At the end of the season

 – Baja in late February –

Do not come home!

our neighbor wrote and attached this picture of our far away house:

So we gladly look around in our paradise and feel the sun on our skin. The southerlies have started by now, bringing warm, slightly moist air in. The birds are noisy in the mornings. We are getting restless too; but there is still snow even in southern California.

* * *

 Not a drop of rain this year! The Baja is groaning. The drought is not at all unusual but tough. On the coast, at the edge of permanent water the desert is pleasant.

A quiet February day on Danzante

 Nature makes these funny things. Pounding water waves have gnawed on this rock for eons. Imagine when it finally falls: A big bang for a human who happens to be the witness; an insignificant step in the timeless, ordinary process of geological erosion.

 We met Byron – a sailor from San Francisco – when he prepared this one morning on top of a hill near Honeymoon Cove. Later Parvin met them in town and learned that ‘she‘ said yes.


The bone-dry Giganta in the background

 Life takes hold everywhere. Barnacles building their little houses on regularly submerged rock.

 * * * * * * *

I don’t know what this is. They float in the water. As they are completely transparent they are pretty much invisible. You only see them outside of the water when they roll around in the surf on the sand. As they are extremely slippery and soft it’s almost impossible to pick them up and handle them.

 Lying on my paddle they work like little magnifying lenses.

 * * *

 I found and liked this somewhat mysterious little poem-story:

The Lake

by Michael Hettich

 This girl I hardly knew, taller than I was

and skinny, who made us boys

puff ourselves up and show off how far

we could throw rocks, or how many times

we could skip stones across the choppy water;

this awkward kid I’d never really spoken to

asked me one afternoon to swim across the lake with her.

We were sitting on the dock. It was chilly, but I said

I would do it, though the other side was hazy – almost

out of sight – and it would take us until dark

to make it there and back. So we dove in and started off

slowly. As we swam, mostly breast stroke, she talked

about the lake, how old it was, what sorts of creatures

lived there now, how it had changed

over its lifetime, the depth of its ice

in winter, how the fish huddled down on the bottom

between the ice and mud. And then she asked me

what I knew, and I had to say, Nothing in particular.

And then, despite myself, I made up a story

About the stars: I heard myself singing a song

I made up as I sang, about constellations,

and soon she was singing with me. We reached

the middle of the lake, out of breath but singing,

and realized the other side was too far. We treaded

water there, then turned and headed back, quiet now.

We were tired. We climbed out and walked our separate ways

Home through the dusk light to our families

in silence. No goodbyes. And we never spoke again.

                                                                     Klaus  last days of Feb. 2011

This entry was posted in 2010/2011, Winters and tagged , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s