In my lap is a yellow pad; in my hand a purple pen. I sit on a concrete
bench with my feet propped on top of a rock wall, leaning back against
a natural rock outcropping. A cup of coffee steams beside me. Beyond the
wall, a granite cliff drops 85 feet to tide pools below. The surge of the
waves soothes me. A trio of pelicans soars by. One by one they peel off
and glide north across the bay. I look up to watch them and the world is
all done up in shades of blue: cobalt for the dark, deep sea next to the
pale periwinkle of the sky. Sapphire and aquamarine for the shallower waters
that are laced with foamy white.
I sigh, put my pen down and continue watching. The new kitten, OBE-Juan nips at my toes and scurries after a lizard. The Blow Hole spews water skyward. It’s going strong this morning. I get up, walk around the corner and look toward the beach. I notice that the tide’s about at midpoint and the swell is coming from the south. This is when La Bufadora blasts the highest. Yes. Sitting down again. That one blew right up to the top of the mountain’s saddle. Yesterday we saw a pod of dolphin swimming into the bay, fins sliding in and out of the glassy water. We saw three seals peeking out from the kelp at us. We haven’t seen any whales since Memorial Weekend, but we know that come winter, they’ll be cruising by regularly. Pelicans and sea gulls are common year-round. We call our house Pelican Flight or Vuelo Pelícano in Spanish, because we’re smack in the middle of their aerial highway. Since we’re so high up, the birds often do their fly-bys at or near eye level. Our windows are often splashed with white as the birds roll around the edge of the bay. So is the occasional head or two.
This is where I come to turn off the freeway noises, traffic jams, telephones and TVs. This is where the roads are dirt, water is delivered in 2000 gallon loads in the back of a big, slow truck, dumped into a concrete box called a pila and piped down the mountainside into our house. Actually, in our house the water is delivered via hose because we have no pila yet and are using the next door neighbor’s water. When we get ready to bathe at night, we tell each other, “Well, I think I’ll go hose off now.” We mean it. A second hose snakes in through the kitchen window so I can rinse veggies and do dishes. Gray water from the makeshift sink drains into two buckets, which I pour on the plants out on the patio every morning while the coffee’s brewing.
This is where we can sing at the top of our lungs along with Jimmy Buffett at night and no one cares. Most of the time, no one even hears. No mail comes here. Only in the last month did we break down and get a cell phone, but it’s only for emergencies. Until the other day we had to charge it a friend’s house because we had no electricity. At night we used candles and flash lights to see. I cooked on a camp stove and kept food cold in three ice chests.
Everything changed a few days ago—the day the power came on. We’d bought a fridge and stove at a segunda—second hand store in Ensenada, so we were ready.
Our
house marches like a German bunker up the hillside in three layers, ending
at the living room and kitchen that open onto an expanse of ocean and patio.
The electricity came in three waves too. The first day was the lower level
and the last day was the upper. Between days one and three, a long extension
cord powered up our fridge.
I’ve been coming here for six years. A friend of mine who’s got a decade on me in La Buf is spastic about the electricity. He resents the modern appliances and blaring lights at night. He despises the idea of gringo-style progress overwhelming and destroying the raw, rugged beauty of our special place. I understand. I hate jet skis, with a fervor exceeded only by my friend Bucky’s. Whenever they roar into our bay, she storms down to the beach, hands on hips and demands that they get out. They mind her, too. Our clear waters are reserved for sea creatures, kayaks, divers and swimmers.
Yet, while ambivalent about progress, I’m glad to be able to freeze ice cubes. Such a simple pleasure—ice water.
Such
a treat to pull a package of chicken breasts from the freezer and watch
them thaw just in time to be barbecued for dinner. Such a joy to get up
in the middle of the night and not have to stagger around in the dark searching
for a flashlight. So cool to plug in our big boom box now and not worry
if we’re going to run out of D batteries. So luxurious to make a blender
drink, use an electric coffee pot and contemplate buying a microwave!
We still use the candles, though. The soft flickering shadows against the wall remind me that this is still a primitive place. They remind me to slow down, to inhale deeply of the beauty around me. Then, and only then do I reconnect with the essence of who I am. Then I remember that life lived at a slower pace is essentially a much fuller life.
This has been a perfect vacation. Even Gayle and Derek have quieted. Without phones, computers, dueling stereos, televisions and friends—they’ve bonded with us and one another. Even they’ve become infused with the peaceful magic of living here at the edge of the bay.