Peaceful La Paz

La Paz means "The Peace" for  good reason.

Our first foray into La Paz, an hour drive from our casita, was a bummer. We'd been in Mexico a short time and were whirling from all the change. We'd heard there were lots of good stores in La Paz to buy furniture and sundries--but we'd also heard La Paz cops might pull us gringos over for a mordita (bribe) and that the city had problems with violence. We were a little on edge.

It was tough navigating the unmarked streets. And some of the tiendas were in post-hurricane upheaval. The whole vibe seemed dreary and industrial.

But we also heard a lot of great things about La Paz. People urged us not to miss out on the best parts of town, the parts we had yet to see: the downtown, the malecon (waterfront esplanade), the beaches, the food. Long timers spoke glowingly of La Paz, adding that it was as safe as, if not safer than, American cities.

The biggest pull for Dave was the sea life. Especially the opportunity to swim with whale sharks. Talk about danger! But no, not really. The largest living non-mammalian vertebrates, they can get up to 42 feet and almost 50,000 pounds. But they are gentle giants, filter feeders who eat plankton, not human flesh.



whale shark (credit)

When our neighbors came back one late afternoon glowing with suntans and reports of an amazing day in La Paz swimming with whale sharks, we took that as a sign. The next morning we threw our snorkels in our car and took off.

It was an easy drive. We followed our friends' directions (turn left at the big McDonalds) to avoid the drab, confusing outskirts and headed right to the Malecon. Immediately we were struck by the azure waters of the Gulf of California (aka Sea of Cortez) and charming streets lined with shops, restaurants and small hotels. We found easy parking in front of Los Arcos, a defunct hotel.

There are lots of beautiful sculptures along the Malecon.

Right across the street a guy named Omar stood in front of his small boat. He charged us $600 pesos (about $40) each. It would have cost less with more passengers. The boat might have fit two or three more people. But we were happy to have our own spontaneous, private charter. Especially when we saw tourist boats crammed with 12 or more people, who paid $800 or more pesos each.

el barco de Omar

We stepped from the beach into his boat. In just minutes dolphins bounded by. About ten minutes later, Omar spotted a dark shadow in the water. A whale shark. He stopped, urging us to jump in. Gulp.



Dave caught the whale shark coming right at him.

We dropped into the 70 degree water in front of the beast, who glided by beneath us. How to explain being in the sea with a shark of that size? Electrifying.

Several times we got back in the boat--hauling ourselves up the small ladder--and Omar took us to another spot for more whale shark action. At one point, Dave got in alone and captured the experience on video. When he got back in the boat, he was in his blissful Dr. Doolittle state, happy and deeply moved.

After two hours on the water, we were hungry. We walked through the skate park to a big palapa that was Claro Jr., an open-air restaurant. The tacos were stuffed with super-fresh fish and shrimp, to which we added all kinds of goodies from the huge salsa bar.

 

Next we drove south on the road that snakes through the desert hills past one beautiful beach after another until we reached El Tecolote.

This osprey watched us as we drove by.

 

 

El Tecolote is one of those beaches of your dreams. Calm aquamarine waters. Vast areas of solitude punctuated by by shade palapas and charming feet-in-the-sand restaurants.




El Tecolote

The water, shallow for a long way out, was so inviting. It was one of those magical swimming moments, where your body and the water meld.

Our first impression of La Paz may have been alienating. But now we know better. There are so many treasures in this incredible place, and we can't wait to go back for more.




 

 

Mahalo, Maui

 This is the path we walked up and down every day on Maui...

... while we lived here...

 ...the house of our friend Christine. She built it thirty years ago. Solar powered, the house has a compost toilet, an outdoor shower, and an open air kitchen.

The only noise you hear are birds and the rushing creek with waterfall, seen from the living room window:

Pineapple, avocado, banana and payapa grow abundantly.

There was a house cat named Dora...

a house gecko...

and a house spider ...

...who fortunately lived outside. A crafty arachnid, she spun her web in a spot where bugs flocked to our lit-up window at night.

Here's our generous host, Christine, with her boyfriend Kenny. We hadn't known each other well before coming to Maui. But now after spending two magical weeks together, they feel like our soul siblings. We also fell in love with Kenny's dogs, Lucy and Roxie.

Christine and Kenny are kick-ass strong. At age 68, they swim miles every week. Being a merman and a mermaid ourselves, Dave and I swam almost every day. At Twin Falls, we experienced this:

 

Other days, we swam and snorkeled in the ocean, floating around with fish and huge sea turtles. One day we drove the road to Hana and hiked out to this mind-blowing spot, Red Sand Beach...

...where Dave captured my synchronized swimming maneuver, a ballet leg:

We hiked through bamboo forests...

 ...and around the other-worldly Haleakala Crater...

where we were so high....

...we were above the clouds.

 It just so happened that Dave's college buddy, Craig, and his three kids were on Maui too.

 

We spent a couple of fun days with them that included swimming, snorkeling...

and the best fish tacos ever:

One day, Christine and Kenny took us on the ferry to Lanai, where we swam for more than two hours way way way off shore.

The water looks placid in this picture, but it was wild and wavy and infinitely deep--punctuated by serene, surreal ultra blue landscapes. Confetti of fish, sculptural coral.

At moments I thought, "What the hell am I, a land mammal, doing all the way out here? Will my feet ever touch Mother Earth again?" Salt water seeped into my snorkel. I wished for gills.

The fish swayed with the surges, reminding me to release to the ocean's power. I thought about the woman in Swimming to Antarctica who swims for days in the worlds's coldest waters without a wetsuit. I thought of Diana Nyad's amazing achievements. I watched Dave and our friends plowing through the surf, no land in sight.

I thought about how land and sea are yin and yang, overlapping like life and death, one not possible without the other. For hours afterward the motion of the sea stayed with us, a kind of dizziness not unlike my post-brain surgery vertigo. I thought of it like Mother Earth gently rocking us in a cradle. 

We are, after all, her children.

Comfort in the Face of Change

Dave with our niece Hailey and nephew Evan:
Spending more time than expected in the Bay Area
has meant more fun with loved ones.

Dave reminded me that we’ve been living without a house for three months. The idea was to live a traveling life: a combination of visiting friends, staying in Airbnb lodgings, leasing places, and house-sitting.

We started with a few days in L.A. followed by a little over a month in Australia. In July, we went to Boston and Cape Cod. The month of August was supposed to look like this:

Swimming in turquoise waters, dalliance-ing with dolphins, snorkeling with turtles and technicolor fish, eating papaya with lime on the lanai, reading and writing in the warm evening, and hiking across moonscape lava.

But this is the thing about life:

You gotta be flexible. Because everything changes. Sometimes change is deceptively slow. And sometimes it happens in the blink of an eye.

For instance:  You make plans to spend a month and a half in Hawaii after your Cape Cod adventure. One day on the Cape, you go for a swim. The water is delectably refreshing in the hot, humid day. You swim out far, alone. You think about how you’re now swimming in the Atlantic, and in a week you’ll be swimming in the Pacific. You think about how being cradled in the sea is like nestling into the belly of the world. Far off, your friends play Frisbee on the sand, the plastic disc like a little green bead tossed against the blue sky.

That night, your body is at peace because of its day-long immersion in sun and sea, because of all that buoyant movement with gravity suspended. Not to mention all that fresh lobster and wine and laughter.

In spite of how great I felt, in spite of the timelessness of the summer days, the next morning did not bring what I expected: more of the same. Instead, that night, something in my brain reached a tipping point, and I woke at 6 a.m. having a seizure. And instead of Hawaii, August brought us back to California for my medical treatment.

I can’t say how many times I’ve thought about that day of dreamy swimming in Cape Cod. If I’d had that seizure 12 hours earlier, I would have drowned. It wouldn’t have been the worst way to go, transitioning while doing something I love so much. Preferable to dying of a heart attack in rush hour traffic.

In fact, when I was having the seizure and thought I was dying, incredibly something that passed through my mind was this: It’s okay if I’m going because I’ve been living my authentic life.

But apparently it wan’t my time. As a result, I have a new depth of appreciation for the preciousness of now.

I cried the other morning when Dave was holding me. Then I realized why. What I was thinking was: I don’t want to lose his body or have him lose mine.

Those Buddhists are right-on when they say human suffering stems from attachment, from desiring permanence in the face of the natural course of change, from wanting things to be different than they are. There I was, PRE-suffering: imagining inevitable change and living it too soon, when I didn’t need to!

I reminded myself that the past and the future are just thoughts. Where it’s all at is NOW. So I gently guided my mind back to the sacred moment, back to my senses, feeling Dave’s arms around me, noting our heart beats. I sensed the tenderness and tenacity of the healing in my skull that just weeks before had been cut open by a surgeon. I reminded myself to thank the surgeon, to embrace the white light of her expertise, to appreciate that I was here, now, experiencing another lovely moment of life.

We humans have amazing minds. We can make ourselves miserable. We can make ourselves joyous. Just acknowledging that I can make myself feel bad is good. It softens suffering a bit. Perhaps that’s why I’ve loved reading literature all these years: because looking at the human condition reminds me that yes, this is the way it is.

I can look at my feelings from another vantage point. Sadness and clinging don’t own me. They can pass by like clouds in the sky. And in fact, they are kind of interesting to watch because, like everything, they change. I don’t need to deny them or impulsively act out against them. I can just relax and breathe and gently think a better-feeling thought like: Sadness is kind of sweet. It says I’m a loving human being. I dig that humanity is capable of love. This life sure has a lot of beauty in it. And the next thing I know, I’m letting go of what I was clinging to. Then maybe I’m smiling. And maybe I’m feeling more and more ready to take on the day.

Living without a house intensifies the letting-go experience. When I’m living in “my” house, I can be seduced by a feeling of permanence. I like that feeling of comfort. But what I’m discovering is I can create comfort wherever I am, even in the midst of embracing impermanence. With no house, it’s very clear to me that wherever we are, we aren’t there forever. 

A house doesn’t bring comfort. We do. By coming back to this moment, again and again.

The two most beautiful words in the English language...

En route to Ragged Island on Lake Winnipesaukee

Hot air. Cool, fresh water. Long light-filled days. 

Mermaids.

Summer at a lake.  Your skin is alive, your mind relaxed.

Dom with Sherman the Tank.

You're happy in the fold of nature and friends.

Time takes on a different dimension. You feel eternity in each moment.

The guys with Tom (in sunglasses), our kind and generous captain.

"Summer afternoon--summer afternoon; to me those have always been the two most beautiful words in the English language."  - Henry James