Adventure in Baja

Two bone-jarring kilometers from Todas Santos over narrow beach road of washboard and sand are the final leg of the trip.  Finally here.  Here being Baja, a semi-tropical paradise of wind-capped ocean pounding up steep sandy beaches, where scrub trees and cacti dot the rising elevation from water’s edge.  Higher still and there’s the stuccoed house with deep, thatch-roofed courtyards, skirted by a green verge of banana and mango trees, asway palms at dance in the breeze, and bright bougainvillea flowers tumbling down walls in a riot of color. Now a passing whiff of plumeria. 

I settle into my room: ground floor, ocean view and comfortably appointed.  The door does not have a lock.  Okay.  

Ellen is at hand to meet us as we arrive.  This is the third year she’s held the writing retreat at Serendipity.

Here comes Sheri: tall, blond, and thin, (they’re all thin.  Except me and Sharon, the only ones of any size.)  She’s been down the beach at the Las Tunas Sanctuary, an organization dedicated to sea turtle recovery, to see if there is a hatchling release tonight.  There’s not.  Formerly of the Bay Area, she reluctantly lives in Phoenix these days, we trade quips about the hell that is Phoenix.  I like her right off.   

Our group of aspiring writers straggle in over a couple days with tales of travelers’ mishaps, of missed connections and forgotten passports.  There are ten of us, all women of a certain age.  Among us: a large animal vet; a N.Y. Times editor who trained in opera at Julliard until debilitating stage fright put an end to that career; a nun; a screenplay writer; a photographer. 

Then there’s Emanuela who lives across the lane from Serendipity.  She’s an Italian ex-pat, formerly a model, and an eternal wild child.  She has an enviable figure and projects sophistication.  She married an American and lived in NYC for many years until he dumped her – for an older woman (15 years older!) – what cruelty. She got busted for possessing a joint while traveling in Morocco and was sent to prison - and writing about that experience – I’m looking forward to that read

Class is a long table under a palapa, ocean view of course, but I sit with my back to it to avoid distraction.  The morning class shakes down to me, Leah, and Jane, although Sheri makes a fourth on the Monday.  We joke about Ellen working us hard – which is exactly what happens.  Writing exercises, prompts, assigned to get the creative juices flowing.  It’s been awhile and my creative juices are sluggish in response.  We read our work out loud; each person’s writing voice distinct. Writing in this manner is so revealing. We are all supportive and encouraging of each others work, however my competitive streak niggles just beneath the surface.

Jane is a day student, an ex-pat living here, thin as a whip, large brown eyes, dark tan, hot pink coral lipstick.  She is an improv actor and the ability to think on her feet shows in her very expressive writing.  She is a firecracker, jumping into wild flights of fancy in prose.  Of course I compare my writing to hers.  Me:  Coaxing each and every word out slowly and painfully.  Jane:  Writing what appears to be a rapid stream of consciousness, with a distinct plot and interesting characters.  It’s good. 

Leah and I go to a swimming beach one afternoon and shopping in the village on another; we get to know one another a bit.  She is a city girl who grew up on Long Island and is not comfortable in nature.  She is amazed by us Westerners, and I admit to laying it on thick in my stories of life in the sticks; killing chickens and shooting deer, (I just can’t stop myself.)  Leah is small with short whitish blond hair tinted just a little pink, a nose ring, a NY accent, and protects her left arm like a wounded wing, aftermath of a long ago surgery.  She is a published poet living in Portland these days and hosts a monthly poetry reading.  Her husband has a business in Japan, where Leah lived for many years, he was there during Fukushima nuclear meltdown, which is discussed in some of her work.   

 

Sharon is our host at the B&B.  She broke her foot and whirs around in a motorized wheel chair.  She and her husband were in the trades in Hollywood until they made a serendipitous trip to Toda Santos 20 years ago and ended up buying 11 acres of chili fields overlooking the ocean. She is active in the arts community and played the lion in the Wiz this season.  

The B&B usually only serves breakfast but our group is getting lunch and dinner as well.  The focus is Baja food; Sharon takes a moment before each meal to describe the menu.  The first dinner is Chile Rellanos – of course I love it!  There is much fresh fish including a nice shrimp ceviche, caught that morning by shrimp trawlers I’ve spotted fishing near the shore.   Meals are served outdoors in one of the deep courtyards.  Music from Sharon’s eclectic collection plays softly in the background.  Interesting conversation abounds, to my delight.  We’re all talking away at one point when the music filters through and it’s an instrumental version of “Crazy” playing over and over and over.  Sharon is fighting with her sound system.  And losing.

A writer complete with entourage arrives to read us excerpts from his latest book one evening.  Sheri is convinced tonight is the hatchling release so she shushes me and Julia, saying “don’t ask questions and prolong the session.” We three sit at the outmost edge of the patio, ready to dash off if it lasts too long and we can evade Ellen’s watchful eye.  We’re children!

It’s sunset as we race down a sandy path to the ocean and sure enough, the release is happening.  Kicking off my sandals, the sand is warm beneath my toes.  It’s a balmy evening in Baja.  This is not a swimming beach with gently sloping sand and shallow waves lapping.  This beach is steeply sloped and the waves break with force, the locals warn of strong undertow. 

The hatchlings are positioned in a long line at the edge of the surf, in hopes that spreading them out will increase their minuscule odds of survival, approximately 1 in 1,000. 

In a wild hatch, the turtles just head to the surf from the hatch site, often right into the waiting jaws of one of their many predators who can wait in one place and here comes dinner.  As the surf rolls onto shore, some turtles catch a ride on an outgoing wave.  The incoming tide pushes others up the shore a bit, no luck on this wave.  The cold water stuns them for a few moments, then instinct prevails and they head for the water – propelled forward by their flippers, a stumbling and bumbling sight, and absolutely adorable.  

We go out to dinner at Michael’s at the Gallery my last night there.  We have a scary moment watching the owner wheel Sharon down a sharply steep ramp.  The entrance to the restaurant is through an art gallery displaying many large scale pieces – including a huge photo of Emanuela’s.   

The food is marvelous Asian-fusion and the entire evening is just so much fun. 

It is nearly 7a.m. and the sky is lightening.  From where I sit I can see past the fringe of green trees framing the view, over the desert scrub, which is a yellowy olive shade at this moment, and the sea beyond.  The sea is pale blue stretching across the horizon into the even paler sky.  An infinity pool.

I’ve been here a week and leaving soon, my bags are neatly packed.  The rest of the group leaves tomorrow but I’m glad I’m going today.  I read somewhere that the best time to leave a party is just after the moment you’ve had the most fun.  So my leaving today is the right moment.