I
am not entirely sure why Father and Brother have opted to join me, but
I trust their real reasons for traveling 1,727 miles into and out of the
southern peninsular state of Baja California Sur have more to do with
their mutual interest in Peter Benchley's The Girl of the Sea of Cortez than the idea of long days on the road, and damp nights in roadside tents.
"We all read that book," father said. "He wrote it after Jaws because
of people's response to the movie."
While
we salute each other with the tip of margarita glasses, an older lady
across the restaurant taps a hair-dyed-red biker on the shoulder. She
says, "I didn't recognize you with your clothes on." Her husband leans
over and says, "Honey, wrong table," The two, in a Daiquiri stupor, cause
an uproar of laughter from the biker's table. "They're over there," her
husband says, pointing to our table.
The
lady leans over Brother Hans and says, "I didn't recognize you with your
clothes on!" We had surprised Mrs. Carlisle near the mouth of the canyon
of El Trinidad when Brother Hans opted to swim across the narrows rather
than take the foot-path along the ledge. She had been watching birds,
which I found to be appropriate, since she had the expressions of a birdwatcher:
bookish glasses, and an eternal look of spryness and elderly spunk.
