St. Vrain River, Lyons, Colorado

Disembodied snorkeling with Polar Bear Midgets

I could see the Atlantic streched in front of me, green seas, with waves perfect for surfing. But the waters projected ordered calm, and the sun shined not too-hot and not too-cold, with no need for a dimmer.

Debris washed up to shore and then away, human artifacts scarely recognizable save for some miscellaneous scuba gear.

The vantage point shifted in an instant to the undersea shore, and there were two diminutive, misshappen polar bears rolling with the water's winds, their limbs flailing like a movie villian when he falls from a sky scraper.

And then I heard a noise that makes fingernails against the chalkboard sound positively symphonic. So, after cringing and listening to it twice, I roused myself and shut off my cell phone's alarm clock.

Dang it, one of the rare occasions that I remember my dream, and how the hell am I supposed to interpret it with that cut-scene: that the ice caps are melting?! (Damn that turtle spirit guide once again, so eco-minded.)

Reptilian Spirit Guides & Ocean Butterflies

On my second day in Puerto Vallarta, I decided my sea legs needed some exercise, so I went on a two-tanker with a small dive-shop called Ocean Quest to the Southern part of the Bay of Banderas, near a beach called Majauita. The divemaster L. in his 40's had started diving in '97, and liked it so much that he decided to join the industry, and moved to Mexico from Germany in 2000. He said he decided to leave Germany after a couple friends in his same industry and the same age dropped dead of heart attacks. Aside from chain smoking, or perhaps because of chain smoking, he seemed to be about as laid back a person possible, so it renewed my time-to-time daydreaming about becoming a professional diver and living in the tropics. (Beach living is an essential component of my 8-fold path to bumhood, which I hope to elaborate in the coming months, just after I stop using snooty words like "elaborate" in my speee-aatch.)

I decided not to get the Advanced Certification just yet, because conversely L. was so laid back, that I doubted how much challenge I'd get out it.

On the trip out to Majauita, we passed scores of monstruous multi-story mansions jutting out of cliffs. The one I thought was most interesting was an ultra-modern design, which incongruously had a traditional tile of the Virgin Mary next to the swimming pool.

There were only two other divers on the expedition, a fifty-something lawyer J. from Nevada and his son (a very brave fan of body modification, with a gigantic ear piercing that made loops of his lower ear lobes), but they had brought the rest of the family with them to snorkel. I was still jet lagged, so I didn't talk much, but listening, my initial impression that they must be a pretty religious family (with 5 kids) was confirmed when J. started talking to the second divemaster K. on the boat about accepting Jesus as his personal savior, a few minutes after his twelve year-old daughter had got into a debate with K. about witchcraft being real. I guess the snippets of conversation sounded strange since I was feeling meditative, and was just focusing on the skyline, happy to be in the presence of the gran acuario santo once again.

We were passed on the way by a Pirate sailing ship that my dad apparently got the chance to steer at a company party on it when he last went to PV. Parting observation as the masts set under the horizon: people on vacations in not-your-everyday vehicles like to wave at passing strangers. Why only when passing, is it just that you are waving at a group? (Insert Seinfield monologue/tone here, "Really people...")

On the first dive, we went to 85 feet (deepest I've been so far) along a slope, and awaiting us at those depths was a miniature scene straight out of "Dune." There were scores of two or three feetlong garden eels (as in 80-90) wiggling to and fro to an unseen snake charmer, half their bodies concealed within their seabed burrows. Also at the beginning of the dive there were umpteen Angelfish at a shallow depth, so that we were totally surrounded by the schools...and L. brought pieces of bread to feed the fish. The great thing about the dive site due to it being on a slope was that during the safety stop at fifteen feet (a practice to add an extra margin to avoid the bends), there was as much to see as at eighty (instead of watching the clock).

After a tuna fish sandwich lunch (not bad, with some sort of corn admixture), and hanging out at a practically deserted resort beach for the session interval (the time taken out of the water to allow nitrogen to diffuse from the body), the boat went one or two beaches up north near another resort. I was puzzled for a moment why arrr, seadog of the seven seas that I be, I could spot no bikini models on the other resort's beach. Mental transcript: "Ay captain Mojo, where she be! Me ain't got de' least sight o'her." But at least in this case, true to positive stereotype (I leave to another day the question of if such a thing could exist), my first clue at a glance was that the beach was missing any of my fellow metabolically-challenged friends -- "Oh. [Punchline deleted, not offensive to anybody, just Jay-Leno-lame]"

Generally you use a shallower dive profile on a second dive, so we went to about 50 feet. There weren't too many notable sightings, but near the end of the dive, L. who was my dive buddy, made a sound with his horn. There was a big sea turtle flapping its wings maybe ten feet below the surface. The father-and-son had some notion about trying to stay as deep as possible as long as possible, which caused them to miss seeing it. (It's a 360/3-D undersea world, a wider angle of vision. Unless you have a personal bathyscape, deeper for depth's sake doesn't necessarily mean better. Under the clear conditions, a snorkeler could have seen 75% of what we saw for a fifth or less of the price -- but granted it's not as up close and personal.)

On the way back, well, when the NPR-mellow meditation leader says, "Think back to a happy place....What is surrounding you...what are the sounds?" T'was there. In a place without any butterflies of the stomach variety. Instead, maybe 150 meters out from the shore, there was a yellow butterfly that fluttered starboard our boat for over five minutes. That's when I knew it must be an omen from the depths of another world! The sea turtle must be my long-lived, green-like-an-alien, spirit guide. As yet I've had no mystical visions and dreams instructing me to "go to the place where XYZ," where XYZ="buffalo shed mammoth tears", "the coyote howls at the half-moon and chases tail," or even, " it's always summer, not an ounce of snow, and there are lots of delicately-featured, beached creatures who just can't seem put on all the sunscreen by their little lonesomes."

On second thought, I guess the dream doesn't need a talking sea turtle to be sweet. With my luck, the turtle would probably make me go on some self-sacrificing Rambo mission to kick egg-poacher ass anyways, and how does that lend itself to preventing the serious menace of melanoma one backrub at a time?

Well, who's for it? Go to that happy place. Whatyawaitin'fer.

Wow, for once, I'm speaking a dialect of Californian and I feel no shame.

(The one cool thing I liked about Ocean Quest, besides the small number of divers was that L. had taken digital photos, but alas, he was still a beginner at it because all the photos of me had bubbles obscuring my face. I regret not bargaining for the photo set just so I could better convey the wonders of the not-that-deep, but hopefully future expeditions. )

"Where's the Beef?"

I'm American to the core. Gooderbad.

I think it's funny that I don't ever remember eating at an European style restaurant (less the Olive Garden counts). Until yesterday.

I took the train from Littleton to Lo-Do to avoid parallel-parking funtime (which I think I'd do again, $5.50 round trip, only drawback is that last train back is 1:00 something). After coming back from Mexico, I had really wanted to keep on keepin' on, so I decided to go to a Spanish-speaking group meet-up at the 9th Door, which serves Spanish Tapas.

American though I be, with no idea of how autentico it was, it was good stuff: spicey taters, BBQ chicken appetizers on sticks, breaded calamari, slivers of salmon, and mess of green veggies or something which I kind of glanced at for a sec, before thinking in a bout of raw patriotism: "naw, my ancestors came to this country to eat red bloody meat for B. L. & D."

I don't remember the rest of the night, I think I fainted from low blood sugar from the itsy Europortions...Okay, I exaggerate, but I was wishing I had eaten dinner beforehand like I planned.

There were six people total who came and it was a very enjoyable evening, everybody was super-padre ("super-cool" Mex.) and the conversation muy interesante. I was the least-traveled in the group, so it was cool to hear about everyone else's wanderlust and passion for languages (I think everybody had studied at least two or three). After two hours or so at the 9th door, most of us went to an Irish pub adjacent to Coors Field, and we switched to speaking 'Merican.

I think it's also funny that I'm more loquacious speaking Spanish with new acquaintances than I am in speaking English. Maybe there's a personality split, the uber-self-conscious gringo Daniel, who worries about the small gap between being mildly-amusing versus obnoxious, y el gringo-tico Daniel que no tiene ninguna preocupación en el mundo.

We talked a bit about politics et al. (or rather I observed) and I tried to remember at what point in the distant past I just said to myself, "okay, I'll shut up now," when in reality my opinions are not so inchoate that I can keep pretending, in the echo of a valley-girl, "Like oh my gosh. I dunno." No need for the world to be so bland, all conversation consisting of saccharine sports and other safe harbors.

So, I think I'll try to go to future events more regularly, and hopefully get to know some of the regulars better, since I don't seem to get enough of a fix of thought-provoking conversation while I've been in limboland.

My feud with the taxistas continues...I learn how to have the PC experience w/o the PC

When I arrived in the 90° heat of Puerto Vallarta on a Thursday afternoon in late July, I made two vows walking down on the tarmac: to avoid all taxistas for the duration of my trip, and to make an email fast until my last day in PV. In front of the terminal, there are buses to the Centro that pass frequently, so for 50 cents I was able to stumble on a bus, nearly drop all the cash and change from my wallet as the bus lurched forward, and find a seat in the very back. The great thing about not relying on taxis, but on bus and foot power, I had to start learning how to navigate the city from minute one, if I didn’t want the perdition of handing over a fistful of cash to a taxista.

On my first night in PV, I was fortunate enough to get to meet an amazing resident of PV – Rita. Her late husband, a former commander of Guantanamo Bay was related to my father, though I don’t have the brain power to figure out the branches linking the family trees. Her six-floor beach side condo, exquisitely decorated, with a treasure trove of books left no doubt that I was in the presence of someone who knew how to retire in style. After we talked on her patio discussing the Peace Corps and a book she had on Mexican culture, she treated me to dinner at Cafe de Olla, which was a great culinary introduction to Mexican food (my new diet plan, “go to a far-away land where you hate the food” would not work in Mexico). And she insisted I try some flan, which I dug, simple custard though it be.

She is a world traveler, multi-lingual intellectual, conversationalist, brilliant and funny at 90. It was interesting to hear that she had traveled in the Soviet Union, Iran in the 70’s, and across America in an RV which is when we had originally met when she and her husband stopped at our house when I was about 5 or 6 years old.

Walking back from the restaurant, imagine my surprise, when we stopped at an Internet Café for her to check email! Of course, I wasn’t really surprised at that point, but it was great to see that amidst the challenges of a pacemaker and physical decline, to see someone living independently as an active part of the wider community, as contrasted with the bleakness of a “Sunny Acres.”

Encylopedia Brown & the case of the Missing First Aid Kit

“El maldito equipo! $@*#$#$!” When I surfaced alone from my last dive in Las Marietas in the Bay of Banderas, Puerto Vallarta, I got an invaluable opportunity to employ the latest additions to my knowledge of Mexican slang. I didn’t see our dive boat, and my band aid-bloody left hand stung from a brush with a rock that in geological circles must no doubt be called ginsu-ite.

Preventing me from soiling my pantalones, there were other boats I could see away off, and the visibility was so good I could see clearly all the other five divers on our expedition, fifty feet below. “Hmm…guess it didn’t turn out to be a bad thing that there are no sharks around here.”

I had known that my dive would terminate early; I noticed early in my descent that my pressure gauge was farting big bubbles, and no amount of fidgeting would stop it. The dive profile was fairly shallow (45-50 feet), and I doubted that my “amigos” from Chico’s Dive Shop had brought an extra-BCD, as the shrugging dive leader N. gave no indication to surface after showing him the issue.

As problemas like to do, and why textbook wisdom or just plain wisdom is to abort after the first sign of trouble, they multiply. The first seven minutes of the dive I spent making an equalization seesaw, distracted by having to obsessively check the rate of air consumption (and to add to my state of inexperienced disorientation, there was a current until the point we reached a thermocline).

The highlight of my truncated last dive was being able to check off my first undersea sighting of another species of the aquatic menagerie. N. had caught a black octopus the size of two fists, spewing tendrils of black ink and none too-pleased to be temporarily captive.

I had conflicted feelings about N. handling the critter, since I had only seen octopi hiding in crevices before, not that clearly. (In the first dive of the day, my dive buddy G. from Aguas Calientes had intentionally brushed against a pufferfish’s tail unsuccessfully trying to get it to inflate, leaving me wondering if the spines are venomous.) Personally, unless I’m going to eat the said sea creature, my instinct is to be hands-off, both practically because of my ignorance of for which species handling would be a painful mistake and a gut discomfort with it. In the PADI training manuals I’ve read this is put as an ethical precept (or in cases of nature reserves, legal precept) to preserve and protect sea life, but this made me wonder how much this reverence is grounded in the otherworldliness of the undersea versus instances where this has a rational basis in the period of time needed for a specific organic structure like coral to regenerate. If N. had instead captured a terrestrial invertebrate creature, perhaps a scorpion, and similarly treated it like a toy, would I have passed a moment’s thought on it (though given the likelihood that an octopus has greater levels of sentience this is an inexact parallel)?

After a few minutes bobbing, I. on the dive boat finally noticed me and motored over. I passed up my weights, then my BCD. Doing dips was good for something, and I hoisted myself up over the hull instead of taking the ladder so I could keep my fins on, and asked I. if he had a band aid or something for my bleeding hand. No. But he did have plenty of beer to offer. Priorities, priorities.

I picked the wrong company to dive with, overly taken by the slick presentation; being in business since 1968 hadn’t taught them to have a first aid kit available on every boat. At that point I didn’t even want to find out if I had been so stupid as to have gone diving with a company that didn’t bother to have a tank of emergency oxygen onboard. Not to say I was unhappy that I went or that aside from having to abort my second dive any part was unpleasant (in my first dive that I day I saw for the first time a giant Manta Ray gliding by and went through for the first time an underwater rock arch). But imaging how things could have gone worse brought home an essential aphorism: “diver beware.”

Comic Relief

Not enough people read this blog, so to be juvenile, here it is folks, a snapshot from the Malecon in Puerto Vallarta I have entitled "Mexican Hooters." My search engine rankings will enter the stratosphere!

The trip went great, and I'm putting the finishing touches on a over-long travelogue I'll post here.

I went and saw "The Wedding Crashers," and I'd have to say for what it sets out to do, it succeeds, probably because they went for the R-rating and didn't PG-thirteenize it. Definitely needed a good laugh on Friday, and it more than delivered. I also got a wedding invitation on Friday, so I guess I can't really "crash it" per se...but I'm definitely saving for future playback, "Some people say we use 10% of our brain, but I think we use 10% of our hearts."

I'm upgrading my odds of winning an appeal after reviewing the med. information the Peace Corps got and how they could misconstrue its meaning, and I'm going to try to get it sent in this week just because I can't stand suspense.

4F. F.

"What happens to a dream deferred? Does it dry up
like a raisin in the sun?" -- Langston Hughes

Nah, the dream takes new shape, molded by new constraints.

I'll appeal in case the finding was based on a misapprehension or misconstrual of the facts, or a need for more detail, but I've stated the facts and the PC docs say they can't accommodate me because I suffer from migraines. I've already stated that Imitrex is very effective at preventing my migraines from going past the prodrome, so I'm going to try to make more clear to them that 95% of the time I know when I'm getting a migraine, the other 5% is when I wake up with one.