Dear Boo and Bubble,
What strange times we are in right now. We are
entering our third week of self-imposed isolation because of the confounding
Coronavirus that has descended upon us. Looking out our window, all I can see
is cloudless blue sky with a brilliant streak of sunlight illuminating the
freshly mowed stripes on the fairway of the #4 hole. There is no visible sign
of distress. In fact, one would be hard pressed to believe that there is a care
in the world. But we are here in this circumstance, as are you, and it dictates
that we make the best of it.
Yesterday, Captain decided to dust off a couple of old
external hard drives plus a binder filled with CDs that he tucked away in his
closet several years ago. They truly
proved to be a treasure trove of memories—some of our fondest—that we made
while cruising on our sailboat Up Jinks. Picture after picture took us
back to places we experienced all the way up the east coast from the flat sandy
beaches of our home port of Charleston, SC, to the rocky shores of Maine with its
average fifteen-foot tidal range; from the islands and keys of the Bahamas to
the welcoming comfort of hurricane-ravaged Isla Mujeres, Mexico after a 54-hour
passage across the Gulf that bears that country’s name; down the coastline of
Mexico into Belize and ultimately into Guatemala…our second home for six years.
Along this most personal and unique journey, your Meemaw
started her writing career. It began at first with emails to friends recording
what we were seeing and doing. The audience started to grow before long and
while we were in the Bahamas, Captain and I decided to upgrade our stories to a
website format. We created Life’s Story which morphed into an e-magazine
that we published every quarter for six years on the internet chocked full of
descriptive articles that I wrote and pictures that Captain took.
When our cruising days wound down and we brought Up
Jinks back to the United States, it became apparent that there was no need
to continue with the website. I saved what I could from its pages for posterity
but much of the content was lost. This was also true for much of the earlier
writing…the journals that we initially shared at the beginning…or at least so I
thought.
Today, while I was trying to make “easy yeast-free”
bread (Hah!) to supplement the deteriorating single loaf that we purchased from
the grocery store, he shouted from upstairs, “Beth, come here!”
I hastily washed the gooey, uncooperative dough from
my fingers and gave them a cursory wipe as I trudged up the spiral staircase to
our bedroom where he sat at his desk.
“Look what I found!” he exclaimed.
As I hunched over his shoulder to catch a view of his
computer screen, I could see a string of documents (not pictures) displayed
there. He began scrolling the cursor over them, clicking on first one then the
other. With each click, one of the original journal emails opened. Together we
enjoyed them as Captain read the words to me. Talk about a lost fortune…perhaps
not to the material world, but certainly to us!
I asked him to copy some of the files onto a chip so
that I could go through them as well, which he did. I tucked it into the pocket
of my sweatpants (my Coronavirus uniform bottoms) and went back downstairs to
finish wrestling with the bread dough. Once I had punched it into a rather
deformed loaf and stuck it in the oven, I settled into my recliner chair with
my laptop on my thighs and plugged the chip into its portal. A folder by the
name of Lifesstory popped up in the content and I opened it. There were
ten random documents within its sleeves, listed in alphabetical order, starting
with “Can’t Fool Mother Nature” and ending with “Xcalak” (the southernmost town
in the state of Quintana Roo on the Yucatan Peninsula of Mexico, and pronounced
Eesh-ka-lak). Most of them I remembered as soon as I read them, but when I clicked on “Xcalak,” what displayed on my computer screen was a
poem…one that I couldn’t recall writing, but obviously did.
As I read it, there was an immediate flashback to our
time in Xcalak, which would have been towards the end of February in 2006. We
had crossed over the Gulf of Mexico from the Dry Tortugas to Isla Mujeres (Isle
of Women) at the end of January…and about a month after Hurricane Wilma had
ravaged the entire eastern coastline of the Yucatan. We checked into Mexico at
Isla Mujeres and stayed there for over two weeks before heading south,
following the Mayan Reef line…transitioning from the Gulf of Mexico to the NW
Caribbean Sea, the destination being Belize. Our plan was to check out of
Mexico at Xcalak which should require only a brief overnight anchorage and even
a more cursory visit to the port captain’s office to fill out the required
forms.
My story starts here.
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We arrived at Xcalak at dusk. Getting into the
anchorage was tricky, having to navigate a narrow opening in the reef which was
very difficult to see because of the waves that constantly camouflaged it with
their rolling motion. In the diminishing light, we barely made it thanks to the
aid of a guidebook that gave Captain some points of reference on the shore that
he could line up with the bow of the boat. The anchorage, if you could call it
that, lay exposed to the winds from the east and the reef barely gave any
relief from the waves. To boot, the bottom was hard scrabble rather than soft sand
which meant the anchor had nothing of substance to sink into. My first
impression of the place left me certain that one night would be aplenty and the
sooner we left, the better.
The night verified my feeling as the wind blew
constantly and we were awakened several times by the tooth-shattering sound of
the anchor dragging over the hapless surface below. When morning finally broke,
my nerves were pretty much shot and I couldn’t wait for Captain to lower the dinghy
into the water in order for us to putt-putt over to shore, locate the port
office and get our paperwork signed. That would allow us to leave immediately for
Belize—the cayes of which we could see off in the distance…calling like sirens…from
the boat on a beautiful, sunny morning.
Although we were only 50 yards from the community
dock, it took us about ten minutes to get there because of the choppy waves
whipped up by the wind. By the time we made it, we were starting to get wet
from the spray that hit us with each angle of the dinghy against the swells.
There was…no doubt…instant comfort in standing on
solid ground, but in surveying Xcalak initially, I could only equate what I saw
to my stereotypical concept of life in the poorest of third world countries. Dusty
dirt roads forked off in all directions from the dock with thick ropes
periodically stretched across their expanse acting as rudimentary speed
bumps…to stop what I couldn’t readily determine. A few small stucco buildings
dotted the roadside, their once bright Caribbean colors of the region now dulled
from the constant barrage of nature’s weather-driven cocktail of wind, rain and
sun. Some doubled as businesses and homes with signs over the front door and
clotheslines in the backyard. The only semblances of modern conveniences were a cellphone tower and the occasional DirectTV disc.
One prominent two-story structure sat at the top of a
small rise in the landscape overlooking the water. Captain determined that it
was the most likely prospect to house Xcalak’s port office. We trudged up the
road and found his hunch to be correct. A very attractive young lady in her
crisply starched uniform sat at a desk in an outer room. Her desk plate
revealed a first name of Susie. Captain explained to Susie what we needed, and
she told us, in impeccable English, that the port captain was away for the
moment at a meeting over in Chetumal, a larger metropolitan city on the border
with Belize…that he wouldn’t be back until later in the afternoon. “But,
remember that we close at 4:00. And if you like, you can keep in touch by radio
from your boat to see if he’s returned.”
I couldn’t hide my disappointment. The last thing I
wanted to do was have to go back to the boat without the papers in hand
allowing us to leave. Captain suggested that we stroll around and find what
Xcalak had to offer. After a hearty sigh of skepticism, I agreed, and we struck
out to explore the wasteland. We stopped at one of the stucco huts with Sylvia's written across the top of the door and a Dos
Equis sign in the window and inquired about the possibility of ceña y una
cerveza (lunch and a beer). The proprietor invited us inside, sat us at a
small table, and presented us with two ice cold beers from a refrigerator on
the back stoop. It was…and probably still is…the best beer I’ve ever had. Captain ordered lobster and I asked for quesadillas con pollo (chicken quesadillas) from the menu.
The flavor and freshness of the food rivaled that of the beer.
After lunch, we went back over to the port office to
find that the port captain, whose name was Jorgé (George) Morales had not yet come back
from Chetumal. Susie explained that from her experience, if he wasn’t there by
now, it would be tomorrow. “Perhaps you can radio me from your boat in the
morning and we’ll get you signed out then.”
Wearing my resignation prominently all over my face,
we retreated to the dock to find our dinghy filled halfway up with water from
the waves that had slapped against it over the couple of hours we had been
ashore. We had nothing with which to bail it out, so the only option was to
motor slowly back out the boat, sloshing our way as we went. By the time we
safely reached the stern of Up Jinks, we were soaking wet. Somehow,
Captain found humor in the situation. Any inkling of it eluded me!
After another uncomfortable night, I awoke with
positive anticipation that we would soon be on our way back through the reef
and over to Belize where we could at least get some protection from the wind
anchoring on the lee side of a caye. Captain called over the radio to confirm
that Jorge was in the office. My presence was not needed for the paperwork, so
I suggested that he go over in the dinghy by himself while I prepared the boat
for our passage. I assisted with both lowering the dinghy into the water and
getting Captain into it. The waves were now quite a bit more stringent than the
day before causing him to bob up and down beside the boat while he started the
motor. Once it cranked, I released the line and watched him struggle to make
headway towards the dock. When he finally reached the meager distance to the
destination, I went down the companionway of Up Jinks into the salon and
began securing everything possible.
In what seemed like a pretty short time, I heard the approaching
putt-putting of the dinghy motor. Captain yelled to me for assistance and I came
up to the cockpit to see what was going on. Although he was once again soaking
wet, he had remembered to take a bailer this time, so the dinghy wasn’t full of
water.
“Did you get the papers signed?” I screamed over the
noise of wind and wave.
“We aren’t leaving,” he answered.
“What? What are you talking about?”
“Get me tied up and I’ll tell you.”
He pulled the dinghy alongside the starboard stern of Up
Jinks where the its hoist was located. With the waves roiling around so, we
had to lift the dinghy out of the water to keep it from sinking.
Once on the boat, Captain went below to dry off and
change his clothes. I paced around the cockpit like a cat circling a mouse,
waiting for him to resurface. When he did, I hit him with a barrage of
questions.
“What do you mean we aren’t leaving? Couldn’t you get
the papers signed? Was the port Captain there?”
“Let’s start with the last question first. Yes, Jorgé
was there. The papers are ready to be signed as soon as we know the day we’re
leaving. And…I mean we aren’t leaving because we can’t leave. The winds are too
strong, and we can’t get through the reef cut safely until they die down.”
“Who says?” I asked with a huff.
“Jorgé. And don’t even suggest that he doesn’t know
what he’s talking about.”
“How long then?”
“From what he can tell with the brand, new weather
program on his computer…looks like maybe a week before there’s a window of
opportunity.”
“But we only have to go right over there! I can see it
from here!” My voice began to pitch upward.
“I know. I know,” Captain responded with a tempering
tone. “Just look at the bright side. What better place to spend a week than here,
in Xcalak…with all it has to offer!”
I don’t remember for sure, but probably at that point,
I stormed down the companionway and into our berth to pout. That was my usual
modus operandi when confronted with unpleasant cruising situations and this
time was no different. Little did I know what a week it would be.
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We were “stuck” in Xcalak for seven days and I learned
a profound lesson there: No matter the circumstance of a place, they all have the
commonality of community. Walls may be dilapidated but behind them are families
filled with love for one another. The restaurant may not be posh, but the food is
delicious and the camaraderie priceless. The store may only be a shack boarded
up at closing, but the vendor, in his Kansas Jayhawks teeshirt, has a cold Coca-Cola and a fresh aho (garlic)
to sell…the sonrisa (smile) is free.
Our time there introduced us to Jeff and Cindy Deziel,
fellow cruisers trapped alongside for the duration. At the local pizza joint
Coco’s, we met Tom Sowers from Missouri who invited us to dinner at his beautiful
home north of town. (Last year, I serendipitously met his daughter Samantha at
a book club presentation in Greenville, SC.) Looking back on it, I wouldn’t
trade those days in Xcalak for anything. It’s no wonder I was inspired to write
these words upon our departure.
Xcalak
I said –
I’ll
never go back
To
old Xcalak
On
the border of south Mexico
Where
the streets have no hope
With
their speed bumps of rope
And
potholes from long, long ago.
But then –
The
wind came to say
One
more day you must stay
And
make a brand, new start.
If
you shut your eyes blind
You
will not ever find
What
lies in Xcalak’s heart.
So –
Doubtful
once more
I
dinghied ashore
Not
sure where my quest would land.
Fate
showed me the way
To
Capitan Jorge
Who
helped me understand.
Xcalak
is a place
Stripped
of its grace
By
the cruelty of the hurricane.
But
the storms cannot tear
From
the people there
The
spirit and pride they maintain.
Thus –
My
shame is that I
With
my prejudiced eye
Overlooked
the beauty within.
Mortar
may crumble
And
bridges may tumble
But
a soul makes all of us kin.
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