Bay Life

What’s all that racket? I close the laptop and get up to look. Are the anchorage neighbors working on boat projects again?

Thump. Thump. Thump. The sound reverberates through the hull. I open a hatch and peer out. To the south a whale slaps her giant fin on the surface of the bay. Then her compatriot splashes her amazing tail. Then another spouts and arcs back below. My anchorage neighbors are playing and eating.

Bahía Banderas reminds me of the Santa Monica Bay of my youth: the way towns and cities line the water’s edge; the surrounding mountains; the cool rain and cloudy blue sky; the friendly vibe. There’s even a PCH, a highway that mimics the curve of the bay. But I didn’t see whales in that body of water until I returned as an adult to Hermosa Beach. There had been a concerted effort to heal that bay, and now all sorts of wildlife call it home again.

Now in México, I am making a concerted effort to heal my own sensitive self, which means regulating stimulation, not easy to do on a constantly moving vessel. My calves cramp from bracing against the swell. Solution? Stop fighting the motion and dance through the cabin. Or skate, as the mood strikes you. I, too, am a constantly moving vessel. Can we synchronize?

Boat life is slow life. You can’t just leap in the car and zip to the grocery store. No. Provisioning is by kayak, foot, and bus. The payoff is whales and turtles for neighbors. But it takes an attitude adjustment that I’m still working on in Year Two of Habibi. I have running water, but the tanks need filling every five or six weeks; cooking propane lasts about two months. Electricity comes from sun, wind, and the weekly running of the diesel engine. I don’t go ashore often, mainly when I run out of food or want a hot shower. Sea legs don’t work well on land; I must concentrate to deal with gravity again. Rolling hills, indeed.

But I may be spending more time on land in the near future — a desire to paint HUGE pictures grabbed me by the throat this week, a desire that has waited patiently for at least a decade. BIG pieces, not just curtains and cabinets and canvases measured in inches. We’re talkin’ feet, people. So I posted a sign on the marina bulletin board: Artist Seeks Studio. I’m listening.