris. “Have you ever been on a car ferry?” Gino shook his head no.“ After all the cars on the boat drive off, we can drive on, and it’ll take us across the water to Port Aransas.”
On board we got out of the car and stood at the railing, watching an escort of leaping porpoises and a daredevil diving exhibition by a Least Tern. Gino nearly cried when we reached the other side because the boat ride had been too short.
At the beach, we drove directly on the hard packed sand. It was a weekday, so it wasn’t crowded. Se drove further than we needed simply because it was fun. “This is so rad.” Gino used his favorite 1984 expression.
I parked the car, and Barbara, Doris, Gino, and I stripped down to our bathing suits. Mother took off only her shoes and socks and rolled her pants up a bit. She set a folding beach chair just beyond water’s edge. An occasional energetic wave would race far enough in to dampen her toes. She’d saved some bread from lunch and showed Gino how to feed the crowd of Laughing Gulls that had magically materialized as soon as she brought out the bread. They would tear off a little piece, throw it in the air, and a sea gull would swoop in for a bite to eat. When the bread was all gone, Mother watched Gino and her “girls” play in the warm Gulf of Mexico water. No matter how old we got, we’d always be her “girls.” She started shelling the black-eyed peas.
Separating the peas from their slender outer pods took days. In the mornings we shelled in the shade of the deep front porch, in the afternoons by Barbara’s pool, watching Gino and taking turns swimming and playing with him. One night we worked in front of the TV. Another evening we sat around the kitchen table, watching the pile of pods in the middle of the table grow taller as we also savored the subtle aroma of black-eyed peas simmering with a ham hock. Friends who dropped by pitched in, visiting longer and leaving happier for not being idle. That community of effort is the secret ingredient in many a pot.
On that trip I felt I traveled not only through space but also through time, back to an era when life was slower and women could share and enjoy child care and gathering and preparing food. I know there are many who would say, “Good riddance to those old ways.” But I would gladly buy a return ticket to that woman’s world; If only I could. The car ferry, sweet shrimp, great bird watching, and miles of white sand beach are still there, and surely there’s a field of pick-your-own black-eyed peas in season. What’s missing is my people. My Mother passed on. My sisters and friends moved away. Another family sits in that kitchen. The white’s of Gino’s eyes aren’t what they used to be either.

photo: Grammy & Gino feeding seagulls, Texas

UNDER THE MACAW'S EYE

We walk on a ribbon of white sand undulating between Pacific blue Ocean and jungle green vegetation. Six scarlet macaws fly by above the trees. They call out. I think they say, "You're in a wild and wonderful place." The flight here, in an eight passenger plane, to the remote Osa peninsula from San Jose, the two hours of rutted dirt roads in the back of a four-wheel-drive pick-up, and, now, the thirty minute walk to our final destination, the Corcovado tent camp - all worth it for that one fly-by.
Gene and I want to find a spot where we can observe and photograph the big birds. We hope to discover a truly deserted beach with all the romantic and lusty possibilities that implies. Because of its isolated location, Corcovado doesn't have many visitors, even along it's perimeter. Fewer still intrude on the interior. We plan to hike six miles further in from camp before turning back.
I wanted to look good for our hike, in case we do find Lovers Beach, our name for that sandy love nest. Looking good in the wilderness is always a challenge to a woman, but when you're old enough to celebrate your 25th wedding anniversary, as I am in Costa Rica, it may be an impossibility. My body has reached that stage where clothes are my best friends. I don't look good in short shorts anymore. Long shorts are worse, like putting a spotlight on my knees. My bustline isn't bad - in a bra. The muscles in my stomach are tight, but the skin isn't. Forget two piece bathing suits and the cropped tops that are currently in style. Even my feet are no longer attractive in the buff because of bunions. Looking at my naked body in a full length mirror is like a scavenger hunt for treasure. All I find is my shoulders. They are still quite pleasing. I consider wearing a long, strapless sundress on the hike. I can picture myself walking barefoot along water's edge, dark hair and full flowered skirt billowing out in the breeze. It's a romantic sight, something you'd see in a fashion magazine or an advertisement for tampons. But it's hot, and I want to swim.
I end up in functional sports sandals, a sunhat, a bathing suit with a large chiffon scarf tied at the waist like a see-through skirt, and my favorite earrings, gold hoops set with small round opals. They sway and twirl gracefully.
As we leave our tent at sunrise for the big trek, I reach for Gene's hand. "Maybe this is the day we'll finally see a jaguar in the wild," I say. A travel brochure for the area shows a jaguar and her cub on the beach.
"I wouldn't count on it," he says.
Jaguars, macaws, Lovers Beach, colorful fish, and who knows what other wildlife or adventures await us. I feel exhilarated at the possibilities. I certainly don't feel fear. There's no danger of getting lost - just walk along the beach. The early departure and return by sundown are timed to the tides, so high tide won't force us back into the jungle behind the beach and strand us there after dark. We have plenty of food, water, and sun screen. We have each other.
Twenty minutes from camp we wade across the Rio Madrigal. The river is as far into the back country as anyone else from camp is going that day. Two hours later, Gene says, "I need to get in the water. If the surf's not too rough, I'll let you know."
He returns quickly, looking like a handsome, blue-eyed Neptune, water sliding off his smooth, muscular upper body. I love the way he looks when his hair is wet and slicked back from his face.
He says, "I didn't see much, and there's a strong surge. Did I miss anything here?"
"Jaguars came creeping out of the jungle as soon as your back was turned."
He smiles at my fanciful story and asks, "Were you frightened here alone?"
"Not at all."
"You always worry about bears when we're backpacking in California."
"That's because I've seen so many bears. I've never seen a jaguar in the wild. He's more like a mythological creature than a threat."
"Maybe he's waiting for us further on," says Gene.
We set off again and walk into a wilderness dream come true. Rising ten feet above the surrounding palms is a tree ablaze with the vivid primary colors of a dozen scarlet macaws. We stand speechless and motionless for fear they'll fly away. Slowly, slowly, Gene brings his camera up and snaps four shots in rapid succession. Two birds fly off like winged rainbows, but the rest of the rowdy crew parties on. I watch them through binoculars, trying to figure out what they're doing. They aren't eating. Maybe they really are just socializing, talking about where they should go for dinner later. Researchers think they do communicate. With life spans of 30 to 45 years in the wild, they have time to teach and learn skills.
The two fly aways return. Or is it a new pair? They all look alike: scarlet heads, shoulders, chests and tails with brilliant yellow separating their red shoulders and dark blue wings. Their tails are as long as their bodies. Their wings span almost three feet. Another couple take off. We move to a shady spot, which doesn't spook the macaws. Birds continue to fly in and out of the tree, always in pairs. Are we witnessing a mating ritual?
The birds appear oblivious to our presence except for one who seems to watch us with a small, round black eye in the middle of a large white patch. Although males and females look alike, I think of the watch bird as a male. I say, "You know how macaws mate for life? Some of these couples may have been together as long as we have."
"Maybe they're having an anniversary party up there," says Gene. He lies down beside me. "We should have one down here. This is Lovers Beach." He pushes the bathing suit strap off my right shoulder, down my arm, over my hand, until it's free.
"This could be a well known spot for observing macaws," I object, suddenly self conscious. "What if someone else shows up and ...."
"No one's showing up," he says firmly and slips the other strap off my shoulder.
"We haven't seen a single soul since we left camp." He pulls my suit down to my waist and gives me a soft, slow, salty kiss.
I like salt. And slow. And soft. I lift my hips, so he can take the suit all the way off. I lay on my back in the warm sand, wearing only opal and gold earrings. I 'm ready. Twenty-five years is enough foreplay. I surrender to a symphony of surf. Love never felt as wild as under the macaw's eye.
Afterward, we lie in a tangle of hot, sweaty limbs. Neither of us wants to extinguish the afterglow, but finally Gene asks, "Are you game to do a little snorkeling?"
"Sure," I say. I feel too close to him to accept a separation. I feel too much the wild woman to have him scout the situation for me again. Besides, I need to rinse off. We put our flippers on at a wavy line of foamy bubbles and side step our way into the ocean. We get our masks wet, pull them on, and lay into the water, face down, eyes open. The water is murky. I swim a little closer to a small outcropping of rocks where we have our best chance of seeing fish. Still, I see only dirty water. A shark could be two feet from me, and I wouldn't see it. I lift my head from the water to see where Gene is, to tell him I'm getting out. His bright pink snorkel sticks out of the water eight feet from me. I swim toward him but don't get any closer. I know immediately that I'm in trouble.
The tide brings him closer to me. I say, "I'm trying to go in and not getting anywhere."
"We're in a rip tide," he says.
The tide isn't trying to suck us out to sea or pull us under, but it's trying to throw us onto the rocks. I'm afraid of them, of what they might do to me. They might cut me up for shark bait. I've been cut by less ominous outcrops before, and I could see what predators my blood attracted and move in the direction of my choice. Now I can do neither. I know we should swim parallel to shore, but the rocks are in our way. "Let's try and get around the rocks," I say.
We try, repeatedly. It isn't a great distance, but it's a distance that never diminishes. We're on nature's own treadmill. I get tired. I decide to take a break. I let myself bob like a cork.
"You aren't trying!" Gene shouts. He takes my hands and tries to pull me through the water.
"I'm just resting," I say. "I'm not giving up." I'm not panicked, but I know nobody will come to our rescue. We have to save ourselves. I realize if I continue to fight the ocean, I will lose. I know Gene has the physical strength to make it, but I also know he won't return to shore without me. If he drowns, it'll be my fault. That was no way to end such a beautiful day, such a great trip, such a wonderful life. I knew what to do, had known from the beginning, but I'd let my fear of the rocks distract me from salvation.
I let the current take me to the rocks. I crawl onto them. They are soft and mossy, not sharp and spiny as I'd feared. Gene follows. There's barely room for both of us. I catch my breath before a wave crashes over us. I know the next one might sweep me away. I say, "I'm going off the other side and swim parallel to shore until I can get in."
"I'll be right with you," says Gene.
Now we're going with the flow. It's no longer a battle, but I look longingly toward land. I imagine us swimming parallel to shore all the way to Panama.
"Let's try and catch the next wave," says Gene. We watch the water bunching up and moving toward us. "Get ready," he warns. "Go! Go, go, go!"
I paddle and stroke, paddle and stroke, until my fingers finally dig into sand, and still I keep clawing my way up onto the beach. I lay on my stomach, half in, half out of the shallow water, exhausted.
"Are you okay, baby?" asks Gene, beside me.
I roll onto my back and pull my mask off. He kisses me and holds me. We don't look like the lovers on the beach in "From Here To Eternity." I have on bright yellow flippers. He has on huge black ones. I'm sure an outline of the dive mask remains, like a fresh scar, across my forehead, down the sides of my face, and under my nose, but who cares? Life is beautiful, and we are alive.
I raise my hands to my ear lobes. I still have both earrings. We didn't come to this beach to love and then die under the macaw's eye. The ocean didn't even claim a sacrificial earring. Anyone that lucky might still see the elusive jaguar.

**************************************
The ocean finally claimed one of Mary Gaffney's earrings at Hanalua Bay in Hawaii. Mary thought of it as deferred payment and stopped wearing earrings while snorkeling. Unfortunately, that left only her wedding ring, which rough surf took at Cabo San Lucas recently. Perhaps costume jewelry is the answer for this writer whose work has been featured in numerous Travelers' Tales and other anthologies.

This bio appeared with “Under the Macaw’s Eye” when it was first published in TINY LIGHTS – A Journal of Personal Essay, Jan. 2000.




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WALKING TO ZANCUDO

Zancudo is only an hour by boat across the gulf from the Osa peninsula to the mainland Pacific coast of Costa Rica, but it took us twenty hours to make that trip. First, you need a boat. Then you need water. Gene and I discovered that neither of these were always available.
There were three private boats in the little port town of Jimenez. The entire fleet was out. We settled down at a palapa restaurant overlooking the gulf, ordered papas fritas and Pilsens, our favorite Costa Rican beer, and hoped one of the boats would return early enough to take us across.
Finally, a boat came in, but the captain wanted $100 to make the trip. That didn't compare too favorably to the $3 each for the daily 6:00 am ferry we missed earlier. It crossed the gulf to the town of Golfito where, for another $15, a motorboat would take one to Zancudo. The difference between twenty-one dollars and a hundred was quite a bit more than the little extra we were prepared to spend. Our friend Shelia was in Zancudo recently and told us to go there and where to stay. The three of us shared an attraction to beautiful, undiscovered beaches and out of the way places. She drove a four-wheel drive vehicle over dirt roads on the mainland to reach Zancudo, so she didn’t know anything about boating in. Gene and I have traveled together enough to know that getting from one place to another frequently involves the unexpected. This wasn’t an occasion that left either of us frightened, nervous, or angry.
We got a cheap motel room for the night, only a few steps from the ferry pier and decided to take a swim, but the water that had been lapping gently against the rocks along the roadside was on its way somewhere else, leaving behind an ever expanding mud flat. Instead of wading in, we squished in. Gene and I marched onward, determined to have our swim. The tide was out so far, I thought we might get to Zancudo on foot before we reached water deep enough for swimming. We sat down in the water to cool off and then returned to shore.
It was hard to imagine a ferryboat making it to the pier, but when I looked out the window the next morning, I saw a beautiful sunrise and a ferryboat. The ferry left promptly at 6:00 a.m. and arrived in Golfito at 7:15. At a small open-air cafe beside the Golfito pier, we had our morning coffee. They served it in glasses rather than cups. While I had a second coffee, Gene found a man with a small boat to take us the final distance to Zancudo, another forty minutes. His name was Hector. His boat was green. The water was calm and the ride smooth for the first thirty minutes. Then we noticed that the water was so shallow, we could see the bottom. Hector saw it too. The tide was going out again. Hector turned the engine off and got out of the boat. Water came only up to his knees. He began to push the boat. After five minutes, he was breathing hard. I felt guilty that he was working so strenuously while I sat in the boat like a princess. I reminded myself that we hadn't hired him to push us to Zancudo. As if he read my mind, he stopped pushing and waded away from the boat. He seemed to be looking for something. I thought he was looking for a deeper channel, but when he returned to us, Hector confessed he'd lost his boat key in the water. Maybe we really would end up walking to Zancudo.
Luckily, Hector knew how to hot-wire an engine. He managed to get the boat running without a key and did find a deeper channel. Finally, he deposited us at a dilapidated pier. We proceeded carefully, stepping over spots where slats were missing, and came out on a dirt road. There was no cafe at this pier, no other boats, no people, no telephone. Gene flagged down a pick up truck.
“I’m Mauricio,” said the driver. “What can I do for you?”
Gene said, “Can you tell me where the nearest phone is?”
Mauricio laughed. The three children in the back of the pick up laughed. Mauricio said, “There's only one telephone in town, and it's nowhere near the pier.”
Gene said, “I need a taxi.”
Mauricio and the children laughed again. “There are no taxis in Zancudo.
Where do you want to go?”
Gene said, “A friend of ours told us Reiner’s is a good place to stay.”
Mauricio nodded agreement. “Mi amigo,” he said. “Throw your bags in back with my kids and climb in. I’ll take you there.”

Zancudo is not a village so much as it is a narrow spit of land with a road running down its middle. Scattered along that road are houses, a couple of shops, a few cabins for rent. Everyone in town knows where everything is because there's only the one road. You can't stray too far off that road because close on one side is the Pacific Ocean and close on the other is a mangrove lagoon. People keep their boats in the lagoon, and that’s where what’s left of the pier is located.
Reiner's is at the end of the bumpy dirt road. It‘s small: six rooms divided between three cabins. Someone had left that morning. Gene said, “I’ll stay here with our baggage. You take a look at the room.”
I followed Reiner down a boardwalk a few inches above the sand. He was about six feet one, with a strong, athletic body and a fast, confident stride. When we reached the last room in the last cabin, he turned to me, his weathered face neither handsome nor ugly. "I put up a clean hammock for you," he said. He spoke with a German accent. We stood on the front porch. I looked through the palm trees at the deserted beach. It was a perfect beach: good swimming, boogie boarding, and surfing, and so few of us to share it. "I have the room cleaned immediately," he said. I listened to waves breaking gently on shore. “You can have it for $20 a night.”
"We'll take it," I told him.
Gene and I waited in the common room built on stilts above the sand. There was a kitchen with an honor system bar, tables, chairs, sofas, hammocks, a television, a tape deck, driftwood art. A trim, nice looking man with receding gray hair introduced himself as Barry. “Have you made it to Drake’s Bay?” He asked.
“No. Maybe next time we’re in Costa Rica.”
Barry said, “That’s too bad. It’s beautiful there. I own a fabulous place at Drake's Bay.”
Another man with shoulder length gray hair, some of which was in free braids with beads at the end, was named Bob. A third gray one was called Mikey. He had hair all over the place – mustache, beard, bushy eyebrows, head, arms, legs, nostrils. The woman who'd brought him to Zancudo had deserted him there. Fran was a young surfer with sun-bleached hair and a deep tan. He said surfers usually go to Pavones, a little further south. Pavones is “ranked” and has the longest left breaking wave in the world, but Fran liked having the waves all to himself in Zancudo. The last of Reiner's residents was a thin woman from Golfito. She only appeared when it was time for her soap opera.
When our room was ready, we found the beds made up with sheets and pillowcases embroidered with peacocks. Peacocks were carved in the headboards of the beds, a motif that was unexpectedly elegant for a place where there were no private baths, only shared, and a ceiling fan that didn't work. "No problem," said Reiner. "I have a fan. I put it up for you." The other residents were impressed with what they called the VIP treatment we were getting. The man who'd just vacated our room had stayed there for a month without a fan, a new hammock, or embroidered sheets. What he did get and what all the other guys were getting was a substantial discount for staying so long. Reiner probably hoped that we would also settle in for a lengthy stay, but we only had a few days.
We stayed at the end of the road the remainder of that first day and night, eating lunch and dinner across the way at María's. María is one of Reiner's many ex-wives. Maria’s is the only place to eat nearby, and everyone from Reiner’s moved over there for both meals that day. It felt like boarding school, complete with an irritating individual who bragged and talked too much. That was Barry. At lunch he said, “This is about the size of the restaurant I own in Sausalito. Of course, my place is considerably more up market.”
“Of course,” I said. “Pass the hot sauce and shut up.” I didn’t really say shut up, but I thought it. Barry was quiet for the rest of the meal.
Between meals, Gene and I swam, used the boogie boards, took turns in our clean hammock, and enjoyed an entire sky of burnt orange at day’s end.
We were up early the next morning to bird watch while walking the road. The Zancudo peninsula isn't pristine rain forest. There are no high rises and very few people, but also very few birds. Blue Gray Tanagers and Great Kiskadees were breakfasting along the road, but we'd already seen hundreds of those lovely birds in other parts of Costa Rica. About forty-five minutes up the road, we interrupted our walk to have coffee at the open-air restaurant of Sol y Mar Cabins, and there we saw a new bird, the Green Crowned Brilliant, a large, glittering green, hummingbird with a forked tail. Then we went a little further to Zancudo Boat Tours and arranged to take a ride that afternoon through the mangrove lagoons and up the Rio Coto Colorado. We walked back to Reiner's along the beach. Though we hadn't quite made it to the end of the peninsula, we felt we'd pretty much seen Zancudo. It was muy tranquilo.
Lunch at Maria’s was a fresh tropical fruit plate, no choice. Barry said, “I could never get away with that at my restaurant in Mill Valley.”
Gene said, “I thought your restaurant was in Sausalito.”
“Don’t get him started,” I said, this time out loud. Everyone, including Barry, was quiet for the rest of the meal. Reiner offered us a lift back up the road for our boat outing. Bob took Gene aside and warned him that Reiner was a madman behind the wheel, but we found his driving perfectly acceptable. Maybe he was still giving us the VIP treatment?
Our boat captain was Junior, and he was still young enough that the name seemed appropriate. We were his only passengers. He kept the boat slow and quiet, so we could watch for birds. Bare Throated Tiger Heron and Anhinga in the lower canal. Junior had a copy of the Cornell University GUIDE TO THE BIRDS OF COSTA RICA, and he knew his birds.
We saw a Green Backed Heron wading in shallow water on long, skinny legs. A Wood Stork sat in the top of a tree. Green Kingfishers skimmed the waters surface. A Whimbrel poked in the mud near shore with his decurved bill. Further up the Rio Coto Colorado, we saw Blue Headed Parrots, spidery white water lilies, and crocodiles. Many crocodiles. Silly me - I’d worn my bathing suit in case I wanted to take a dip to cool off. I doubt I'll ever get hot enough to want to swim with crocodiles.
To make it into dock before dark we had to zoom into the sunset. The surface of the water was radiant gold with islands of fuchsia, mirroring, exactly, the sky. Instead of merely gazing at a display, we were in the sunset, moving through the color. It was above us, behind us, below us. We were surrounded by sunset. As the now speeding boat broke through the fuchsia and gold, we saw trees along the banks covered with white blossoms that fluttered off their branches as we approached. The trees were abloom with birds - Snowy Egrets and White Ibis.
Then it was dark, as suddenly as if someone had pulled a switch. Junior slowed the boat and poked back into the mangroves we'd left four hours earlier.
We returned to Sol y Mar for dinner. Neither of us wanted to share another meal with Barry. Somewhere along the line, he’d also told us about his ranch in Fresno and his hotel in Redding. “If we were with the guys and mentioned our boat trip, I suppose we’d find out that Barry owns a boat,” I said.
“Or two or three,” said Gene.
When Gene was paying our bill, our waiter asked, “How much longer will you folks be here?”
“We’ve got a ride to Golfito tomorrow with Reiner.”
He frowned. “I have to tell you, Reiner is a certified maniac behind the wheel.”
A look between Gene and me acknowledged that this was our second warning. I was tempted to ask for the gory details, but I didn’t.
We walked home along the beach again, but it was different in the dark. There were no lights near shoreline and few inland. Would we be able to tell when to stop? We had a flashlight, a watch, and knowledge of approximately how long the walk would be, so I was able to suspend concern and enjoy the romantic starlight stroll. At the appropriate time, we started shining our flashlight inland. Soon, we saw Reiner's coast- side mirador, a lookout platform on stilts six feet above the sand.
“We've walked over two hours today,” I said. “I’m tired.”
Gene said, “Aren’t you glad we don't have to get up to catch the 6 a.m. ferry tomorrow?”
“After two warnings about Reiner’s driving, I have mixed feelings.”
“It’ll be an adventure. We’ll see what the overland route is like,” said Gene.
Before we could discuss it further, Fran, Mikey, and Bob stopped by our cabin to say good-bye. Fran said, “I wish you guys were staying and Barry was leaving.”
M any mornings of bird watching and early ferries and plane flights had us awake unnecessarily at 5:00 a.m. We got dressed and started packing up. It's a good thing we did because Reiner came by at five minutes before 6:00 to tell us he wasn't going to Golfito after all. He'd try to get us to the 6:00 ferry. I rode in front with him. Gene rode in the back of the pick-up. Reiner drove directly onto the beach, which is somewhat smoother than the road. Then began what we used to call an E ticket ride and what we still call a mad dash. The beach no longer seemed smooth as we caught air flying off the top of one small rise after another. Once we landed in the ocean, and salt water splashed up all around us. Gene screamed, and I looked back, in alarm. I was afraid he had bounced out, and I’d see an empty pick up bed. But he was still there. Instead of the terrified face I expected to see, he was smiling. How could I forget that he was a high speed, down hill, thrills and chills kind of guy? Gene was having fun, and I might as well too. Better to die happy than frightened.
His reputation intact, Reiner got us to the pier in time. Gene shoved some money into his hand. There was no time for accounting. We ran for the ferryboat, this time leaping across the holes in the pier. It was certainly our fastest and most casual checkout.

Moons Over Whiskeytown

MOONS OVER WHISKEYTOWN

Our family and friends camp together every summer at Whiskeytown Lake and National Recreation Area near Redding, California. When we began the campouts, in l987, there were only a few older kids, including our daughter, Fawn. There were lots of little children. Our youngest son, Gino, was one of the littles. And there were adults...sort of.
Adults reserved the group site, a peninsula that we had all to ourselves. We sent out letters announcing the dates, collected money, bought provisions for and prepared a fajita dinner the first night, organized the potluck side dishes for the remaining dinners, and stayed up late partying and playing games.
The first time we played the new game of "Pictionary," we teamed men against women. Competition was fierce. The player who was "it" took a card with a word on it and tried to help their team guess the word by drawing picture clues. Dennis held his drawing up for his team to see. "Cucumber," guessed one.
"Surfboard," said Dennis, who wasn't supposed to say anything.
"Cigar!" "Penis!" "Baseball bat!" They all called out at once.
"Surfboard," Dennis repeated. Because he's a little hard of hearing, he thought we couldn't hear him, but we could.
A teammate looked at the picture again and said, "Surfboard?" The women refused to give the men credit for that. The men objected loudly.
"Quiet down!" a child called out from a tent. "I can't sleep."

From the very beginning, watercraft represented freedom for the children. Long before they could take out the motorboats, as many as possible would pile onto the board of Gene's windsurfer and paddle over to the other side of the cove. A red kayak and an inflatable rowboat followed them. They went ashore near a Douglas fir tree that leaned toward the lake as if trying to see its reflection in the glassy surface. A rope hung from the tree. They took turns climbing the tree. Holding onto the rope, they'd jump from the trunk, swinging out over the deep water.
On the point of the peninsula across the cove, I was fearful that the child on the rope wouldn't let go in time, but they always did. By the end of the day, they'd earned my confidence. On the second day, I took photos of them. By the third day, no one paid much attention to the jumpers. The temperature was 104. "Meltdown," said Dennis. I glanced across the cove and saw his son, Justin, climb beyond the rope on the tree. Higher and higher he ascended. Finally, he stopped and surveyed the wet and wooded world below him. He jumped. He dropped through the hot air and touched down feet first. It seemed he was underwater forever. I think we all held our breath along with him. The clouds in the sky stood still until his head popped up. We cheered. The kids cheered. Another child scampered up the tree. Soon the Dads joined them, not for a lecture but for a jump.
The next summer not only the rope but the entire tree was gone. We found another rope swing in a distant part of the large manmade lake, but the following year it too was gone. Jumping into water from a high place had become an instant tradition, like having fajitas the first night, so discovering the jumping rock on Brandy Creek was perfect.
To get to the rock we first drove a dusty dirt road until it ended literally in the creek. From there we continued upstream on foot, rock hopping, wading across the narrow, shallow stream, climbing past waterfalls, ducking under dogwoods. Water played the rocks like musical instruments. The serenade was peaceful and pleasant. Finally, we came to a tall rock with a deep pool below. It took nerve to jump, not only because of the fifteen-foot drop but also because of the icy water waiting below. Jumpers rose to the surface gasping or shrieking. They got out fast and sprawled on flat gray rocks that were warm from the sun. The hike up Brandy Creek became an annual adventure.
Camping during a full moon was another custom. The first year Terry went water skiing by the light of the moon. The wooded islands and shores cast a dark wrick-wrack silhouette against the bright sky. She cut through the reflected light, scattering moonbeams left and right. She wore only a life vest. That exhibition was called "moons over Whiskeytown."
My husband, Gene, couldn't wait to learn to ski so he too could skim across moonlit water, but he didn't turn out to be a natural. He sank as if God intended him to be an anchor. After five failed attempts, Dennis said, "Take a break. We'll try again later."
Gene was determined to get up on his next turn. Dennis was captain of the boat. They started from right off the point, the end of the peninsular. Those of us on shore watched from our beach chairs, ready to cheer for even the smallest success. "He's up!" We all cheered and clapped. "He's down." "No! He's up." He was up and down like a yo-yo without ever letting go of the rope until finally he completely disappeared under water. "Let go of the rope," we screamed from shore. "Let go of the rope," Dennis screamed from the boat. But Gene had resolved not to let go. He emerged from the depths like a modern Loc Ness monster, skis still on his feet, and managed to ski on top of the water for a decent interval. He received a standing ovation when he returned to land.
It was always summer at Whiskeytown Lake for us, and unlike some California lakes, the water level was consistently high, even during droughts. But nature isn't static, so there was invariably something new or different. One year we couldn't get reservations during a full moon. It was mid-August, and there was no moon at all. Our group area and tents were in dense darkness under the trees, but at the point, the Perseids meteor shower lit the sky with silent fireworks. One large meteor cut a long, wide blaze of bright across the night. After that, the rest of the shooting stars were like tiny tots, flashing and dashing around. Just as the kids, all older then, snuck a beer or two out of their parent’s coolers, the little stars stole light from the moon. They reeled across the sky, drunk on moonshine.
Favorite water toys and sports varied from one season to the next. Water-skis had staying power, but knee boards were quickly replaced by tubes. Two inner tubes connected to the back of a motorboat by long ropes. The tubes had handholds. All the riders could do was hold onto these while the captain of the boat made sharp turns and crossed his own wake in an effort to dislodge them, an aquatic version of crack-the-whip. One afternoon Gino and Rosie were tubing. The tubes collided with a force that launched Gino high into the air.
"Oh my God," I said as my eyes followed the trajectory of my son. Everyone at the point jumped to their feet in horror as he flipped once, twice, three times. He was a strong, athletic boy, but gymnastics wasn't one of his sports. Maybe it should have been, because he landed without injury.
In '93, we arrived to find ugly metal food lockers installed at the group cooking and dining area and scattered around the campsite. Rangers told us to put all our food, including ice chests, in the lockers at night because this was now bear country, and odors attract bears. Instead of our world getting tamer, it was getting wilder. The kids were thrilled. They wanted to see a bear.
We felt certain they'd get their wish because nothing is more lusciously aromatic than marinated skirt steak sizzling over mesquite - the meat for fajitas. Sure enough, after dinner, a huge shaggy cinnamon bear tried to join the party. We chased him off and then stumbled around with flashlights, putting food away. We reconvened around the campfire to eat our hand cranked blackberry ice cream and talk bear.
Each summer when we arrived, the ranger said, "There haven't been any bear sightings yet this year."
As the meat sizzled on the barbeque the first night, I pictured the bear high in the hills. He sniffed the air and said, "It is time to begin my journey down to the shore." We never knew how or when he'd present himself. Once I returned to my camp right after dinner and found Mr. Bear at our table. His large front paws were on the table, and he was facing me. He looked like he was waiting for me to serve him a meal.
The summer of '96, we all went down to the cove to admire the sunset. It had turned the sky and the water fire red. "We should get a picture of this," said Terry.
"Ssssssshhh," said Justin.
She glared at her son for hushing her, but then she heard what he heard. We all heard it. Like a scene in a movie, a huge unseen creature was crashing toward us through the forest on the other side. Louder and louder. Closer and closer. A big black bear emerged from the trees, a different bear, our sunset bear.

The summer of ‘95, every teenager brought a friend or two or three. They set their tents up together, as far as possible from the adults, near the point. Justin drove his pick-up off the dirt access road, through the trees, right up to the tents, to unload gear. Nobody had ever risked ranger wrath that way. We found out later that was necessary because so much of the "gear" was alcohol. Teen Town was ready to rage and rage it did on Saturday night. After dinner, they took three of the four ski boats out for a moonlight spin. Laura, the only child in camp old enough to be awake but not old enough to be included, returned from her lakeside reconnaissance on the run. She said, "One of the boats is gonna sink! There are so many people on board that it's really low in the water."
Jessica took the fourth boat out to reconnoiter. When she came upon the flotilla of teens, no more than a reasonable six were on any boat. She strafed the water surface with a spotlight as she slowly circled the other boats. Eight additional teens were treading water or clinging to the sides of the boats. One of the captains said, "Everyone's taken turns being in the water."
"What about when you were motoring out here?"
"We went really slow, and they held onto the sides of the boat."
Jessica suppressed a laugh. "If the ranger had come along, he'd have fined you hundreds of dollars. There's no telling how many laws you've broken." She took the excess passengers on board, and the boats returned to shore. Adults took possession of all keys.
The teens reconvened at the point. Laura spied on them from behind a tree. Soon she returned to camp. She said, "They're skinny dipping."
"Good," said one of the moms, defiantly.
"Don't be such a little snitch, Laura," I said. "That'll be you in a few years."
"We've all done it," said another mom, but not all the moms agreed that skinny-dipping was a harmless activity. Evidently, some of us had been wilder than others. Certainly some of us had shorter memories. How quickly "moons over Whiskeytown" was forgotten. But that night, once again, there were multiple moons over Whiskeytown.
"Where did all these teenagers come from?" demanded Christie, one of the moms.
"They're our kids," I said. "When they bring a friend to camp, they don't bring a child. They bring another teenager."
A chant rose up from the point. "Go Katie, go Katie, go Katie, go!"
"She's stripping," said Mama Christie grimly.
"She's a cheerleader," I said. "She's probably doing one of her routines."
"No doubt the X-rated version," said Christie and stormed down to the point. She marched back to camp practically dragging her son.
The party broke up by midnight, but the controversy raged on among the adults for months and led to rules, many rules, for 1996. There were far fewer young guests. Everyone had a good time, but the kids said the year before had been the best ever. Teen Town had become a legend, but it wasn't the only one. "What about when Fawn took Jessica down? That's got to be in the top ten."
"Another is Gene's underwater skiing."
"Don't forget Gino's triple flip." By the time we were through telling our all time favorites, there were more than ten on the top ten list.

I sat at the point, reading. A dad used a giant sling shot to lob water balloons from shore at the kids floating on the lake. A balloon landed near the ones on the long white board. They cheered. I looked up. The people I saw on the board were not kids. They had manly muscles and womanly curves. Our children had grown up on us, on that board, on that lake. I knew we were all getting older at home too, but something about being in a different place helped focus my perception. While we were traveling to that beautiful place every summer, we were also traveling through time, as we always are. Somewhere between here and there our kids traded places with us. Now they are the ones who stay up late partying, playing games, keeping us awake. I thought back to '94, the summer of falling stars. Those stars fell like a finale on their childhood. Now they are adults...sort of.

888888888888888888888888888
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To our kids:
Rich, Stasia, Fawn, James, Gino, Justin, Jessica, Rosie, Meagan, Jeremy, Shannen, Kim, Rick, Windy, Kelly, Kyle, Abram, Sadie, Richie, Shawn, Andy, Bryan Paul, Tara, Laura, Julie, Allison, Gabrielle, Luke, Cody, Shila, Jenny.

"May you stay forever young. "
Bob Dylan

Fajita Marinade

1/3 c soy sauce 1/8 tsp garlic powder

1/3 c vegetable oil 1 T. minced onion

3 T. wine vinegar

Combine & marinate skirt steak for 4 hours or more. (1/2 lb. per person.) BBQ.

Child Walking - Mother's Day Tribute '09

Some of the neighbors thought I was crazy when I was a child. They thought that because I often walked up and down the sidewalk in front of our house for an hour or more. Other neighbors thought I must be composing music or fantastic stories or something exceptionally creative.
I didn’t encourage either idea of what was going on in my mind, but neither did I volunteer any information on what I was thinking. I was embarrassed to say what I thought about during all those hours because, mostly, it was nothing. I might start off day dreaming about what I would be like when I grew up. Beautiful, like my Mother, I hoped, but more sophisticated, with a leopard skin coat, and maybe a leopard too. Or a housewife with children, like her, but one who made chocolate cakes, unlike her. Or maybe one who played bridge in her underwear on hot summer afternoons? That Mom didn’t make cakes. She made “Ladies Drinks,” & the other ladies in their undies enjoyed the drinks and the game. Although I didn’t know anyone with a leopard, or even a leopard skin coat, my imagination didn’t usually roam far from our neighborhood or my parents circle of friends. Despite those limitations, it was obvious that there were many variations in female adults. But after a short while of imagining my adult self, I didn’t think about anything. I just walked my blank mind back and forth. Now I realize it was a moving meditation. The only strange thing about it is that I was a child. Wasn’t I lucky that my Mom never said, “Stop it! The neighbors will think there’s something wrong with you.”

Mother’s Day tribute, 2009

HOUSE OF BLUE LIGHTS

HOUSE OF BLUE LIGHTS

The family finally stopped talking about Dad's slow recovery. There was no recovery. His kidney was sacrificed to gods satiated with internal organs, goats, sheaves of corn, rocks wrapped in prayers. They wanted more, much more. Mother called. She said, “He’s dying.” Doris was already on her way home from college, and Evey would be there tomorrow. Rebecca and I put aside our vows not to go home again when Evey was there. She was a mean drunk, and nothing cranked her up like being at home. But we four sisters returned to the house of blue lights to say good-bye to our father. The blue neon house numbers had been there all our lives, like Dad, but now he was in Spohn Hospital's Intensive Care Unit.
When we were children, he took us when he went to Spohn on his weekend rounds. He parked his Packard right in front, as doctor's were allowed. We didn't usually venture into the hushed hospital with him. We ran in and out of the palm tree shadows that reclined on the lawn. When he came out, we dipped our hands into his suit coat pockets and found lemon drops or orange gumdrops. Then he made his house calls, taking his black medical bag inside with him.
House calls, medical bags, and Packard’s are no longer made, and a modern Spohn hospital and paved parking cover the once gracious garden. Now Dad's in there on the wrong end of a stethoscope. It’s hard at the hospital and harder at home.

At the hospital, Evey goes in to see him first. She comes out shaking her head, her long brown hair moving from side to side. There’s a lot of long brown hair in the waiting room - Evey’s, Rebecca’s, Doris’s, mine, and Mother’s, although Mother’s isn’t loose. Rebecca returns with tears falling out of her big brown eyes. There are many large brown eyes there too. When Doris comes out, she walks past us and keeps going. I go in and tell him, “ I love you.” I get no response. Nobody does. He’s in a coma.
We sat around, subdued, until Mother said, “You girls go home and eat dinner. We’ll do some of this in shifts.”
“I could make tostados,” said Evey.
“There’s no need for that,” said Mother. “There’s so much food at the house that friends have brought.”
Evey borrowed money from Rebecca to buy beer and cigarettes on the way home. After eating, Rebecca took a plate to Mother. Mother sent her right back home. “You should all get a good nights sleep. You’re exhausted from travel and grief.” At home, everyone does as she says, including Evey. So far, so good, except for the dying part.

We sat down in the waiting room to begin the second day of our vigil. "Damn it!" said Evey. "I forgot to get cigarettes. Can I bum one of your Mexican smokes?"
Rebecca pushed a blue and white package of "Records" toward her.
Evey lit it. "They taste better than they smell."
"I think they're as good as American," said Rebecca, "and they only cost fifteen cents a pack."
"How about selling me some?"
"I hoped they'd last me till I go back to Mexico.”
"Just one pack?"
"All right. I'll sell you a pack for Forty cents.”
"That's more than double what you paid," said Evey.
"True, but it'll cost me fifty-five cents to replace a pack here."
"Really, Rebecca, you're the stingiest person I know."
"How can you say that? I'd be losing money on the deal."
"You wouldn't either. You'd be making a quarter."
"If I replace the pack, I lose fifteen cents."
"This is stupid. I'll go back to the store and buy a carton. I think I've got enough money." Evey started rummaging through her purse.
"Don't forget you owe me $7.00," said Rebecca.
"I'm perfectly capable of remembering my own debts. Are you charging me interest?"
"No," said Rebecca.
"I should never have borrowed money from you. I knew I'd never hear the end of it."

That evening Evey took two Lone Star beers to her bedroom. When she came back out Mother said, “We have everything for the tostados you want, Evey I thought you might want to fix some for supper."
"I might. Right now I'm going to look around the house."
"What're you looking for?"
"Oh, nothing. Just looking."
"I think I'll go ahead and cook the meat for dinner," Doris said.
"And I'll mash the beans," said Mother.
"Why don't you rest, Mother? I'll do that,” Rebecca said.
"You can make the guacamole. All Evey will have to do is grate the cheese and lettuce and fry the tortillas."
When we were through, we returned to the living room. Evey appeared a few minutes later. "When are we going to eat?" Rebecca asked.
"Eat whenever you want."
"Aren't you` making dinner?"
"No, I'm not. I don't appreciate you telling me when I'm going to cook and what I'm going to cook. If you're hungry, why don't you fix your own?”
"I think I will. I'm starving," I said.
In the kitchen, Evey took a bite of guacamole. "It needs a little more lemon. Is this all the meat? I’d use that amount just for myself. By the time you all get through, there won't be anything left."
"We'll save you some."
"Don't bother. There won't be enough to make a decent one. When I make tostados, I'm not chintzy with the meat. Stingiest Goddamn bunch of people I've ever known." She walked out with two more Lone Stars.
She returned to the kitchen while the rest of us were eating. She entered a hostile atmosphere. I didn’t like Evey eating guacamole out of the serving spoon and then putting it back in the bowl earlier.
Evey had cultivated this field of hostility, and she wasn't going to let it lie fallow. "I can't go back to that bedroom. It's too damn depressing. You can't even be bothered to fix the leaky roof."
"We fixed the roof," said Mother.
"Then why don't you do something about the wallpaper? It looks crappy."
"It costs money to make repairs."
"Money, money, money! That's all I hear around here. You manage to find enough to keep the rest of the house looking nice, but my room looks like a damn storage room and none of it's mine. There's very little evidence that I ever lived in this house."
"You removed the evidence last summer," said Mother.
Evey's eyes narrowed. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"Remember the night you tore around the house collecting everything that was yours? You were mad about something," Mother said. "You even took the pictures of yourself off the walls. I'd like to have them back."
"You don't have them?" Evey asked.
"If I did, they'd be back up."
"I wonder where all the stuff is?" said Evey.
Mother shrugged. "I'm going to call the hospital. Aunt Margie Rae said she’d spend tonight there. After last night, I'm too tired to go. I think we could all use a good nights rest."
"Are you going to eat, Evey?" asked Doris from the stove. "We saved you some."
"I told you not to bother."
Doris said, "Why don't we split what's left? Joanna? Someone?" She spread a thick layer of refried beans on the crisp, open tortilla, sprinkled on the remainder of the meat, grated cheese and lettuce, and topped it with guacamole.
As Doris opened her mouth for the first bite, Evey said, "You're getting fat."
“That’s not true, and it was mean,” Rebecca said.
“What about the way you treated me this afternoon? Bugging me about the money?”
"Can't I say anything without you taking it the wrong way?"
"You knew I wouldn't forget in one day. You're so worried about your fucking money, you and your slum landlord husband.”
I looked up at the wall clock and said, “Hey, it’s time for our show.” All but Evey moved to the den and started watching All In the Family.
Soon she appeared with a sandwich. “What’s happening?” She asked. “What’s so funny? Who’s the new character?"
"Shhhh," said Rebecca.
"Shhh yourself! I can talk if I want."
"It's hard to hear the show with you talking," I said.
"Can't you think of something better to do than watch the boob tube?"
"I like the show too," Doris said.
"Let your brain rot then," said Evey and stormed out. Ten minutes later, she stuck her head in the door and said, "Don't ever tell me to shhh again, or I'll hush you for good."
Rebecca continued to stare, silently, at the television.
"Do you understand?”
"Shhh!"
Evey's face turned grim. "I'm going to get the sharpest knife in the house, and I'm going to slit your throat.”
Rebecca stood, picked up her cigarettes, matches, and coke, and turned toward the other door.
"Did you hear me?" Evey screeched.
Rebecca turned around. "I've heard nothing but you since this show started. You'll be happy to know that you're saving me from brain rot." She left the room.
Evey tried to follow Rebecca, but I stood in her way.
Evey said, "She walked out on me."
"What did you expect?"
"She does that to me every time."
I thought distraction might work better than reason and said, “Let’s play some gin rummy.”
She ignored me and tore through the house, turning on the lights in every room, calling, "Rebecca!" She returned to the kitchen for another beer, and said, “That chicken shit is so scared; she’s hiding.” She laughed wickedly. "Imagine, grown-ups playing hiding-go-seek. She's so stupid."
"So is this rampage you're on. Let's go to bed."
"If you’re tired, go to bed. No one's forcing you to stay up."
"Who could sleep with all your screaming and racing around?" I said. "You've already looked. She's not here."
"Where'd she go?"
“Over to her in-laws probably."
"I didn't hear a car leave."
"She rides the bicycle sometimes. Or maybe she walked. It's not that far."
"I'll see if the bicycle's gone." Evey headed for the back door.
"Pssst!" Mother peeked around the kitchen door and whispered, "Rebecca's hiding in the bushes outside my bedroom. Give me all the car keys. I don't want Evey driving drunk. Oh, and the flashlight off the refrigerator." She took the things back to her bedroom.
I looked at the wall clock. Only 11:00. It seemed much later. It was going to be a long night. I stomped my foot in the empty room, the same kitchen where I’d stomped my little foot as a child, in the same house where I’d spent too many long nights with Evey. She used to threaten to kill herself. Now it was Rebecca. I didn't understand her animosity toward Rebecca, but when Evey talked about her family, it didn't sound like we were from the same family. It was strange and sad, but it was also getting old and unforgivable, a bad combination.
She dashed back in and started rummaging through the mess on top of the refrigerator.. "I swear I saw the flashlight up here today." She opened the refrigerator. "Shit! There's no more beer." She moved to the liquor cabinet and pulled the handle on the blue gray door. "It's locked," she said quietly. "After all these years, it's still locked." She began to bang the door with her fist. "I HATE IT HERE!” She whirled around and ran to Mother’s room, hurled open the door, smashed on the light, marched over to the bed, and held her hand out. "Hand it over."
"Hand what over?"
"Hand what over?" Evey mimicked in a sarcastic tone. "The key to the liquor cabinet.”
"You've had enough," Mother said. "Go to bed."
"Don't you tell me to go to bed. I'm 30 years old, and I go to bed when I damn well please. I take a drink when I please. I fuck when I please. I'm not your little girl anymore, and if you don't like it, you shouldn't have asked me to come home. Don't bother to ask me again because I won't come. I'd leave right now if I had any money."
Mother ripped the bedcovers off and stood up. "I'll write you a check. Get your things together."
"Where do you expect me to go in the middle of the night?"
"Away."
"When it comes to getting rid of me, you're only too willing to be helpful."
Mother looked at Evey and sighed.
"Now we get into the sighing routine. I like you better when you fight."
“I don't want to fight. Surly you can appreciate how difficult this past week has been for me?"
"Can you appreciate that it hasn't exactly been a picnic for me?" Evey banged her own chest with the outstretched fingers of both hands.
"Of course."
"Okay. I'll go to Waco and see Melody. I'll call her now." Evey sat down at the telephone.
Mother went to the kitchen. "I hope she leaves. I can't take much more. I thought for once I could count on Evey to behave."
I said, "I guess we all expect people to rise above themselves in an emergency, which isn't very logical because that's when they're under the most pressure."
"We're all under a strain, and the rest of us aren't getting hysterical," Mother said.
"Don't you think it was a little hysterical of Rebecca to hide in the bushes?"
"No. I'm not sure Evey isn't dangerous. Are you?"
"I guess not. I hid all the knives while she was in there with you."
Evey flounced in and announced, "Melody said I'm more than welcome, so you can make the arrangements Mother."

On the way to the bus station, Evey looked at the moon shining over Corpus Christi Bay, silhouetting palm trees, and said, “I hope this is the last I see of this cliché of a coastal town. It's not the place it used to be. This town and I were young together. The palms and St. Augustine grass were vibrant and green, the waves in the bay fresh and frisky, the sky as perfect as baby's skin. Now dead palm trees line boulevards and bay like decapitated war trophies. They say some of the trees will leaf out in the Spring. Then they'll know which ones to cut and which to save, but I think they should cut them all. And while they're at it, rip up the miles of parking lots without trees and the assassin malls that have killed downtown. Corpus hasn't grown up so much as it's grown deformed and faded. This winters hard freeze was nature's retribution. With it's tattered palm fronds and dishwater bay it’s exactly the kind of place you'd leave on a Greyhound bus in the middle of the night. It's good I'm getting out of here without hurting Rebecca. They'd lock me up so fast. No F. Lee Baily or Percy Foreman to defend me. I'd get the loony-bin or the clink.”
Evey had a knack for finding the weak spots in people and places. Corpus did look sad, but I felt like my head might burst if I had to listen to her much longer. I was ready to end our relationship unless Evey made some drastic changes, but this wasn't the time to talk about it.
The cashier wouldn’t accept the check.
"My Mother called here an hour ago and was told that you would."
"I'm the one who talked to her, and we do accept checks when the manager's here. But he's not here in the middle of the night."
"Since my Mother called in the middle of the night and wanted the night schedule to Waco, I'd say you qualify for the dumb-ass of the year award."
The cashier looked hurt.
"I don't want to go back to that house," said Evey, "but I don't know what else to do."
And I sure don't want to take you there, I thought, but back we went. Our street was dark except for the house of blue lights. I pulled the car into the garage. Before I'd turned the key off in the ignition, Evey was out and running. The back door slammed behind her.
I hastened after Evey to our parent's bedroom. Mother was sitting up in bed reading. Evey dropped the check onto the newspaper and flopped down on the empty side of the bed. "They wouldn't take the Goddamn check."
"The man on the phone said they would."
"But they won't if the manager isn't there to okay it, and the manager isn't there this late. I feel like a little kid who's tried to run away from home and had to come back because it started getting dark."
“I have an idea.” Said Mother. “You two wait for me in the kitchen."
In a few minutes, she appeared and placed a pile of dark blue packets on the table. “My coin collection. I don't know how much is here. Let's start counting."
I picked up a packet and opened it. Pennies. "Fifty-eight cents. You may not be able to go very far, Evey.” Everyone laughed.
"Write that down," Mother said.
Doris came from her bedroom with a piggy bank and poured the contents out.
Short pillars of coins multiplied across the table.
Mother said, "Let me add this up. Four plus ten...ummm...carry the five...we need 8 more dollars."
"Right here in the 50 cent collection."
"That's it then," said Mother, standing.
Evey surveyed the table. "I have to admit I like it. It's a good way to end things."

TO TOUCH AND BE TOUCHED

TO TOUCH AND BE TOUCHED

We were driving the unpaved route from San Ignacio to Laguna San Ignacio on the Pacific coast of Baja California. It was February, and the gray whales were already there. My husband, Gene, and I were on our way to see them up close and hoped to touch one. We had driven from Northern California, but they had traveled much further – about 5,000 miles from the Bering Sea.
I wish I could say we were bouncing off the washboard road, sharing a Corona, and singing zip-pe-dee-doo-da. Instead, we were singing the blues as the gas can on top of the car pounded the roof like a hammer, with every bump we hit. Gene knew it was scratching and denting the roof of our new car, and it upset him. Since it was a four-wheel drive, high clearance vehicle, I figured no one would ever see the damage. My lack of concern didn’t help matters. I don’t think men mellow with age as soon as women do.
Once in awhile, we left the main road for a parallel, hard-packed, sand track. The car and our nerves would stop rattling for a few minutes, until we had to return to the rougher way. This wasn’t an area where going slow allows you to appreciate the surrounding beauty. The date palms hadn’t ventured far from the oasis town of San Ignacio. A few miles further from town, even the cardon, yucca, and ocotillo gave up. The landscape was sand, salt, and sagebrush, with sand and salt having the upper hand. The salt made the surface dirty and crusty. It is a landscape that makes you want to rush rather than linger, but speed wasn’t an option. I almost wished we would run out of gas, so that we’d be glad we had that plastic can on top. This should be a happy day. We were almost to a destination we’d dreamed of for years, but my spirits were as low as the vegetation.
Forty miserable miles down the road, we arrived at the Laguna and Kuyima campground. I felt like I’d been traveling all day, but it was only noon. It was cold. The wind was fierce. We struggled to set up our tent. It would be nice to open our eyes in the morning to the sight of the water, and, perhaps, whales, but that was the direction the wind came from. We had to turn our backs on the view and face desolation. I know that ugliness, physical and emotional, doesn’t disappear just because you refuse to look at it, but concentrating on the negative doesn’t always help either.
We did manage to get our camp set up, although there was quite a bit of cursing and screaming involved. Then Carlos, the manager of Kuyima, came over and said the wind had died enough that boats were going out whale watching. Did we want to go?
At that point, we might have volunteered for a mission to Mars, just to get into a different space, a better mood. Whales were the focus of our trip. Of course, we wanted to go.
After putting on life vests, we walked down the small bluff to water’s edge. I saw three pangas – sturdy, open boats with outboard motors – pulled up to shore. There were five of us on each boat. We sped quickly out to the observation area near the mouth of the Laguna. All the captains cut their motors to idle. Whales surrounded us. Tall, white plumes blew up high in the air when they exhaled. The water was full of undulating forms as they arched their backs out of the water before diving, their flukes or tails going in last. They were so close to the surface, and to us, that we could easily see which ones were adults and which were calves. Julie, who was leading a study group, said the whales seem to be attracted to splashing, so everyone stuck a hand in the water and commenced splashing. A mother whale maneuvered her baby up close to another panga nearby. All the passengers on that boat managed to reach out and touch the calf. I was so moved, emotionally, that I felt like I had touched that baby whale.
Back on shore, we had a sunset appropriate to the day – dramatic fuchsia and flame. I pictured whales sticking their heads out of the water – spyhopping - to catch the color.
Wind came up again and buffeted the tent all night, causing the metal pulls at the end of the window and door zippers to click like tireless castanets. It didn’t matter. We were happy now.
We went out again the next day. In the air, flocks of black brants flashed their bright white rumps. In the water, there were six boats. I’m not sure if our captain was a loner by nature or if he was trying to maximize the possibility of a friendly gray approaching us, but he often motored away from the other boats. They aren’t supposed to pursue the whales. They’re supposed to let the whales come to them, but when you’re out there with those massive mammals – twenty to forty tons - you realize how difficult it must be for a creature as long as fifty feet to maneuver their bulk into position without capsizing the boat. A number of attempts by whales to get close enough to us failed. They don’t approach the boats for food. Adults won’t eat again until they are back in their feeding grounds in the far north, and calves are nursing. Apparently, they are motivated by curiosity and a desire for human contact, feelings they can indulge in these areas where man no longer hunts and kills them.
We’d been out almost two hours when a baby finally got up next to us. We all got to touch her. She was soft and smooth. I wonder what it felt like to the whale to be touched.

We walked up the road to a fish camp to buy a fresh catch to cook for dinner, but they didn’t have any. In Cabo San Lucas and Loreto, where the fishing is world famous, the same thing has happened to us, so I was prepared to cook something else. I tore up stale corn tortillas and threw them in with a can of chili, another of salsa, and some cheese. It was muy bien.
The drive out was so different from the drive in. It wasn’t the road or weather that had changed. We no longer had the gas container bouncing around on top. Carlos gave us a discount on our bill in return for the big red can full of fuel, but there was more to it than that. We had touched a whale, and that made all the difference.

Our second destination was Bahia Magdalena. This time the way was a two lane highway, paved and in good condition. We set up camp in San Carlos, the village on the bay at the end of the road. Gene found fresh seafood for sale at a little store. They had local clams, called chocolates because of the shell’s color, a bucket of shrimp, and fish. Gene bought fish and grilled it on our small, portable, gas barbecue. We didn’t know the proper name of the fish, but we called it delicioso.
We made an agreement with another couple, Gay and Rick, to share the cost of a boat. We met at 7:30 in the damp morning for the forty-five minute ride to the mouth, la boca, where the Pacific feeds into the bay. The water is deeper there, so we saw more breaching, the whales leaping all the way out into the air, coming down like huge cannonballs.
Gay and Rick have come here almost every year since 1985. It has become a pilgrimage for them. She has a photo of herself kissing a whale, another of her hugging one. They say they don’t recognize particular whales, but I wonder if the whales recognize them after so many return visits.
A whale came close to our boat. Gay started to tap the side of the panga with one knuckle. I started splashing. The whale took a dive and got us wet. Gay asks me, what’s with the splashing? I tell her about San Ignacio. She says these aren’t San Ignacio whales. I don’t splash again. She doesn’t get any hugs or kisses that day. She says every day is different, but I wonder if she blames me.

The most dramatic, up-close-and-personal whale watching is on the Pacific side, but we did see whales off shore from our camp near Aqua Verde on the Sea of Cortez. Agua Verde is a permanent fish camp, but when we ask a fisherman if we can buy fish from him, he says we must talk to his patron. By the time we found our ideal campsite, we were far from his patron, but we got fresh fish anyway. A frigate bird with a live catch in his beak flew toward the rocky shore by our camp. Three sea gulls harassed him and succeeded in getting him to drop his dinner on the rocks below. While the gulls bickered over the booty, Gene claimed it as his own. Again, we ate fish without a name. We called this one fantastico.

Ojo de Liebre, near Guerrero Negro, was our last whale watching spot. A hard packed sand road from the main highway to the laguna was fast and good. There was a visitor’s center with displays, restrooms, and a restaurant. They sell tickets there and try to get a full boat of ten passengers before they go out for an hour and a half. Just as the operations are different at each place, so are the whales. Here their favorite trick was spyhopping. Triangles of black rose out of the water like small skyscrapers. A man on our boat said, “There’s a whale standing up!” The whale was up so long that I wondered if he really was standing up. Everyone on the boat was ecstatic. One couple was there from West Virginia to see the spectacle. She said, “This is so worth the trip.”
A whale showed a special interest in us. I started to tap on the side of the boat. The captain chastised me. So here’s the deal – splash in San Ignacio, tap in Bahia Magdalena, and keep your hands to yourself in Ojo de Liebre. I’m not sure the whales care, but some of the humans are rather touchy.

ALMOST TO CABO

A lonely woman, with too much time on her hands. That's me after we move to the end of a dead end, dirt road in a rural area where we don't know a soul. There isn't much chance I'll soon have friends in the neighborhood. There is no neighborhood. The two houses closest to us are usually unoccupied because they're vacation cottages. Gene, my husband, leaves early on weekdays in our only car. He has a long commute to work and doesn't return until 6:00 PM. A little later our children, Rich and Fawn, leave for their long walk to catch the school bus. They have to walk even if it's raining, and it rains a lot. When they reach the series of pot holes and bumps that pass for a paved road, there's no safe sidewalk nor even a shoulder. The way is narrow. Part of it is steep, with a blind curve. I picture them wiping blood rather than water from their little faces. I worry. I feel guilty.
I know they'll tell their children this story some day. Their children will think that's the way it was in the olden days, but this is not the olden days. We are not pioneers. It's 1974 in Sonoma County, California, USA. I'm by myself in the redwoods because we don't have a second car or a first friend, and there's no public transportation. If I had a car, I could take the children to school. I could get a job. Then I wouldn't have too much time on my hands. I wouldn't be lonely. There are people who feel isolated in the midst of friends or family. That is not me. I am lonely when I'm alone. But relatives and friends are far away. Gene and the children aren't so distant, but they're gone most of my waking hours.
Cleaning our tiny home doesn't take long. It's a ten by forty-five foot trailer. One way I entertain myself is planning a driving trip from our Northern California location all the way down the Mexican peninsula of Baja California to land's end at Cabo San Lucas. We've made two short camping trips to the upper end, one on the Pacific side and the other on the side interchangeably called the Sea of Cortez or the Gulf of California. Those trips were the foreplay of travel in Baja - they made me want more.
I read, study maps, make mileage and time calculations. I take this factual material into my day dreams. I picture our camp set up under a small grove of palm trees on a cerulean lagoon. Islands float on the still surface. The sun shines. The water is warm. This isn't a fantasy beach. It's Bahia de la Concepcion. We can get there in our regular passenger car without traveling too far from the main highway. The paved road was only completed a year ago, in 1973. I want to go before the wildlife learns to stay away, before the fast food, motels, and moblitude arrive. If I'd been alive when the railroad to the west had just been completed, I would have made that trip. I'd have worried about Indian attacks, but I'd have been on that train - with a companion. It's not solitude I seek. I'm attracted to a geography in which nature remains dominant, but I live in a place like that now. Why do I want to leave?
Then we start building a house on our property and can't afford a trip. I learn to use a staple gun, hammer, and tape measure. I cut and lay linoleum and ceramic tiles, install insulation, paint, make curtains. Have another baby. Boy, can that put a trip on hold. But though my lonely days at loose ends are past, I save my books and maps and
scraps of notes on the Baja drive. I'm putting down roots in the redwoods and the community, but that doesn't keep me from wanting to travel.
When the baby, Gino, is two and a half, Rich sixteen, and Fawn fourteen, we finally make the Baja drive. When we're almost to Cabo, we make a detour to a friend's family place in the private enclave of Las Barracas. A hand drawn map shows that shortly after we cross an arroyo, we turn off the main road onto dirt and gravel. The map is good. We find Las Barracas. Our friend's house, which we have to ourselves, is as close to the ocean as it can get without falling in. There are no other tourists, no commercial facilities. Luckily, we have provisions. Unluckily, the plastic tube with a picture of a pig on it turns out to be pork lard rather than pork sausage. Gene, Rich, and Fawn paddle out in a small boat and dive for oysters. I dip the shucked oysters in seasoned cornmeal, fry them, and serve with wedges of juicy little limes. They are the best oysters we've ever had. We don't miss the sausage. We decide to skip going to Cabo, so we can stay a little longer in our hidden paradise.
It's raining when we leave, but we don't have any trouble on the dirt and gravel roads. Rich and Fawn cheer when we reach the main highway because, on the smoother surface, they can read and sleep. Gene and I are happy, too, because we've put the potential problems of a muddy road safely behind us.
Soon we come to where the highway crosses the arroyo. The road is flooded. This shouldn't come as such a surprise since arroyo is Spanish for creek, but it was perfectly dry when we came this way a few days earlier. Now a long line of vehicles back up on either side of the water. I wonder how long it'll take for this to drain, I ask aloud. Longer than we have says Gene. This is what can happen when a road follows the lay-of-the-land rather than being engineered. We have a thousand miles of lay-of-the-land before we cross the border to perfectly engineered freeways. I wonder how many flooded arroyos await us along those miles? How many bridges washed out? How many detours?
People are out of their cars, smoking Record cigarettes, talking, watching the water not recede. A ballsy truck driver on the other side pulls out of the line of parked vehicles and drives right into the mess. He makes it across. Gene says, if we try that the floors and part of the seats will get soaked. Rich says, I could duct tape the outside of the doors and climb back in through a window. So he seals us up and into the deep we go. I pray to the travel gods that this isn't a terrible mistake.
We emerge on the other side, dry as toast. The brakes still work. The crowd claps and cheers. We could sell a case of duct tape, but we don't have any more. Let's leave the tape on says Gene. Just in case. We make it to our first camp site without having to ford another body of water and make spectacles of ourselves climbing out the windows. We aren't bothered. Our family faced a challenge together, and we are stronger for it, just as the inadequate food provisions earlier gave us an opportunity to provide for ourselves. When there are problems at home, we aren't always on the same team. There are kids versus adults, males against females, and every man for himself. Everyone has escape routes - an office, a friends house, the forest. Those options don't exist on the road. A family driving trip doesn't just force us to be together, it helps us to be together.

Our second camp is at Bahia de la Concepcion. It's even more beautiful than I imagined. Tiny waves slide up and down the beach, barely breaking. The ultramarine water is so clear that we see pink and white murex shells resting on the bottom. At night the bay glows in the dark. In the morning a flock of pelicans fish for breakfast. They fold their wings and fall head first into the water. From the dry hills that rise behind the beach, doves call, coo-coo-roo-coo-coo. Rich and Fawn collect sand dollars and play in the water with their baby brother. I wish we had weeks instead of two days. The whole family agrees. Shared pleasures are as good as shared problems at strengthening bonds in a family, a couple, a group of friends, or between strangers.
Crossing the narrow peninsula from the Sea of Cortez to the Pacific side, we drive for an hour without seeing another vehicle. Fawn sleeps. Rich reads a science fiction novel. They aren't concerned with scenery,. but when ever we stop, they're interested and involved. They are destination oriented. Our children aren't wanderers like Gene and I. Gene isn't out here in the middle of nowhere just to please me. He and I are travel soul mates.
We make a short detour to Guerrero Negro, hoping to see whales. Our timing is right - early January - yet it seems unrealistic to think we can simply drive to the end of the town pier and whales will be there, but they are. Two adults and a calf stay on the waters surface. Four local men fish from the side of the pier. Their portable radio is turned way up. Instead of being frightened off by the music, I think the whales are attracted. The love song "Nosotros" must be their favorite because while it plays, they come as close as they can get. If the pier platform weren't so high above the water, I'm sure we could touch them. We'll return, I promise.
That night, our last in Baja, we stay at the Celito Lindo Motel near San Quintin. I know one reason I travel is to feed the craving of my senses for something new - a taste, a smell, a sight, sound, sensation. A budget traveler in the US rarely finds any of these in connection with their accommodations, but I'm always fascinated by the unexpected luxuries found at inexpensive lodgings in Mexico. At the Celito Lindo it's floors, showers, and counter tops of marble-like onyx and an excellent seafood restaurant. Rich and Fawn watch Gino while Gene and I go to dinner. Lobster is cheap, and they squeeze fresh limes for their Margaritas. After we return, Rich and Fawn walk over to the restaurant for their lobster dinner. They feel incredibly grown up. I wouldn't be surprised if they had a Margarita. They are too young to buy drinks at home, but Mexico is another country, with different laws. It's the first time they've gone out to dinner alone together. On this trip, each has seen new aspects of the other that they enjoy or respect. They have shared new experiences and landscapes. They are closer. Baja was worth waiting for, even if we didn't make it to Cabo.

Ten years pass before we return to Baja California. Those years are over more quickly than the first months I spent in the forest at the end of the road. I'm still there, in the woods, but I'm happy now, even when I have itchy feet. I learned during the sad slow time that I can plan a trip, and that will help keep my toes from twitching too terribly. But I'm not allowed to help plan this trip. Gene says to butt out, this is his and Harry's trip. He doesn't usually talk to me like that. I'm hurt. But it does seem fair for him to get a turn planning.
They design a manly camping trip to a remote beach midway down the peninsula. Harry, his wife, Anita, and two year old Gabrielle are in their four wheel drive Trooper, while Gene, Gino, his buddy Bryan, and me are in ours. We are the "Trooperadors."
We look like we're moving to Mexico or preparing to open a camping supply store. We have a tent, air mattresses, sleeping bags, table, chairs, Coleman stove, cooking and eating gear, food, clothes, two ice chests, enough water and packaged drinks for a week, wind surfer, surf board, boogie board, inflatable boat, crab trap, tackle box, fishing poles, pitch fork, collapsible bucket, a paddle ball game, snorkel gear, portable radio and tape deck, fireworks, camera, tripod, binoculars, tool box, books, sun shower, towels, and flashlights of all descriptions. Luckily, customs doesn't make us unpack when we cross the border at Tijuana.
We stay at the Celito Lindo, the same place we stayed before with all our children. The bathroom fixtures have corroded from the damp salt air, but the onyx hasn't deteriorated. This time it's Gino and Bryan baby-sitting while the adults go to dinner and then feeling grown up on their own later. The Margarita's are still dangerous and the food good. There are only three tables of diners and one man at the bar, but two different mariachi bands serenade us, fortunately not at the same time.
Our camping destination on the Sea of Cortez is Gonzaga Bay, at the end of two or three hours of dirt road, depending on the choice between two routes. We cut across, inland, a little south of Catavina on the two hour road. The way isn't frightening, but it's rough. We get a flat tire. Gene changes the flat, and we head down the rocky track again. There are no services until Gonzaga Bay, so I hope we don't have another flat. But we do. Since we had only one spare, now we have none. We're at Harry's mercy. He makes us promise never to vote Republican and lets us use his spare. After that, we have no spare tires between us. Gene beats himself up for not bringing more than one. I don't know how we could have brought anything more. Both cars are packed like puzzles. I'm not the only one worried now. We aren't exactly on a busy thoroughfare. How long would we wait for someone to come by and help us?
Our short caravan exchanges happy horn toots when the gulf comes into view, and soon we are there, without further mishap. We're able to buy a spare tire for $20.00.
Gonzaga Bay has a classic horseshoe shaped, white sand beach. Out in the blue water lies Willard Island. There's a backdrop of not so distant mountains. It takes thirty minutes to drive from one end to the other on a dirt back road. A small settlement is at either end with nothing in between but deserted beach. The guys decide to set up camp at Alphonsina's end of the cove. There are a few houses and trailers, mostly Americans, some with two seat planes in the driveway instead of cars, and Alphonsina's - four basic rooms for rent and a restaurant that has to be informed an hour ahead that you're coming to dinner and what you want to eat. The main item on their menu is shrimp which they get with their own shrimp boat that never needs to leave the bay.
Setting up is never the most pleasant part of a camping trip, especially if children are involved. They don't help as quickly, willingly, or long as needed, and quite a bit is needed for this unimproved site. There are no tables, barbecues, bathrooms, not even an outhouse.
Gene usually wants things done his way without having to play the tyrant, so he's patient with the boys. He's usually patient with me too, but not today. He snaps orders and criticisms. Ordinarily, I'd say something snappish back to him like, it's not my fault we had a flat tire. Oops, make that two. Or maybe I'd say, travel days are always hard; don't take it out on me. But I don't say anything because I know he doesn't love me right now. I don't want to make matters worse, and I wonder what made them bad to begin with. He hates my new short hair style, but he's not shallow enough to stop loving me over something like that, at least not permanently. If nothing else, my hair will grow out. But not on this trip.
It's unpleasantly windy and cooler than we expected. Gabrielle is fussy. Anita takes care of her, while Harry sets up camp alone. Then Harry tries to entertain Gabrielle while Anita prepares a dinner of garbonzo beans, dried mushrooms, and onions. Gene barbecues chicken for our family. He complains that I shouldn't have brought chicken quarters. He says they take too long to cook. We are all starving. Unfortunately, we're all hungry for barbecued chicken. Nobody is salivating for the garbonzo bean, dried mushrooms, and onion dish. We offer to share. Anita says no. Gabrielle starts to cry again. She begs for "bones." Harry gives her a chicken leg. Anita is hurt and furious that he's ignored her refusal, humiliated that her meal is not well received. At bedtime, the boys argue over the sleeping arrangements. We are not happy campers. A coyote howls in the desert behind us. He's answered by one on Willard Island. They sound as mournful as I feel. I want to howl with them.
The next morning, I wake to the beloved sound of surf, not wind. I climb out of the tent. I smell the warming earth, the salty sea, and the coffee Gene has already made. I pour myself a cup. Gene's down on the shore, setting up his wind surfer, back lit by a pagan purple and pink sunrise. A school of dolphins play in the bay, rising, diving, and rising again out of the water in a scallop design. Cormorants dive for fish, followed closely by a garbage patrol of seagulls. Gene looks up at me. Without thinking, without remembering that he doesn't want my attention, my love, or anything from me, I smile at him and at the wonder of the morning. He smiles back - the smile he's never learned to fake for the camera. His totally sincere, fabulous smile. He loves me again. He tells me he'd love me even if I had no hair, but maybe not on a two flat tire, setting up camp, travel day. I don't remind him that we weren't on the road when the unfriendliness began. I'm just glad it's over.
I like to think love warmed the weather and calmed the wind. Fanciful thoughts and far fetched dreams aren't out of place here. Words of Victor Hugo's come to me:
Anywhere one can dream is good
providing the place is obscure
and the horizon vast.

Gonzaga Bay is such a place in 1992. In the mountains behind us there isn't a single light at night. So far from electricity, the night sky is very black and the stars very white. Although we're less than a fifteen minute walk from Alphonsina's, a vehicle passes our camp only two or three times a day, pedestrians even less. The bay is equally quiet: one sailboat, one shrimp boat, one wind surfer - Gene. Five small fishing boats go out beyond the bay each day. John Steinbeck said in his 1940's Log From The Sea Of Cortez, "Trying to remember the Gulf is like trying to re-create a dream." Is it a place to dream, or is it a dream?
One morning, at low tide, we all pile into one car, with our pitch fork and bucket, and drive to the laguna behind Alphonsina's. We walk out onto the glistening sand to dig for clams, but we don't need the fork. As though we've waded into the Garden of Eden, we scoop up small clams with our hands. Even little Gabrielle can do it. Within twenty minutes we have enough for two meals. The clams taste like tiny miracles.
From our camp, we look across the bay to Willard Island. It's uninhabited, with a minor shipwreck at one end, a suitable reminder of why a beacon is installed at that end. We've never used our inflatable boat, and Harry and Anita haven't used theirs either. Willard Island beckons. We take turns at the foot pump, inflating the boats. Everyone is excited about the maiden voyage of our small fleet. Half way there, one of our plastic paddles snaps in half, and the part that isn't in Gene's hand sinks before we can save it. Harry rescues us again, this time with an extra paddle and earns the honorary title of "Baja Harry." It never occurred to us not to leave shore without an extra paddle, but fifteen minutes later, when the spare breaks, at least I'm swift enough to retrieve the paddle part before it sinks. What is this two time deal? First tires, now paddles. Gene's self respect is somewhat assuaged by the fact that he has not only brought duct tape, something we never travel without, but more important, he has it on the little yellow boat. He tapes the two paddle pieces together, and we complete the voyage in an hour and a half.
We snorkel around the rocky shore of the island, and explore on land too. One of the coyotes that we hear howling and yipping at night shows himself. After a picnic lunch, we launch the boats for "home." A pair of seals come close to check us out. Evidently, we're fairly interesting, because they stay with us for a good part of the return paddle.
Gene and the boys are in charge of fireworks each night but the first. It's hard to say which of them is the most excited. We all look forward to the display. We know we won't start a forest fire, destroy anyone's home, or get in trouble with the law. Our last night, right after our last bottle rocket blooms and sparkles over the bay, someone down the beach reciprocates with their own fireworks. It's a fine good-bye to a beautiful bay.
Our return route is along the Sea of Cortez beneath a sky blue as a flame. Clouds stand erect and proud, as if they feel their home is superior to the sea below. Vegetation is sparse, but the sea is often in sight, sometimes up close and intimate, other times a vista from a hill top. Three hours of dirt road brings us to the tacky little community of Puertocitos. From there to the border the road is paved. Mesquite, ocotillo, smoke trees, cholla and cardon cactus look friendlier than usual now, when they're in bloom.
We spend our last night in Baja in Mexicali, on the California and Mexico border, enjoying the luxuries of the cities best hotel, the Lucerno, as only those who have been camping can. A shower with endless hot water and a bed in the most humble establishment would be cause for celebration, but we also have a swimming pool with a waterfall and a fountain. We have room service. We have a sumptuous breakfast buffet. We have a big bill. We don't care, because we have no bill for our preceding five nights accommodations.

When the opportunity finally comes for me to go all the way to Cabo San Lucas, I hesitate. It has become a true tourist Mecca with the familiar fast-food outlets, hotels for all budgets, many golf courses, night clubs, and condominiums. Everything I hoped to avoid by rushing down the road before the asphalt cooled, has happened at the end of the road. Even Terry, who extends the invitation to stay at her family condo, declares Cabo "ruined." My eyes narrow. And I would want to go there because...? It's a very nice condo, and it's free she says. It's a mother and daughter trip, and it's free. All the mothers are your good friends, and it's free she says. So I go. It isn't free. There's airfare, car rental, meals out, Pina Coladas on the beach, Pacificos at the swim up bar. It all adds up, but it's worth every peso. It's not just the time with my daughter and all the other women. It's weather and water warm enough to make a bedtime dip a sensuous pleasure. It's tuna so fresh it still shimmers with yellow until it becomes part of a fish taco. We don't have this at home. This isn't home. Even the familiar feels fresh in new surroundings. Fawn and I play cribbage at the Hotel Cabo San Lucas beach bar. There are no other commercial establishments in sight. We face the ocean. Even in Cabo, the horizon is endless, when you look out to sea.
I tell Terry that Cabo isn't ruined. It's just changed. I've changed too. I've traveled a zillion miles of unpaved road, been in wild and remote places, but I've discovered I also love some big cities and resorts. I'm a bit wanton in my desires, as those in the throes of lust are wont to be.
That lonely woman with too much time on her hands also had an undiagnosed case of wanderlust. That busy woman with friends and family near at hand has it still. A map. A road. An unseen beach. I turn my back on a place I love to wander the world. But I return to the end of the road less paved where the dream of Cabo first began.

This essay first appeared in COLORADO REVIEW, Summer 2002