May Day

When I climb aboard after scraping Habibi’s hull – see you, barnacles! – what to my wondering eyes does appear? A small squat military vessel a few hundred feet off my port bow. 

I sit at the rail to catch my breath, and notice that the ten fatigued and armed men on board are not looking at me — they are facing the open sea, west. Stories about cartels adrenalize my veins. Lately, gunshots echo off the northwest hills mornings and evenings – is it related?

The Mexican Navy eventually speeds westward to a big beat up ship anchored for months near Playa Manzanilla. They face it, bow to bow, and halt awhile. No gunfire. Instead, finally, they cruise toward the marina. I can eat breakfast.

Before Habibi (B.H.) I saw many Mexican military men in armored trucks on the highways of La Baja. They are usually young and skinny, and at road blocks I’d sometimes share the tacos I was eating, or the juice I was swigging, always rewarded with a ¡Gracias! and flashy white grin. After a group of them caught me resting in the 4Runner (see “Napping Near the Military“), I began to see them as simply boys in costume. Sometimes scared boys in costume, which can be dangerous, so I’m careful.

Paddling home one evening, a ray leaps out of the water off Audrey’s port bow. I’ve been wary of rays since one sliced open my toe in California, but this one startles a laugh out of me. Spotted.

Suddenly a canned Steve Perry chants, Don’t. Stop. Believin’ from a nearby party boat and I laugh again. We are strange creatures indeed. All of us.