Porpita porpita, Portuguese Man o' War and Violet Snails

Nothing wakes me faster than the sound of no sound. It is the sound of no air conditioning, a silence that screams "get out of bed and turn the AC off before a power surge hits." Which is what I do. Then I do a systems check around the trailer - modem, direct tv receiver, laptop are all on. I switch on the fan. Nope. I look out at the ceiling fan on the porch - it's running at barely-turning speed. What we have here is a brown-out. It is only June 5th and a bad omen for what the summer will bring. I am relieved when I go outside and can barely see across the park because the air is so dense which means the brown-out occurred for a reason and not just because it felt like it.

Seems like a good time to go for a walk.

Areas of the beach are littered with clusters of Porpita porpitas known as blue button jellyfish (although not really jellyfish). I've never seen them here before. Oh, maybe one or two but nothing like this. Some of the Porpita porpitas are the size of centavos, smaller than a dime. This one was about the size of a nickel. The color is stunning, a dark cobalt blue.

Although the sting is not lethal - just mildly irritating - I resisted the urge to pick one up.

Biologists used to believe that Porpita porpitas were related to Portuguese Man of Wars but they're not. And, I've just learned, Portuguese Man o' Wars (or little blue fucks as I call them but maybe I'll stick with their other name - blue bottle) are not really jellyfish either but a siphonophore, a colonial organism, which is why biologists believed they were related to the blue buttons. Anyhow, I'd seen very few of these little blue...I mean blue bottles the past two summers but they're starting to show up, still in small numbers.

This one looks as though it's about to pop. And that's what the kids here do - stomp them and pop them, kind of like bubble wrap. It looks like it's filled with crystals, doesn't it?

Keeping with the blue theme, this is called a violet snail and it feeds upon Porpita porpitas and Portuguese Man o' Wars. Something else I'd not seen here before. (Check out this gorgeous website. My little point-and-shoot didn't do these shells justice.)

Flocks and flocks of cormorants are heading to the estuary.

Sadly, this one can only watch from the beach.

Stolen Sand Chair

It only took five minutes - the time it took for me to go to the trailer and make a gin and tonic - for someone to steal my beach chair.

On Sunday (Mother's Day in the U.S.) the biggest Mother of all mothers - Mother Nature - switched on the summer heat. Fortunately it was a dry desert heat and not humid sea heat so it was kind of nice, especially sitting at the water's edge in the sand chair, the water lapping at my feet, a cold Negra Modelo in hand. No book, no camera - I just sat and watched the terns, pelicans and gulls dive for fish. The wings of the Ibises absolutely glimmered as they soared by.

A man with a chocolate-colored pit bull/boxer mix walked by. When the dog strained at the leash to come see me the man said in English that the dog only wanted to say "hi" and I commented on how beautiful it was. Then the man's wife/girlfriend joined him with another dog and I watched them play ball in the water.

Mother's Day. It was hot. I had no work to do. So I decided it was time for a gin and tonic. I left shells and the worm tubes I'd been collecting for a friend on the chair as a sign that the chair was occupied. I was gone five minutes at the most. Before I even noticed that the chair was missing the man with the dog yelled that someone had taken my chair. My first thought was why didn't you sic your dogs on him? I asked where the thief had gone and he said "On the other side of the wall."

I headed to the road that runs along the back side of the trailer park, the road behind my trailer. I'd heard from Flo that someone was squatting in the lot behind the white party house (she goes there daily to water two puppies). I saw where the chain link fence was down and stepped through, careful not to spill my g&t. It really stunk back there of shit - hopefully from the puppies and not the human. I walked around trash and plastic sandals and empty bottles of booze. There was an unfinished bodega - four walls but no windows or doors. As I got closer a man's head appeared in one of the windows.

When I'm pissed my Spanish improves. "Tienes mi silla?" To my surprise the man came out of the bodega and said "Si. Disculpe!" He said he was sorry, he was sorry, yes, he had my chair. He would go get it - it was on the roof. It was on the roof? Wouldn't you think that a homeless guy living in an unfinished storage room would be sitting on a newly-stolen chair? No. It was on the roof. What did he have up there? A sundeck? A beach umbrella? A tiki bar? He scrambled up on the roof and brought down my chair.

When I had the chair back I asked him if he was the thief who had stolen my beads and things and he said no, that he had a job in Punta Chueca diving for scallops. I said good because I didn't want to have to call the police.

When I came around the seawall with my chair, the couple with the dogs gave me big thumbs ups.

Sitting in my sand chair with my now lukewarm g&t I remembered that I'd bought that chair in Calle Doce for just a few pesos. Then I remembered I'd bought that chair because my other one had been stolen.

kitten photo bomb

No Mas Hora Feliz?

From 2010 a smaller happy hour group

A few years back - before all the scares about Mexico - our happy hour group here at the trailer park would number somewhere around thirty. People gathered in a circle by the seawall, or if it was too windy they'd set up between the first and second rows of RVs. Often there'd be two separate groups - the Canadians in one and the Californians in the other although the lines weren't that clearly drawn; the Canadians included New Mexicans and the Californians included Oregonians. But the two groups represented a sort of changing demographic where the California group were the older people who'd been coming to Islandia for years and the Canadian group represented the more recent arrivals. Then the Canadians left. Because Mexico was too dangerous. Because there were too many dogs. Because it was too noisy. Because it was too cold. Because of whatever. The Californians - the old-timers - they just got old (and beyond old if you get my drift).

Now, no matter the state- or country-hood or size of the group, happy hour happens every night at the patio table at S's place on the front row. If S isn't there for some reason, happy hour happens anyway (we don't need no stinkin' host). A couple summers back when I returned to Mexico after a month or so in Bisbee I was surprised to see that happy hour was in full swing with Islandia's three full-time residents. Senior Citizens and Happy Hours go hand-in-hand come hell, high water, humidity or hurricanes.

But a change is comin'. S may be moving out of the park to a place he's built a few blocks away. He has a buyer for his RV but the sale is contingent on whether he not he's going to like living in town, whether or not he'll be happy giving up his ocean view, and whether or not he'll be lonely at happy hour. He's got a couple buddies who I'm sure will go to his new place but will they go every night? Will the rest of us want to walk over with our snacks and beverages? If I need to refill my gin and tonic I won't be able to just wander back over to my trailer; I'll have to arrive at happy hour with all the fixings. And do I want to sit on someone's patio inside a walled compound and not be able to see the sea, to watch the sunset? Isn't that one of the reasons I'm here?

This summer will be much like my first summer here when there were so few people in the trailer park and I had no friends outside the park. I was pretty creative that summer. I spent a lot of time in the water. I read and drank beers under the palapas watching the pelicans and gulls do battle. It wasn't as hot that summer and I spent a lot of time walking the beach, taking photos. I'm kind of looking forward to my own private happy hours.

The current happy hour spot - soon to become a thing of the past?

Parade of Putas

Sometime this afternoon the owner returns and I will be officially released from my house-sitting duties. Even though I've been in the trailer for three weeks, I do go to the house twice each day to check on it - in the morning to raise the hurricane shades and water the plants, in the evening to lower the shades and turn on the lights. A couple days ago the cops were at the neighbor's house - someone broke into the storage shed - and that made me nervous and made me wonder if I shouldn't spend the nights at the house. But the neighbor's shed was broken into even though the house was occupied so I doubt if my presence would've been much of a deterrence. Besides, I'm pretty convinced that the break-in was done by friends of one of the many putas who frequented that house.

Man, you should've seen the parade of putas when the gringo first moved in for the winter months. I had no idea so many Ladies of the Night lived in this town. I wondered if some of them maybe didn't come all the way from Calle Doce. One of the women I'd seen many times before around town, skinny and tweaker-ish. Some of the women were very beautiful - especially one woman who seemed a little older than the rest with her hair done in a beautiful thick braid. She wore the prostitute uniform of skin-tight low-slung pants (all the better for showing off the Sonoran Belly), tight blouse with not a lot of cleavage, jean jacket, jewelry. Some of the women even brought their babies with them.

I know all this because to get the old gringo's attention the women (and one or two girls) had to walk past the windows of my house and then call his name at the gate of his house. One time the tweaker-ish one asked me where the gringo was and when I said I didn't know, she asked me for money.

Suddenly the parade stopped. I speculated that either the gringo's supply of little blue pills had run out or his funds had. But I did notice that as the trickle slowed, one woman would hang out across the road/alley and stare at the windows of the house I was staying in. The windows are reflective so it could've been that she was merely staring at her image in the windows. It felt more like she was scoping the place out. A year or two ago, after the gringo went north, there were a lot of break-ins along this stretch of beach. That doesn't seem coincidental.

Having that gringo as a neighbor is one of the things I will not miss. I will miss the kitchen counters and the speedy DSL. I'll miss the privacy and the view. Oops, time to walk over and water the plants, raise the shades on a whole new season...summer is coming to Kino.

Beach Cookies

After beachcombing this beach for five years I've gotten picky about the shells I gather. Pretty much the shells I like are the ones you see here - the potato chip or jingle shells, those little fan-like shells in the bottom left corner, and sand dollars. All of which are hard to come by which is one of the reasons I like them.

A couple years ago I was walking Popeye beach (down by the estuary) and a friend found one of those small keyhole sand dollars. I was so jealous. For days after I combed that beach looking for one with no luck. Then a few weeks ago I took some women to a beach which is good for beachglass and as soon as the words left my mouth - "we should go to sand dollar beach the next time you're here" - one of the women looked down and there was a keyhole sand dollar. Damn. At sand dollar beach we've found keyhole sand dollars but they're usually big. To me there's something special about these small ones, the size of a chocolate chip cookie. And a cookie is what the people here call them.

Yesterday I walked through town, to the now empty barrio, crawled through the barbed wire fence and up a hill to the restaurant Los Naufragos which, I discovered, is part of the private land that's been fenced off. I slid down the dune, careful to slide under the newly constructed barbed-wire fence that now runs along the beach.

On the beach I took a deep breath and told myself that my vision is too narrow. I need to relax, view the beach as a whole, and maybe one of those sand dollars would show up. I also gave myself a mighty good lecture about how I needed to get my life, my mood, my emotions back on track. I needed to get back the feeling I had when I first came to Kino. I'd been riding the wave of a glorious high-on-life feeling from the Home for the Bewildered. I remember those first days in Kino, sitting outside the trailer reading, listening to the water, endless hours walking on the beach. A summer hot but not as hot as the ones to follow. Then how my joy took a nose dive as snowbirds began arriving with their conservative and racist attitudes. How I spent years feeling as though I didn't fit in but I didn't know where to go. Tried Bisbee. It didn't work. Came back to Kino.

As interesting, quirky and wonderful as Kino can be, I began slipping into a familiarity breeds contempt state.  I felt stuck and stuck was not a feeling I ever wanted to feel again. But I was very, very broke and therefore stuck in Kino for a real reason. Yeah, I could visualize the life I wanted all I wanted but the bottom line is at the very least I needed money for gas and food to go off in search of that life and I didn't have that.

After my lecture I continued walking the beach, gathering jingle shells. On the return walk home I walked in the water, just at the edge of the surf. I was hot and sweaty and the cool water felt great on my bare feet, the sand smooth, washed clear of shells. And then there it was. Right in front of me, all alone, that keyhole sand dollar glistening white against the dark sand. I stood there and looked around. Then before I stooped to pick it up I looked out at the sea and said "thank you!" It was one of the creepiest things that's ever happened to me.

When I reached the muelle I ran into Tio, the old man who walks the beach gathering beer cans. I'd seen him in town when I started my walk and now here he was at the end. He had a treasure too: A canvas-covered mattress pad, kind of like the ones you see on bench seats or big lounge chairs. He had it folded in half, tied with a string, and carried it on his back. We stopped to admire each other's treasures. He pretended to take a bite of my sand dollar cookie. Tio was very excited about this new bed of his. I was excited to have this reminder that things come to us when we need them. And how small my needs are in comparison to others.

that was the week that was

What fun to wake up this morning and read the Facebook posts from last night. And to read the things I posted. Did I really write that? Ugh, too much prosecco. No wait. Is there such a thing as too much? Certainly not on a night like last night. Four years ago we breathed a huge sigh of relief but that was nothing compared to the deep breath I took last night. A Romney presidency would've been downright scary. McCain was Casper the Friendly Ghost in comparison to Romney's Freddie Kruger.

This morning I woke - or more appropriately I disentangled myself from election night hangover - to see my own private but very much public masturbator standing outside the gate trying to see me as I lay in bed. Last night I'd left all the roller shades up thinking that by the time I got home the masturbator wouldn't be around but now I remember seeing the glow of his cigarette outside the gate but I didn't care. So I went to bed with the shades up. The windows in this house are mirrored and impossible to see in during the day. However, I'd left the bedroom sliding glass door open about 18 inches. The masturbator was gazing into the gap trying to see my reflection in the wall of closet door mirrors. I got a pretty good look at him - average height and weight, baseball cap on backwards, white rubber boots. I've seen those boots at night. They seem to glow. Now I know the boots belong to him. I will be more diligent, have the camera ready. Strike a pose, asshole!

My emotions this week pretty much ran the gamut from joy and appreciation to anxiety and sadness.

A friend visited from Seattle - I've known her for decades - and we had a great week although I did worry she'd get bored. That didn't happen. All our nights were filled with dining and wining with my Kino women friends, our days pretty low key except for our kayak/stand-up paddle board excursion out in the estuary with seven other women - five in kayaks and four on paddle boards.

The week's sadness surrounded the eviction - which is way too nice a word for what happened - of the people from a number of barrios here. See my blog entry from November 4th for more details. And now I've learned that two good friends - my adopted son and my corazon - have to be out of their home in three weeks - a home they've lived in for years. Just writing that makes me feel like throwing up. I haven't been able to find much in the newspapers about this but there is this article which says that the Human Rights Commission is getting involved. I hope another barrio opens up for them, a place they can stay. Vanna will be available for moving services.

We were too exhausted after kayaking to go to the cemetery for the Day of the Dead festivities. My Seattle friend has a thing for cemeteries so we went the next day. All the gravesites were cleaned up, flowers and offerings everywhere. I thought this particular site was interesting because of the banners on the wall picturing the deceased.

When people visit their loved ones they bring food and drink, tequila or bacanora for the adults, Coca Cola for the kids, and often there is music. This family hired a group of musicians to serenade their dearly departed.

Of course the weather was perfect the entire week.

And now with my prosecco hangover I'm off to kayak the estuary with friends. This time I'm taking a camera. Hopefully the white pelicans will still be there.

Some good things happened last night. Let the celebration continue!

As picky as a nit

The air was warm and rancid, like raccoon breath infused with the aroma of just-eaten sardines.

Okay, so that's just ridiculous. What do I know what raccoon breath smells like? And do raccoons even eat sardines? Wouldn't it have been better to leave that sentence at "warm and rancid" or to have written something like "The air was warm and rancid-smelling from the mounds of seaweed washed ashore, the gnats and sandflies feasting on the microscopic creatures tapped inside"?

Certainly a writer uses too many similes if they get in the way of the story. Not too far into Feast Day of Fools by James Lee Burke I found myself groaning over another simile, rolling my eyes, wondering how in the hell he comes up with these things. This is Burke's twentieth or so book - are they all like this, nearly every paragraph containing a "like" or an "as though"? Has he ever re-used a simile? Does he spend hours with a notebook and pen, looking at a cloud and thinking "how many ways can I describe that?"

The dialogue in this book made me cringe. Everyone from major lowlifes to "beaners" to the sheriff are all great philosophers, especially as they stand provoking the guy with the rifle pointed between their eyes. The bad guys were so similar I couldn't keep them straight. The story was too convoluted. And, seriously, as we near the end of the book with the big shoot-out/rescue scene, lose the backstory. I don't care about your thoughts about Nam as you prepare to face the baddest of the bad guys. I skimmed those paragraphs. BTW, Burke used "palpable" twice but at least they were three hundred pages apart.

In spite of all this I may buy the previous book in the series where we get introduced to Sheriff Hack and his wide-assed deputy Pam. I liked them. To me their characters were as intriguing as a box of Sees candies.

----

So on this particular day the air stunk. It was a couple days after the surf had been kicked up a little bit by that non-hurricane Pablo and the beach was covered with mounds of seaweed, as though hastily crocheted afghans had been tossed from above. On the day after the mini-storm the beach had pretty much been wiped clean but, in my experience, it's two days later that's good for shelling so I headed down to "jingle shell" beach.

Lately I've had a difficult time leaving the house. After four months of staying indoors, avoiding the heat and humidity, I'm out of the habit of walking. I'm out of the habit of doing anything outdoors. Whenever I open the sliding glass doors I expect to be met with a slap of hot wet air. But, no, the air is fresh and light and so I'm reestablishing old walking habits.

Jingle shell beach did not disappoint. After a few years of shell gathering I have the luxury of only picking up the perfect shells. These are jingle shells from just three beach excursions, along with a sand dollar and those wonderful fan-like shells that are so rare here.

Hopefully with this walking I'll lose my summer coat. I'll refurbish my winter tan. People who live in deserts do things backwards - out in the winter, holed up in the summer. My joy at winter days spent scouring the beach is nearly palpable.

The Non-Hurricane

This is how it looked last night. Gray. Gray sky. Gray sea.

In the middle of the night I closed the bedroom windows because the surf was so loud.

Smart of this boat to head to the shelter of the bay. I wonder where the shrimp trawlers went.

Looked up from the computer and saw this gathering of cormorants.

And way out near San Nicolas white caps on a line for the estuary.

Picture perfect morning.

Two Different Skies Bahia Kino October 15

The view southeast, toward town...

...and at the same time, the view northwest. Marching Man stops to ponder the sunset...

...then continues on.

He stops again at a truck waiting to bring a panga ashore.

Blue sky breaks through over Isla Alcatraz.

Just after the sun goes down behind Tiburon a truck launches a panga.

The fishermen head toward town.

The sky changing colors with their change in direction.

Hot Dog Days of Summer

The terns are going crazy this morning, diving and screeching. Large schools of little fish are just a few feet from shore. You can see the gray outline just below the surface - a movable feast. The sound of the surf is rhythmic except for an occasional flap, like a snapped towel. The dog next door barks at the old SUV that's just launched a boat from the beach, beach launching a necessity because the tip of the boat ramp at Islandia broke off and then most of the ramp crumbled away.

I can hear these sounds because I have the doors open. Day three without air conditioning. The end of summer came a week early.

Of all the summers to have been in a house and out of the trailer, this was the perfect one. I'd like to give the universe a big shout-out for conspiring on this. It's not that the trailer doesn't cool down in the summer. Oh no, that AC keeps the inside of the trailer muy frio - enough for a sweater during the day and a comforter at night. It's being closed-up that's the problem. The humidity makes it impossible to keep doors or windows open so there I would sit in that aluminum trailer - Canned Annette. I craved a house, room in which to move around. Certainly summers in Kino would be more tolerable if I had a home.

So the universe gave me a home and the home is nice, I'm not complaining, but the summer was still hot and still I stayed indoors. The nights do not cool down here. There's no refreshing early-morning breeze from the sea. I stayed indoors with the sliding glass doors pulled closed, the roller shades in the bedroom pulled down, and I spent nearly four months in bed reading. At least when I think about the summer that's what I remember. That and those unusual thunder storms.

Summer hibernation. The opposite of what you all up north experience in the winter. Except in the winter you have warm malls to explore, warm movie theaters, warm restaurants. In Kino there are very few options for escaping the heat.

But enough of that. This kind of weather, this is what the snowbirds come to Kino for. Cool mornings, afternoon breezes. Mosquitoes gone. This house is a perfect happy hour house with that long patio and abundance of chairs. Around eight o'clock Saturday evening, after an impromptu happy hours(s) gathering, we decided to go for hot dogs. If you've not experienced a Sonoran hot dog, you're really missing something. I like mine with doble weenies.

We walked the five blocks or so to the hot dog stand, stood around the cart eating our doble weenies, then made our way home, past the local drunks. As we passed what used to be one of the puta bars one of the guys in the group standing there said "Hola Marie Antonietta." I said hola and we exchanged como estas? Ah, one of my friends from the puta bar. We walked by our ex-security guard who was sitting on a step drinking beer with another guy. The security guard finally got fired after three trailer break-ins and one fisticuffs with a gringo resident who accused the security guard of doing the break-ins which is a pretty safe bet.

Unfortunately that dog woke me in the middle of the night but it was worth it. As my friends know, I'm pretty bored with the food here but not with these babies. Fortunately the hot dog stands don't come out until late at night so I probably only have a couple of them a year. A summer of in-bed reading topped off with hot dogs...I'd be about the size of Gilbert Grape's mom.

Time to end this rambling. My friends will be here any minute to walk the beach. We're heading into town this time because the beach is flatter and a little wider in that direction. We're going to have to dodge boats and dead fish so it may slow us down a bit on our quest to shed those hibernating hot dog pounds.

Adios Septiembre

September brought large and small pleasures. In the large pleasure camp was getting back my eyesight. I tell you, that drive from Kino to Tucson was downright scary. I couldn't see a thing. My friend who rode along is one brave woman. When we were in Tucson I'd say things like "Tell me when we're nearing Target because I can't see." The ophthalmologist confirmed the diagnosis of an opacity, a cloudiness between my eyes and the cataract lenses implanted four years ago. The office lady kindly squeezed me in the following day for a laser procedure and even gave me a little bit of a discount because I have no insurance.

Oh the miracle of sight! I stand looking out at the sea, across the bay to Shipwreck beach. Most of the boat's been salvaged but I can see its hull, a dark blob contrasted against sandy white. People are born with eyesight like this? Since I was eight years old I've had to deal with glasses or contacts or when too vain to wear glasses accepted the blurry shapes of things and people. Now I can see. This clarity amazes me.

Other September pleasures: Using a friend's kayak so I could follow her out into the bay and bear witness to her headstand on a paddle board. Dinners with women friends which included much laughter, wine, dips in the pool, sweating, swatting at mosquitoes. One evening we watched the sliver of a new moon just after sunset as it lingered above Isla Alcatraz and then muy rapido it dropped into the Sea of Cortez. It had the shape and speed of a boomerang; I expected it to circle back.

The local fishermen got a week's jump on shrimping before the trawlers began moving in.

At last count there were twenty of the big guys; last year I counted over thirty. The good news: cheap shrimp. The bad: dead stuff. On yesterday's walk we saw these freshly dead creatures: sea turtle (gone today, someone must've wanted the shell), pelican, tern, cormorant, and a couple other birds.

In September we had storms but no hurricanes or tropical depressions (unless you count the few tropical depressions I suffered). We had an invasion of crickets and mosquitoes. Dead-looking bougainvillea suddenly leafed out and bloomed. Weekends quieted down as kids returned to school. And we had some intense sunsets. Just a few weeks ago the sun set so far north that Tiburon blocked our view. Now it inches its way closer to Alcatraz.

Summers in Kino are miserable. Those of us gringos who are here full time hunker down and hibernate, counting off the days until the weather cools (usually around the second week in October). Then suddenly December is here. We sit in the bar at Casablanca under the propane heaters, freezing our asses off, longing for those hot muggy days.

Crazy for the Storm

It's been a couple weeks since I posted a blog entry - got a few in the queue, waiting to be typed - but writing was put on hold while I had my eyes fixed and then lost myself in Chelsea Cain's Archie and Gretchen books. Talk about a reading hangover. Read three of the books in Chelsea's series and had to force myself to stop; there are only two left. I'm going to need to stretch them out and maybe reread these because I read them so fast and so late at night that my recollection of details is kind of flimsy.

It rained here in Kino. That's the big news. I posted these pics and observations on facebook. This is for my blog friends.

It rained here. In the five years that I've lived in Kino, up until this summer it had only rained twice. One time a real gully-washer in early February just after I'd returned from the Alamos music festival. The other last Thanksgiving. Outside of those storms we'd watch the clouds chug up from Calle Doce only to stall at the invisible shield formed by the Sea of Cortez and the bay of Kino. Some drops would escape. We'd laugh and say "It rained. Twelve drops." We could count them, they were so few and far between.

A friend who grew up here said when he was a kid they would have rain days. When it rained, they got to stay home from school. In those days there were no paved streets. I could see how it would be impossible to get from one place to another, traversing flooded streets, sneakers stuck in muck. Kids probably had to help mom swab out the flooded mess of their homes.

This year the monsoons have been strong enough to break through that shield. Most of them have hit in the middle of the night. A roll of thunder would wake me. Then kaboom! Lightning would strike, thunder would roar and - excuse me for this - all hell would break loose! The storm that hit yesterday struck mid morning. The sea was flat, the skies blue. I wondered if my friend was out on her stand-up paddle board. The man who owns the hotel who planted trees along my wall was out in the water for his daily swim. He's a big man with bowed legs. He's been swimming for exercise and making great progress. I sat at the computer doing a typing job - a police internal affairs investigation which is one of my favorites. I took a break and looked out at the sea. It had turned green. I ran for my camera.

The hotel owner was out in the water. Way out there. He swims attached to a float. I watched his round head and the round float bounce in the waves as he tried to make his way back to shore. The waves were carrying him to New Kino. I watched and waited. Would I have to call the police? I couldn't do that. The electricity went out and my cell phone was out of minutes (or at least I think that's what the nice lady was saying in Spanish when I tried to dial out). The wind kicked up. I had to turn my back against the wall of sand. Finally the hotel man made it to shore. He walked over to me as I said things like "Oh my God, are you okay? That was dangerous. You could've ended up in New Kino!" all in some fractured spanglish. He knew what I was saying and thanked me profusely for worrying about him. I figured it's good to be on his good side. That way he won't suspect me when his trees disappear.

The electricity was still out so I decided to walk over to my trailer. This is Guaymas Street...now Rio Guaymas.

The trailer park was a flooded muddy mess. It looked like it did after the sea surge from Hurricane Henriette in 2007 (I think).

All day the electricity came and went. I was bored. I wanted to read another Chelsea Cain but I held back, pulling out some murder mystery I'd bought up in Tucson last week. I did some sudoku. The doors were open. It wasn't suppressingly muggy.

That night the sun outlined the clouds, the sea flattened and the dragonflies arrived.