Getting Back In

Where, when and how to end our town adventures; here again that low-tide pass plays heavily into equation. Rarely, now, do we attempt simple, "there and back," same-day excursions. "Over nighters" are much more common occurrences since we've moved from our old camp there at San Cosme, where the tide didn't effect us, to the secluded new one deep within El Carrizalito.

Usually we try to re-enter through a wide open tidal window. There are times, during the quarter moon, if there's no north wind heaving waves upon that passage, when the way is negociatable nearly all day: 24 hours. We've run it many times, us knowing we're going to get the tires wet, when the sea is laying flat or when there's a stiff off-shore breeze blowing.

Occasionally we've returned in the dark, us knowing that there's a chance that we'll not be able to cross. By the time we've reached the critical zone, usually our "get home" anxieties cause us to play things on the risky side. Knowing our chances as slim, we'll creep up to the very edge, truck lights illuminating a wet passage. If there are no waves, it takes a quite high tide then to stop us. Marcia thinks a lot of her pickup.

Whew! It feels so good to cross over, to be able to drive back to camp then, experience the excitement of the dogs upon our arrival. That truck's diesel engine, they can hear is from quite a ways off. Usually we're met before we close on camp's drive-through gate. Howling, whinning, lots of tail waggin' and jumping, that's how we're greeted then. And it always feels so good to be back!

Only one time did we miss all of last season. Anxious we were to cross back. I was not feeling up for a walk in the dark. Of course we were armed with flashlights, but we had a new puppy that would have to be carried the whole way. And my sciatic nerve problem was making sure that all I attempted would be met with angry protest.

We knew we were late and we knew the wind was against us. With pickup loaded down with weeks worth of provisions, we crept up to ultimate vantage point...from which we could see the way submerged, with rollers slapping up against rock walls that we'd have to get past. "No way!" we both expounded, Marcia killin' her engine. This load could set. One of us could walk back the next morning.

With just the absolute essentials, that puppy, we'd make our way by foot. I remember me cradling that pooch, feeling along in knee deep water that swelled up to my waist, rushing up swells of sea foam that tried to lift me and slam me into tide-halting, rock wall, me trying to illuminate way with Marcia experiencing some difficulty behind me. Tricky crossing, to be sure, but without falling er breaking bones...we do negotiate high and dry road on other side.

Great! Now it's just three K's of stumble and trip-along maneuvers till "Wham!" I hit the rocky ground, slamming down that little furry bundle that was my charge, quite hard. My knees and palms took my fall, skin scrapping free in the process. I'm sure foul oaths were uttered as that poor puppy justifiably yelped and cried with fright of hard reality. Marcia's concerned, of course. "Oh, that poor puppy!
Are you gonna make it, Smith?"

"Oh, yeah. Nothin' busted. Just lost some skin." And as I assessed that tiny mutt, I speculated it'd live, too. Puppies bounce lots better than old men do. Limping, bleeding, of course I lead the way down sketchy trail home. Ground was too cool fer snakes. Dogs didn't hear us till we made way nearly to our walk-through gate. They were real happy to see us. So seemed the cats.

Marcia went and retrieved truck and provisions early next A.M.

Email: david@dondavidonbaja.com