Amazing Grace

It’s hard to be scared of a hurricane named Flossie. It brings to mind a docile cow, or a child’s dental hygiene tool. And sure enough, Flossie spun out and away over the Pacific, leaving behind much-needed rain.

I am working on the memoir again, Diary of a Reluctant Traveler, wherein there are emotional hurricanes. It recounts my journey across the continental United States to reconcile with my mother seven years ago. Highly educational. Along the way I met turtles and armadillos and alligators, and attempted to surf the Gulf of Mexico (as well as Mom).

There’s rarely surfing in the Gulf of California either, which is fine by me right now. Plenty of excitement sailing Habibi solo. 

M/V Amazing Grace pulled into a Topolobampo slip ahead of me this week, right when a sign from God was highly welcome (and when isn’t it?). Don’t you love that word, Topolobampo? Rolls off the tongue—TOH-boh-loh-BAHM-poh—like a luscious drumbeat. 

I live in the land of homemade tamales—huzzah! I first learned about the mighty tamal at my friend Gloria’s house, when we were teenagers. The house was in an uproar, preparing for her quinceñera. A phalanx of tamal-making tías took over the kitchen a few days before the big fifteenth birthday event. The gossip! The laughter! The flying hands! Patting, smooshing, inserting, rolling, wrapping. I could only catch every tenth word, but it was salacious. Men and boys were scarce, except at rehearsal and the actual affair. There was dancing and romance and scarfing of tamales, as well as other delectable dishes. And cake, of course. It was like a wedding, only she didn’t have to go home with the guy afterward. There was probably a sleepover, too, boys and girls separated but sneaking around. So many relatives! So different from my upbringing.

I met a philosopher recently, when he drove me to and fro a gasolinera, then carried the diesel-filled jerrycans to my boat. He quoted the Russians, which I couldn’t quite catch in Spanish, and refused pesos as recompense for his time. He did accept chocolate, however, and has since texted messages of solidarity and cheer. I did not think I needed friends, but perhaps I am wrong. What I truly need is to be myself all the time. Authentic. Honest. Flawed. Funny. Afraid. Empathic. Determined. The older I get, the less I am willing to silence my Self in exchange for… what? What did it ever net me, really? Lotta pain and heartbreak. Misunderstandings. 

When I am completely my Self, others can be also. And then we become visible to each other. Kin. And that’s amazing grace.