Things that go 'bump' in the surf

Our morning’s download of emails reveals a business issue that Paul, if he is prudent, should fly home (LA) to handle. In a flurry of packing, which involves unearthing long pants and jackets, shoes, socks, and all the other trappings of ‘civilian life,’ he leaves unexpectedly for the airport at noon, with the hopes he can get on an Aeromexico flight north. (We don’t hear from him the rest of the day, so we presume ‘no news is good news’ and he’s on his way.)

Pamela and I stay holed up in the boat, working and trading the Banda Acha (wifi ) stick back and forth, until 4:30, when Pedro shows up to work on the boat. It’s a spectacular day, which we’ve experienced only on the occasional walk up to the head, so we decide to go to the beach while he cleans the boat.

‘What beach?’ he asks.

‘The one across the bridge,’ Pamela says, pointing across the waterway toward Playa Chahue.

‘Oh, Death Beach,’ he nods.

As it ends up, Pedro offers to show us to a private beach on the other side of Chahue, where he promises calmer water, so we close up the boat and set off. Twenty minutes later –climbing two steep hills in the heat, then scrambling down a rubbly trail, where Pedro reminds us repeatedly not to touch the Malamujere (literally ‘bad wife’ a poisonous, leafy plant that is everywhere) as well as the prickery brambles and cactus that line the steep, rocky trail – 20 minutes later we are at our own private beach, a modest sweep of sand tucked between two rocky headlands. We toss our clothes on a pile of rocks that looks like a dragon slumbering in the sand, and run into the surf. Despite the breeze evident offshore –  waves are thrashing Piedra Blanca and the surrounding reef – the surf is calm and inviting. It’s cool at first, but as the seafloor falls swiftly off, we’re suddenly swimming in the refreshing ocean – and loving it.

Until that is, a short while later, when Pamela and I independently discover something creepy and sinewy brushing up against us. I think at first it’s seaweed ... she thinks jellyfish tentacles, as we are getting a rare nip now and then ... I start registering ‘sea snakes?’ ... and we concur: it’s time to get out and beachcomb.

Later Pedro offers to test the water for jellyfish (“malagua’ – bad water) and discovers not tentacled creatures, but transparent gelatinous chains I can only image are egg sacks. As we lift then from the water, inspecting the tiny dot of life in each, they break apart at the seams, and each of the little huevos drifts away. It’s creepy but much more tolerable than jellyfish, and we play in the surf some more, until the sun is hidden behind the hillside. A quick dry off and we’re scrabbling up the trail, with Pedro tugging us up at times, avoiding the poisonous, prickly plants.

Back at the boat: a little more work, then Pamela grills hamburgers and opens a can of Boston Baked Beans – a treat here in Mexico as they don’t’ grasp the concept of ‘frijoles dulce’ (sweet beans). We relax, tidy up, and now, nearly midnight, it’s finally time to turn into my bouncing bunk in the bow of Tugtub.