Connections to good times/friends

Camp Connell, CA - Labor Day Weekend -- The photo which tops this blog really requires little arrows pointing in various directions, because each element of the picture has a story to tell about friendship, travel, adventure and maybe even aging well in good company.
Since I do not have the computer hardware to make the arrows go where I want, I'll try to do this simply in text so all my relatives can understand...
(That didn't sound right, but you can ask questions later in the comments section. Be sure and state exactly how we are related before asking anything serious.)

First, the location is the front deck of our home in the Sierra Nevada mountains, about 100 miles due east of San Francisco and 4,980 feet up Ebbetts Pass Highway.

Second, the time was Sunday morning, after everyone woke up after an evening of music and food, and a little wine, got cleaned up, and all were ready to smile.

Here comes the complicated part: how six different people came to be know each other.

From left to right, that's me with the umbrella growing out of my head. I would normally be wearing shorts and a T-shirt from Mexico, but I've worn most of them out hauling firewood so the shirt is a "Stomping Grayzies" team shirt from the annual Grape Stomp Festival in the gold-and-tourist-mining town of Murphys. My grand-daughter and son-in-law made up a team and I was a cheerleader. Symbolic of a slight shift in life style, don't you think?
Next is my beautiful spousal unit Pat, wearing normal clothes and a smile, and including a red flannel shirt to keep warm as it is beginning to feel like Fall in the early mornings.
Third in line is Dan Olson, sailor and retired state bigwig, from San Diego Sacramento El Dorado Hills in the past and this year from Cartagena Columbia. Dan stood in back because he is very tall. His wife Lorraine, dressed like a normal person, is probably the quietest of this group, which is a reflection of her high tolerance level. Maybe she is just being polite.
Dan is wearing a bright green T-shirt that says "Sabbatical" on it, even though his boats are named Zephyr and Zephrus. Sabbatical was a big sailboat owned by the couple on the far right (photographically, not politically) who have since swallowed the hook (translation: sold the boat) and moved to Mexico (more on that later, it gets too confusing).
Pat and I met Dan and Lorraine in San Diego almost ten years ago on a dock, and they were present the day we took ownership of our sailboat Good News. They showed up on a New Years Eve with champagne and a suggestion for the boat's name, which stuck. We since have been with them in places ranging from the Oakland Estuary to the backwaters of Tenacatita Bay in Mexico. Dan even hauled me up my 50 foot mast in a bosun's chair, once so you know I trust him.
Their current home is on a small sailboat in Alameda, near our boat Good News, and their normal home is a larger sailboat waiting for them in Columbia where they plan to continue their cruising the Western Hemisphere lifestyle in October. We may see them next in Belize, or maybe the Caribbean. Probably Oakland.
Next in line is Prof. Sylvia Fox, who with husband Michael Fitzgerald, also a professor, have been entangled with Olsons and LaMonts for years in various ways.
Michael is wearing a Tenacatita Bay Regatta T-shirt from several years back, the year he helped win the big race. Or came close. Or something like that.
Other than playing the fiddle, teaching journalism, marrying Michael, living aboard a sailboat, having a home on Seneca Lake in New York and the other in a small Mexican village with no other gringo residents, Sylvia's pretty normal. She is the brains behind a lot of the mischief these six people cook up, and almost all the fun.
Michael is part sailor part journalist, part politician and part musician. His current instrument is the ukulele, and his current residence in a shared home in Sacramento near the University where they both teach the Fall semesters. He shares those other homes in Mexico and New York, and may be planning to have a few more before he and Sylvia decide which continent is best. Don't be fooled by the smile and the happy uke songs, Michael is also a sharp critic of foolish politicians everywhere, and particularly anti-union forces in California. (We met through journalism, but got over it.)
Together Michael and Sylvia have begun to bring positive change to their village by providing a veterinarian to help the residents. More important, probably, is the bridges of friendship they have forged with Mexican neighbors and friends, and helping their animals get healthy, and providing free English language lessons for the village children. No guessing what they will do next, but it will be interesting.
It's hard to believe that we only go back a decade. We've shared interests in government, newspapers, politics, the web, sailing, Mexico, music, wine, and each other's families for long enough to feel thoroughly connected. We've lived together in shared homes a few times, even shared a great old dog once, and watched the children and grandchildren grow and mature.
We enjoy music together and I am pretty sure that our band "The Four Headlamps" has now become the "Six Headlamps" since we added Dan on a noisy apple-shaker and Lorraine played sticks this weekend. Someone suggested the "Dim Bulbs" would be a better name, but that did not carry the vote. Check out the band on one of Michael's blogs: http://thefourheadlamps.blogspot.com/

I'm sure we six would never agree on everything, but then again, we wouldn't care about that. Friendship does not require agreement.

None of these folks will ever starve so long as I have a can of beans in my cupboard.

They're on my friends "list" even without Facebook.

Even without arrows drawn on the picture, we are all connected.

Mexico photo album

Best-looking toilet I've ever seen - at Mario's....


The bed's a bit firm, but looks great...





Pat's on the front porch, actually a palapa....


Sanders at El Gerasil having morning coffee and a bun... by the jardin...


LaManzanilla, a fishing village still. Looking north along Tenacatita Bay...


Two men fishing at sunset in a tiny boat off LaManzanilla...


The cathedral at Cihuatlan, just south of where we stayed...


Sanders and Michael beach-walking near Arroyo Seco.....


Where the river meets the bay at La Manzanilla...


Tourists meet the vendors at Tenacatita Beach....

Beach Time

Tenacatita's bay beach along the north shore of Tenacatita Bay draw people year round for food, swimming, and family fun.

Tenacatita, Jalisco, Mexico -- The current population of this village adds up to no more than a few hundred people at most, probably less. The majority of residents are Mexican, with a few people from the U.S. and Canada who found this out-of-the-way place over years and keep coming back every winter. Most of those stay in the one small hotel, or in their own RV or trailer near the beaches. One man we met has been coming here for twenty years.
There are no subdivisions, and no downtown. The village -- if it deserves that title -- straddles a point of rocky land on the north end of Tenacatita Bay, with spectacular sandy beaches on each side.

To the south of the point, sweeping inland to the east, are the bay beaches lined with a dozen or so restaurants. One hotel, two stories tall with a swimming pool, sits back from the beach a block surrounded by palmetto scrub, palm trees and the edge of the mangrove swamp and lagoon. For about $25 you can take a "jungle ride" along backside of the beaches through the mangrove. It's a popular deal for birdwatchers and those looking for crocodiles.
The restaurants are the type found all along the Pacific Coast in smaller towns: a large shaded area covered by palm fronds supported on posts; umbrellas and chairs down to the edge of the water; a utilitarian half-building made of concrete that houses a kitchen, bathrooms and maybe a shower stall or two. Most of the restaurants are illegal, in the U.S. sense, in that the owners do not own the land. They just use it till someone comes along and complains. That's an accepted practice here, and some of these places have been here for years.
In Mexico, possession may actually be nine points of the law.


Where Tenacatita Bay meets the Pacific Ocean

The point where bay and ocean meet rises into the air in a series of short steep hills, decorated with giants rocks where ocean and bay meet, left behind by some long-forgotten volcano and eroded into sharp and beautiful shapes. The swells from the Northwest crash against the ocean side, rocks and beach, sending giant spumes of water and mist into the air. It's easy to get wet standing 50 yards in from the water's edge when the surf is high. It almost always is.
To the north is one of the last great unpopulated beaches in Mexico, sweeping in a long curve, an old plantation of coconut palms marching in a line behind the dunes.
As of last week there are two small houses on the beachside in the first several miles , and those are occupied for less than half the year. Maybe two or three more old places are abandoned and falling down.


Pat taking a siesta at Mario's place, the only new building on the ocean beach.

When we walked on the beach on a Sunday afternoon we did not encounter another walker, though two teenagers on their four-wheelers did ride by on they way into "town."

What we did see as we stepped onto the beach for a walk was a massive whale, coming completely out of the water, turning on its side, and crashing into the sea. he was about a half-mile offshore, and while we could see his spout and some foam on the water, he never did repeat his showy entrance. I was too excited to take pictures.

The beach was noisy thanks to hundreds of seabirds feasting on schools of fish just beyond the crashing surf.

A sign of the future is barbed wire fencing. In one year, virtually every lot along this stretch of beach is marked off by barbed wire boundaries, and an occasional "se vende" or "for sale" sign stuck in the sand.

Bulldozers are carving roads out of the sand, knocking down trees from the old coconut plantation. Speculators are moving in, though so far no one has proposed a condo. There is a rumor, though, that a rich landowner plans to build several homes for millionaires on the rocky point which divides bay and ocean. Right now, battered and dusty campers and RVs are the primary and temporary residents. One Berkeley escapee has her vacation home for sale on the hill. No power. No water. No septic or sewer. But a great view.


North of Tenacatita Bay on the ocean, near Arroyo Seco, reachable only by dirt roads...

Adios snow, hola Mexico

Camp Connell, Ca.-- I know that some of my friends and family will be suspicious that we are leaving for the warm beaches in Mexico because still another massive storm packing three feet of new snow (on top of the five still on the roof) and winds expected to top 60 mph on the mountain ridges is due to hit tonight and tomorrow.

Au contraire, my friends. We simply committed to visit our friends Michael and Sylvia (aka the Captain and the the Admiral) at their new home on Tenacatita Bay months ago. It's all in the name of friendship. Cold beer, warm sandy beaches and casual clothing requirements have nothing to do with it. It's a matter of cementing long-standing friendships.

It has nothing to do with the fact a lean and hungry-looking coyote wandered through our yard, cutting across the horseshoe pit, looking for a rabbit snack yesterday.

It also has nothing to do with the fact that when I went skiing Thursday the wind and snow basically blew me off the mountain. I had decided to call it a day early after hanging an edge and tumbling dramatically down the slope on the backside of Mount Reba ("Are you okay mister?" asked the smart-ass kid on the snowboard). My ankle, wrist and knee (all broken or torn in earlier decades) were slightly tweaked. After I spit the snow out of my mouth I decided to head home a bit early. All my basic parts seem intact. But I need some beach time.

My ski timing was almost good. The resort shut down the ski lift I was waiting for -- get back on the horse for one last run -- because the wind was too high to operate safely.

Pride intact, I headed down the hill to hearth and home. Hot tea with a tad of bourbon, and Girl Scout cookies (Shortbreads), make a perfect apre' ski treat.

So, for the next few weeks there will be no more shoveling snow off the roof. If it collapses, so be it, I won't be here to witness the event.

I fully expect Spring to be in full blast when I get back. Well, at least I am hopeful some snow will be melting and running into the seasonal creek instead of into my basement.

Then maybe we can get back to work on the garage we thought we would have built before the snow came.
I've already planted seeds for Sequouia trees that should live several centuries longer than me. And my daughter and family are currently staking out their garden plots at a lower elevation, where they promise we can grow a tomato or two.

But first, a Cuba Libre at Palapa Joe's in La Manzanilla with my buddy Michael, and perhaps a little sailing on the Bay.

See ya.

Paradise, not yet lost

LaManzanilla, Jalisco, Mexico -- I woke up this morning to the sounds of people walking by on the main street below my second-story window, a gentle breeze floating in, and the subtle thump of the surf. I could hear pleasant early-morning subdued voices of a few early risers, and once in a while a family walking toward the church up the street. It was a happy contrast to the noisy bar patrons laughing and talking loudly that prevailed when we finally put the light late Saturday night. They were happy too, but I was sleepy.
This town has about 2,000 residents, mostly Mexican and a few norteamericanos who have settled here for the peace and quiet and lovely beaches and warm weather.
Peace and quiet is a relative thing, as the bar patron on the loud motorcycle reminded us late last night. With all the windows open all the time, whatever is going on outside is what you hear. But with few exceptions, it is peaceful and quiet.
And peace and quite may be a vanishing commodity. A lot of folks think this little bit of Pacific Coast is in the verge of a land rush that will make Oklahoma's look comparatively mild. Think of Miami before the railroad came. Think Sanibel Island before the causeway, and before condos were invented on Florida beaches.
The rules, laws and attitudes are changing fast here. The land cooperatives which actually own a lot of the land, including miles of prime beach front property, have recently been allowed to claim clear title, and thus the right to sell off land that the rich of several countries lust for. The government is encouraging this economic development, and people who previously have owned very little and lived at subsistence level find themselves in line for a sudden influx of big cash.
I'd like to think this might turn out well, but I suspect that in 20 or 30 years this place will start to look like Purto Vallarta, or worse, Miami. Maybe, maybe not. But in one case we know of the lot prices jumped from $40,000 for oceanfront to a package deal requiring more like $110,000 almost overnight, the result of a land speculator coming through making offers left and right. Our landlord here expects the prices to be over $200,000 quickly, and feels the sky is the limit.
But I like the idea of being able to walk down the street at 10 p.m. and feel secure, the idea that the surf is the loudest noise you can hear on the beach side and that everybody can get to the water anytime anywhere they want. I like the street-side taco stands and the frail old man in a hammock who lives in a room across the street who did his best to help me find coffee filters early in the morning. I like the idea that when I am in most streetside cafes there are more Mexican families than tourists. Even most of the tourists are Mexican, having a good time, genial and tolerant of their sometimes bad-mannered American and Canadian neighbors.
I like fact that merchants and residents spray water on the street twice a day to keep the dust down, and it works quite well. And you might see a burro being ridden on the edge of town.
You'll know the end is near, a friend told me, when they decide to pave Main Street. It may be cobblestone, or concrete. But surely a traffic light will follow. And condos.
I know I am whining, and there must be room for all these fertile people on the planet and the rich always get first call on everything.
But I also remember that Pogo was right: we have seen the enemy, and he is us.