Baja, Mexico: La Paz (Day 6: 12/26, Friday, Part 2 of 3)

The water's pleasant enough. There's a baby sea lion napping next to its mama, and, unsurprisingly, this has me unhinged, distracted, at least for a moment.



But I keep knocking into Eric, and his occasional grasping at my leg to point something out isn't exactly tonic to my nerves. Every flashing fin and somersaulting sea lion is a bull shark, emerging from the deep to jerk me to a thrashing, bloody death.

We've been warned to stay a distance from shore and away from the big daddy of sea lions, the one who gets to bone all the lady sea lion(esse?)s, because he's territorial, but there are the friendlies, the younger ones who've probably gotten used to playing with the hordes of snorkelers and divers; these guys keep streaking past my line of vision, playing in my periphery, and each glimpse gives me a jump, has me bobbing back upright, looking frantically for a dorsal fin. "Gah!" I think, and, "swim away, swim away."

Fortunately, Eric's not comfortable either. I'm surprised because he's an avid scuba diver, wall diving, diving in the Galapagos, diving with hammerheads, etc. But--his words--"we're more vulnerable swimming at the surface because sharks hunt from below."

His suggestion that we kayak a bit is met with a nonchalant shrug and "okay," but in reality, I'm creaming my bikini bottoms in gratitude. Thank Hay-Zeus.

The captain of the boat helps us into our kayaks, taking a moment to call down to me as I awkwardly try to simultaneously paddle and keep my vessel from tipping as a result of my inept maneuvering--from on high, he gesticulates with an invisible paddle, and I finally realize that I have to keep the blade perpendicular just as it cuts into the water. Any other angle initiates a disagreeable seesawing sensation and involuntary squeals.

I finally get the hang of it, and Eric and I move towards rougher waters, just off the jurisdiction claimed by the younger bulls, excommunicated from the harem, which is not to say they are not equally--really, more--territorial.

(Meanwhile a pack of tourists has amassed near Big Poppa, another expedition's disembarked--all snorkelers--and they're grubbing all over the rocks from which we'd already been warned away, reaching out to touch the sea lions. What the fuck.)

Sea lions can turn aggressive quickly, and though we're at least twenty-five, thirty feet from shore, the bulls begin bellowing immediately.

"Agh," Eric and I yell. I'm screaming, "run away," as I paddle frantically off, and there's a small boat of locals wheezing at the sight of us. We decide, therefore, to linger in safer waters, where the sea lions are a little more companionable--he keeps using his paddle to nudge off one juvenile that keeps trying to hoist itself into his kayak, and I keep fleeing the more inquisitive ones, but so long as they're not yellin' at us like them thugs back there.

"Ballena," the Spanish for whale, the boat captain suddenly shouts. He's pointing, the boat of locals crowding over their port side. I'm too far away--fleeing the curious little cunts again--but a whale shark is passing feet underneath Eric. He's gasping at the distinctive spot markings, the thirty feet of filter-feeding, largest shark in the world, swimming just below his kayak.

I'm glad for Eric, and relieved for myself. I can tell he'd been chafing at the sight of the scuba divers, wishing he were down there with 'em, and I can feel a slightly less guilty for ball-and-chaining him to the surface.

...

Finally, we decide to kayak towards the neighboring islet that the dive master'd pointed out earlier. It's across open ocean, several hundred yards away, with a fair share of swells, but it doesn't look that bad, that far. Eric, all guns and workout-ready, reaches the opposite shore in an instant, hugging the shore while I'm making an arduous hypotenuse.

A third of the way there though, I don't know whether to laugh or cry but I'm leaning toward the latter. Later, Eric retells it as "every time I turned around to yell at you, you'd pick up your paddle, but you'd stop paddling whenever I turned my back!"

Okay, maybe. I'm murmuring inanities such as "just go on without me" and "fuck this" and "fuck me." The shore looks so. far. away. And my arms are so. fucking. tired. Finally, an executive decision. I begin to count the strokes that I'm making in an effort to stay focused, and each stroke is a moaned number...

At long last, the tiny bajia and water the color of summer, a pale, incandescent aqua, but at this point I'm so exhausted and miserable that I brattily threaten...the universe, stipulating that I'm not getting out of my kayak "if there's no door to door pick-up." The thought of having to hoist myself back onto the kayak and use my arms, now useless noodles of flesh, to paddle any length to re-board the boat, even a mere 50 yards, is anathema.

Wah, wah, boohoo. The lure of clear water's too enticing; I lug the kayak onto the stony shore and gingerly wade into the water.



There's a puffer fish tootling around by itself, and I have a distinct feeling it's curious about me, as it keeps moseying in my vicinity, trundling in circles. I've since learned they're supposed to be poisonous--and not just when eaten as fugu--so it's just as well that my attempts at poking it with a finger end in failure.

Two pelicans are dive-bombing the water, and each crash is a crack in the silence. It's lovely. I could stay here all day.

Baja, Mexico: La Paz (Day 6: 12/26, Friday, Part 1 of 3)

Dolphins, sea lions, puffer fish, and one (missed) whale shark.

We have a 7:15 pick up for our snorkel/kayak trip to Los Islotes, location of a sea lion colony--how do you distinguish between sea lions and seals? Well, funny you should ask! Sea lions are identifiable by their external ears.

Anyhoo, we arrive at the office, sign our lives away, are braceleted with hot pink paper stickers, and receive a meal ticket. We're told that the boat will be leaving shortly, so we should head upstairs and eat our complementary breakfast ASAP.

Eric and I seat ourselves in the patio overlooking the harbor and dine on what I think is something called entrefrijoles,



a sort of enchilada-looking dish with chorizo-filling and instead of a chili pepper sauce, refried beans ladled over the tortilla, all of it garnished with cheese and slices of avocado. Yerm.

I make a break for the bathroom and upon my return learn that I've missed a group of dolphins that just frolicked past. Fucksticks.

We spend the next eon waiting for the other passengers, all scuba divers, to bustle self-importantly--as if their experience diving and the fact that they own expensive equipment suddenly makes them brethren to Jacques Cousteau--to and fro with their gear. A younger German couple, the rest mostly retirees, and there's even a portly dude wearing an aloha shirt, the kind of guy that makes a lot of lame-o but well-meaning jokes and prone to affably sharing his bag of Jolly Ranchers.

Shortly after we set sail, another--the same?--school of dolphins.

I'm in raptures, of course, at the sight of them, and when they hear--I'm sure of it--when they hear our squeals of delight, they commence to patronize us with their presence, leaping, swimming in the wash on the port side. They look close enough to touch, fifteen feet of gray bottlenose muscle, and I hang over the guardrails in a frenzy, gasping when they turn on their sides to look at us, poor bipeds, one and all.



When the dolphins tire of us, they flick away so quickly it's hard to say they were ever there. We continue on to Los Islotes, the motor cranking away, and I begin to feel a little...perturbed. I'm leaning over the side of the boat and the sea is deeper, darker, and more secret. It's impenetrable. This doesn't look like the waters off Cancun where I had my first and only other snorkeling expedition. Am I supposed to get in that? Just jump into that? The driver/pilot/captain is edging us over swell after swell, the bow rocking into the air to what seems like forty-five degrees, then crashing down with a bump. Maybe I should've grabbed the wetsuit when it was offered.

I make a few sneaky queries to Eric--so like, the scuba divers, they just jump right in? It's pretty choppy here, isn't it? His replies are not wholly reassuring, but I ain't no bitch, so I restrain myself from a more explicit line of questioning, such as, "Do I have to do this?" and "What's lurking in that shit?" and "Are you people insane?"

When we reach the sea colony, I'm slightly encouraged; there are a half dozen other boats loaded with tourists and locals, groups large and small. The water is an exercise in green--moss green and forest green come to mind, though algae- and sea- are likely more apt. We're close enough to shore that the underwater boulders are a mere twenty feet below, and despite Eric's last minute admonishment that we are about to swim with "the favorite food of sharks" and that should I see the sea lions bolt suddenly away, it would be wise to "look around" (thanks!), I wedge my feet into the flippers, tighten my mask, clench my teeth around the snorkel, and scooch my butt off the slimy ledge of the stern.

A mouth and nose full of salt water. What the fuck? Is my gear malfunctioning?

The dive master, still bobbing at the water's surface, comes to my rescue. Gently, he tugs the mask over my nose--oooh--tucks strands of my hair back, then pulls the sticker, still attached to the left side of my mask, off. I'm an embarrassed preschooler getting my shoes tied, and I think I may have been so overwhelmed that I swim off without a thank you. Thanks, dive master man.

Baja, Mexico: La Paz (Day 5: 12/25, Thursday, Part 2 of 2)

We return to town and round out the daylight hours with cups of guayabera (guava) sorbet from La Fuente, a popular ice cream shop on the malecon.



Note the late afternoon light kissing that perfect pink scoop. Were that I could be that sunbeam, that I might kiss that guava sorbet...a song of guava, a singing sorbet.

Dinner that night is at Rancho Viejo, purveyors of what are quite possibly the world's greatest tacos. Eric and I order three de arrachera and three al pastor...



aaand an order of papas rellenos, a knee-quivering, earth-shattering melange of mashed potato, canned mushroom, sweet corn, cheese, and a meat of your choice.



This comprises, essentially, a meal of approximately twelve tacos for the two of us. And Eric and I hork it down with the best of them, deluging the tacos--tender morsels on leaves of recent hand-patted flour tortillas--with an array of condiments, pickled onion, salsa, pico de gallo, lime, and guac, the creamy kind they have down Baja.



Really, this post might be better served if entitled "The Agony and the Ecstasy." I'm already feeling twinges of muscle pain from my injudicious bounding into the surf, and this combination of aches compounded with my increasingly distended belly only intensifies as the night grows older.

We return to the hotel for a nap before heading out to Las Jarras, the only gay club/bar in town, and I gird my loins for the fray. I'm in pain, complete and utter pain, but I refuse to be the cock-block despite my long (never-ending, really) foray into celibacy. I gather all my inner reserves, take pill after pill of extra strength Advil and tunnel deep into my blankets in the hopes that the heat will ease the cramping, stabbing pangs.

Fast forward to Las Jarras, where they literally beg us to return after we give the night up for lost. We are two of approximately ten people in the club, including the bartender and other employees--are folks, say, at home spending X-mas with their families? I squee a little to music videos of Rihanna and Chris Brown, but evidently music videos and a walking vagina who's been downing bottled water aren't sufficient to sustain E's interest, and we head out. Wait(!), they tell us, there's a show in just a little bit. "A show?" we ask. And re-enter.

And so begins my first of a succession of three drag shows in my time in Mexico. They are, apparently, something of a mania here, and, from what I understand, not entirely relegated to the gay scene, either...

Baja, Mexico: La Paz (Day 5: 12/25, Thursday, Part 1 of 2)

What better way to spend Christmas day than digging toes into sand, far, far away from the impositions of family and employment?

After a number of abortive attempts at beach-going, we've finally landed at Playa Tecolote--but first things first: breakfast.

We anchor at La Terraza, whose primary charm is in its location, on the malecon, an open terrace where gringos seem to congregate, and where I can watch Eric partake in his morning cigarette and coffee from the safety of my seat.

Despite the previous night's lobster-induced groaning, I'm starving, and I quickly demolish the exotic concoction of crusty bread, butter, and jam--what flavor is it? I can't stop chewing and swallowing long enough to determine a fruit source.



For breakfast, I settle on a papaya shake and ropa vieja, here, the shredded beef I first stumbled upon in Catavina, and eggs. It's essentially a(n unattractive) beef and egg soup into which I drag my scraps of tortilla, and delicious.



The papaya shake, on the flip side, has a spicy second wave to it that's a little disconcerting. Shit, I shrug, and drink it anyway.



And then we're off. The beach is lovely and empty, and we set up on two plastic beach chairs in front of Palapa/Panga Azul. Across the pale green water is Isla Espiritu Santo, what LP describes as "a chunk of southern Utah's canyon country floating on the sea" and what Eric has been creaming his panties over ever since we first spotted it. Something about the iron content in the rock making it that distinct and purportedly rare, rust-red.



What can I say to chronicle the perfect bliss of this day? In between sprints to the water, it's Pacifico after Pacifico--or is it the reverse?

And a concession to the day: a tiny sand-woman with a shell brassiere.

And then it's lunchtime: a table is brought out by the waiter, and camarones diablos...



a whole fried fish...



and more alcohol...

so I'll spare you the photographs of a) me tongue-kissing the fish carcass and b) the entire skeleton clenched in my mouth like I'm a demented, drunken sea lion.