parched.

Double Eagle.

Horribly grainy photo- I admit. But you get the idea. Looking out the window I spot them surveying the scene. Watching the creek below. Patiently waiting out this dreary February day. Knowing Spring is around the corner. A time of year not to be missed in the Inland Northwest.

volver: to return.

The squeal of the rubber touching the runway initiates the acclimation into a familiarly foreign world.  NASA would call it re-entry.I spent three months in Mexico. Three months is a drop-in-the-bucket for anyone with a lunch break. Yet an endless flash of faces and moments flow through my mind as I drift aimlessly in the customs line.  The pre-paid cell phone heats up with neglect as messages from long ago come to life. My ears bounce around like a pin ball as spanish is replaced with english. I feel them almost shunning their ability to comprehend all the side conversations with such ease.

I recognize my backpack on the carousel. The long wooden stick belonging to my newly acquired hammock chair is desperately clinging to the side straps.  My mind's eye takes a wide-angle snapshot. The dull, lifeless backdrop of baggage claim provokes the realization that it's not the chair I wanted to take with me. It was the feeling of watching the sun rise over the ocean, of being cupped in thick, cotton netting. Suspended in air. Suspended in time. Suspended in the beauty that is life.

Now under the night lights of a lonely Oakland metro station I stand idly gazing at the tracks. Watching a mouse feed on the remains of an expired pigeon. Lost in thought. Wondering about my next (un)scheduled departure. Or as NASA might say- launch date.

upper 80s. barefoot. and a 100% chance of procrastination.

There must of have been about a 100 of them. The dolphins were swimming and jumping next to our fishing boat. I laughed with sheer joy at the moment. A moment that of course has a backstory.

On the road in Mexico months ago I had met an old man. We made quick friends and he told me if I was ever near the southern pacific coast of Mexico, he would gladly take me fishing. He said I had to come to the little town of San Agustinillo and ask someone on the beach for Casa de Oso, or Bear's house.

The over dose of San Cristobal along with its cold weather had me on a 13 hour bus ride (over night) to San Agustinillo. I made it to the beach and was about to ask around when I spotted him in a hammock chair. Taking in the sunrise.

This secluded half-dome beach town (if you can call it a town) consists of about 100 residents, about the same amount of tourists, 40+ hammocks stretched along the water's edge. A half dozen fishing boats on either end of the beach. Six small hotels, no more than 2 stories high, which hold about 15 guests each.

I have embraced the true spirit of the beach bum. I have been barefoot for about a week and my time here passes without really doing much of anything. The biggest stress of the day is deciding which fish that was caught in the morning will go on the BBQ tonight.

(sorry, no photos- along with me, the computer/internet connection here also embraces the beach bum attitude.)