Bozo the Clown

When I first started coming to Yelapa, you were lucky if you ever got your mail from the states. A telegram was even more exotic and usually just floated around the PV post office never to see the light of a Yelapa sunny day. Apparently, my family had been desparately trying to reach me to no avail. There was a telegram somewhere in Mexico that was yet to find me. How I found out what happened was quite by accident. 

There was a guy named Spence from Half Moon Bay who wanted to buy a fishing boat back home. He talked me into flying up with him and checking it out. I buy, he fishes. I still had some pesos back then. While in CA, I decided to call my folks to say hello. No one answered the phone. I tried my sis and she was not in NY. No one was where they should be. Finally, after many attempts, I phoned my X and asked him to check this out for me. 

Tragically, it turned out my brother-in-law died unexpectantly after a long illness which I knew nothing about. I tried to get a plane to NE, but United was on strike that week and that was the only airline that flew into Lincoln back then. I was stuck. After a week up North waiting for the strike to end, I finally made it home and saw the emotional wreck my sister had become. A month of sadness and worry and 2 sets of Jewish parents lamenting every second had been her life for 40 days and nights. Her young husband had died and she was like a pinball pinging around inside the family house in the middle of a Midwestern winter.

I grabbed her and flew her down to Mexico to spend a month with me. She was really out of it and in great shock. Her eyes were red and swollen from crying, but she slowly and eventually came back to herself in our little jungle town. Nelo, Conrad and Sara's son, was about 5 then, and we ran into him on the path one day. He looked right at her like kids will do and called her Bozo the Clown! I was stunned and worried she would just fall apart, but we looked at each other in shock and then started to laugh hysterically. Sam had finally broken the wicked spell she was under and began the healing of her heart. Nelo was just a little boy but he helped Sam begin to recover with the candid observation of a child. Thanks!

Speaking of Pigs

I just got home from 2 weeks in Manhattan. The Big Apple is def the antithesis of Yelapa. Could there be anything more opposite? Uno momento....while waiting outside a theater in Brooklyn (Dumbo) I spotted 2 little pigs coming my way! First, I thought they were little fat dogs, but as they got closer to me, I realized, “Hey. those are pigs!” The little porkers were collared and unleashed casually trotting down the city street as if they'd done it dozens of times. As they got closer to the crowd waiting to enter the stage show, their owner got a little nervous and called them back by name. I couldn't hear what she called, but witnessed the two porcine pals turn around upon her command and trot back without a second thought. Well behaved, obviously well trained, I thought they'd be the perfect pet to bring to Yelapa, but I'd hate to see such a tasty little friend get stolen, grilled and then presented at Pollo Bollo next to a pile of chaote! PS: No lipstick!

Doberman Pig

I miss the family cerdo tied up with a simple rope in front of the casas. Photos like this really make me feel nostalgic for the more simple life we had in Yelapa. Yes, it's cleaner and probably healthier now, but honestly, don't you miss those grunts and the little piglets along the paths?

One night rumor had it that there was a party taking place up behind the old cantina way above town. Deeanne and I decided to venture forth and try to find said party. I don't remember whose fiesta it was, but it was at the first gringo rental in an area we weren't that familiar. There were still mostly just Mexican families living up here so we weren't savvy to the paths.

We stumbled up the dirt path in the dark with our little flashlights, laughing and having fun trying to figure out where we were..not certain which way the path should take us and there were no helpful signs along the way. Suddenly, we heard a monstrous snarl and the biggest blackest wild creature ever on planet earth lunged at us. We must have jumped 10 feet into the air! Surely, we were being attacked by some wildebeast in the dark. My curls went straight and Deeanne dropped her flashlight in sheer terror. We had never heard anything like this before.

Luckily, the huge PIG was well-tethered and we were safe, but we never forgot that Doberman Pig. El Cerdo was probably just as frightened that night by the stumbling, bumbling gringas as we were of him!

Dave the King

Just ran into Dave King in town the other day. I told him about Raicilla Dreams and a story about him to go with his picture. I thought maybe I should run it by him first. I don't want anyone to feel uncomfortable with what I say in the blog. Dave has given me carte blanche to say whatever I want...since everything has already been said about him. 

Today Dave is a respected real estate broker that stands at least a head taller than most. I mean that literally, he's a big, tall guy. When I met him, he was more the hustler type. He worked as a union iron worker off and on and had lots of shall we say “outside interests”. Like many of us from the 60's, he had his finger in many pies and his pinky in a corner of the underworld. He survived.

Dave has beautiful identical twin daughters with his X, Shannon. They were born prematurely in the early 80's and were the tiniest little creatures I'd ever seen. He could hold them both in one of his big hands. Now they are grown women.

In Yelapa he would find pretty girls on the beach and offer to rent them a room in his casa...like many folks did and still do to help out with the rent. Nothing wrong with that! However, Dave figured out a way to have his cake and eat it, too. He took on his “tenants” as occasional lovers, meanwhile letting them pay the rent! Clever boy. I used to think that was really nervy, but it certainly worked out for Dave. He had a lot of chutzpa! 

Dave, I salute you for sticking with the program and making such a success of your life! Did you know we all knew about your little paying love trysts?

Cracked Nut

I was enjoying a few uninterrupted moments in my hammock at Casa Cynthia when some friends dropped in.We were joking around and being all casual when the ropes suddenly snapped and I fell straight to the floor. Only it wasn't just a floor, it was a little rock wall and the back of my neck smacked it pretty hard. I lay there for a minute or two stunned...checking my fingers, my toes, everything seemed to be moving as they should. I wasn't seeing double and although I was a bit dizzy, I thought I had survived the impact pretty well. We laughed it off and decided to head down to the beach. I don't remember getting there but the next thing I knew there was a drink in front of me. Someone had ordered me a coco loco and then things started getting interesting.

I was a little confused, but apparently, it wasn't that much different than my usual confusion and no one seemed concerned, least of all me. I don't remember much, but at some point I just fell over backwards off my stool at the hotel bar where we were all sitting. Victor helped me up and I stumbled over to the baño to pull myself together. 

When I came out there was no one around. Everyone had just disappeared. I wasn't really even sure if there had been any people in the first place. Well, I wasn't going to be looking stupid...I just acted as if that was perfectly routine and I had just been there alone the whole time. I sat back down and went on as if nothing had happened. Eventually, my friends reappeared laughing hysterically. They thought hiding was hilarious. What they didn't know was that I had a mild concussion and I wasn't just wasted at the beach. It took me 2 or 3 days to get right.

From then on, I always checked my hammock ropes before climbing in. I was lucky that day.

New Stories Coming Soon

Sorry, friends, I've been too busy remodeling my own little place to sit down and write some new posts. I haven't forgotten you!

Isabel promised to write some stories and Joanna wants to tell a tale or two. Please feel free to send me any memories you might like to share and I'll post them.

FYI...There is a Yelapa North Party Potluck in Santa Cruz on August 17 at Frederick Street Park next to the Upper Harbor. I'll try and find more info and post.

A Day At Casa Primo

Yes. Well, my first task of the day, as a houseguest at Casa Primo, was to get out of bed while it was still dark, creep down to the banana plantation, and, with the aid of a tiny muffled Maglite, check around the roots of the banana trees to see if the delivery from the mountain had yet been made by Clemente, the FedEx man. Had that been the case, much commotion would have ensued, but on this particular day to which I refer in my title no such hubbub awaited. The day stretched before us―calm, limpid, its silence broken only by the pneumatic protestations of the donkeys across the river, the remonstrations of roosters attempting to herd their hens into more bug-infested pastures, the Dopplar-enhanced symphony of many boom-boxes passing on the trail playing the indigenous lays and chansons of the region, the famous pack of Fifty Barking Dogs of Yelapa, and always one or another of the village caballeros shouting imprecations at his runaway horse while beating the air with his machete and screaming further curses at the pursuing schoolchildren vainly attempting to earn a few centimes by catching the fleeing animal.

But the day did not truly commence until the moment that Primo, emitting an acoustic band's worth of assorted sound effects (for that read Spike Jones or The Kinks), rose from his bed, scratched his head and then gave certain other areas of his body the same treatment, and almost instantaneously began the first of several Plans du Jour by which we were to occupy ourselves for the rest of the day. Had we―or shall I say I―but known, on this unforgettable occasion, what was to come, my natural sanguinity would have fled, and very possibly I would have fled with it. But at first there was no indication that the day would come to―what it did, with its agony of fear and trembling a la Kierkegaard. Or worse. I watched a flock of egrets swoop up and down the river like a great broom of white feathers, gazed wonderingly at Primo as he sat, sunk in thought as one of the great Rodin “Three Shades”, found my place in Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, and settled down to savor my tranquil existence. But I had neglected to remember what the Three Shades were contemplating in their pensive postures―it was the torments of hell that they pondered, the agonies of the damned.

(To Be Continued when Beth returns from a 2 week Yelapa sojourn)

An Aside

Donna looked at your site, and was suitably amazed. I don't know if she will contribute, but she did remind me that somewhat before both Nico and Matthew were born, Sara and Conrad had a little girl, Marina, who was born in Yelapa, summer of 1970. That time it was Esperanza who mid-wifed the birth.....Michael Robins

Story Contributed by Michael Robins

David Berlin is  not quite right. The first gringo kid I know of born in Yelapa was not Sunny Day, but Matthew, Jerry and Mary Beth's first, in 1971. I know this because my own son Nico was born in Vallarta a few months before, my wife Donna having decided it was too risky to stay in Yelapa. Sure enough, when Matthew came—aided by Peggy Mundel and Esperanza the midwife—a problem with the afterbirth occurred, so they sent for Donna late at night, because she had been an obstetric nurse. 

I stayed with our son, of course, sleeping in his mosquito-net-covered hanging cradle—at that time in the house of Ponciano, one of only two up and across the creek in the village—waiting for hours. I tried to stay calm, puffing a little weed but abstaining from raicilla, with a breast-fed infant liable to awaken hungry at any moment. Finally, she returned with the news that Mary Beth had insisted on waiting for nature to do the job without interference; on the next day we learned that it had emerged at last and all was well. I've never been able to decide whether Mary Beth was courageous or foolhardy. Perhaps both.

Leapin' Lizards

We were all gathered at a Valentine party on top of the hill at Karina's folks' house which I had rented one winter. Everyone was laughing, talking, eating and entertaining themselves however they might. Lots of delicious food, a little tequila and raicilla goes without saying and maybe a little something to smoke.

Suddenly we heard a rustle in the tall palm in front of us and watched with unbelieving eyes as a large iguana fell from the tree and plopped onto the ground way below. It was a long fall as our collective eyes followed the lizard in slow-motion as it twisted in mid-air and disappeared from our view. We all sat quietly for a moment and then burst into laughter bonding in the knowledge that not everything was perfect in the jungle after all. 

Crossed Stars

I was a few hours away from living on the trail. The casa I had rented was still not empty. Someone named DeeAnna was living there and NOT leaving on time. I was getting very frustrated as I waited impatiently for this princess to get o-u-t of my next living space. Finally, I heard she was going in an hour and I found myself face to face and being introduced at Chico's on the main beach. She looked up at me with those knowing eyes of hers and casually greeted me. I could hardly wait to see her leave! Nothing personal, mind you, I just wanted to move in to the house. That was our first meeting and subsequently, we met again the following year and became best friends. She later told me that she thought I had dark energy and mentioned this to Isabel. She wasn't sure about me but Isabel assured her that I was just fine. I guess my vibe about trail sleeping was too negative and Dee picked up on that. 

In this photo Dee is painting one of her famous colorful T-shirts. DeeAnna of Yelapa had figured out a way to survive in Mexico and sold them at Rita Tillet's Gallery Shop and venues in PV. You might even have one of those originals tucked away somewhere. Today DeeAnn is a well-known artist living and working in Santa Cruz and still one of my closest friends. Visit her website at www.dhooker.com .

True Stories

Sometimes there isn't much to do in a small town. Yelapa in the 70's was a lot like a rural village anywhere in the world. I should know as I was raised in Nebraska. For the gringo residents, and we thought of ourselves that way even though we were just tourists who had stayed, we were constantly looking for fun and something unusual to do. Some days just had more hours than others.

There was no electricity, just a restaurant or two on the beach, and how many times could one walk to the waterfall? Two boats, the Paladin and Sombrero, came most days from PV like circus boats bouncing and weaving their way across the Bay, OOM PAH PAH OOM PAH PAH  speakers blaring loudly across the sea. They arrived relentlessly on schedule with fresh recruits for our little practical jokes. This day I believe it was the Sombrero.

“Hey, let's go!” Peggy B. encouraged us, “it's almost canoa time at the beach.” As a habit we would arrive and plunk ourselves down in the sand right in front of the spot that was used by the boatmen to unload tourists. There were NO piers. As each boatload of newbies reached shore, they would stare ahead, mouths agape, not sure what to do with their high heels or nicely tied leather shoes. “Jump! Jump!” the canoa guys had learned to shout in English. The shocked tourists would fall into the water like sausages in a boil. Some would just get feet wet and a few would lose their balance and topple into the waves. We thought this was hilarious. When I think back to these times, I can't say I'm proud of our actions and we probably looked every bit as silly as these folks getting out of our first canoa in a big wave. Yet, a laugh was a laugh and there we were taking advantage of someone else's foibles to get one.

Sooner or later, this activity got a little boring, too. One day a new friend, Bongo Dick, often folks with more common names must be given an identifier of some sort, and Peggy B., the Canadian party girl and myself decided to play a little joke on the tourists. Nothing like entertaining yourself in the jungle.

It was to be a threesome; a couple who had come to visit Yelapa with a philandering husband who just met a new island lovely. Peggy and Bongo took the parts of husband and wife and I was to play the charming beach girl. “I have to go to PV today anyway,” Peg offered, so, we prepared for our great drama to unfold and take place on the open sea. Bongo dressed in his finest shorts and sport jacket and arrived at the beach carrying a suitcase. The couple waited in line to board the big boat. “You, bastard!” Peggy screamed for all to hear, “I saw you flirting with that gringo slut on the beach, I hate you!” Everyone turned and looked at them while trying to look aloof, but completely engrossed in the unfolding personal drama.

“Honey, it's nothing, really, she was just trying to sell me a necklace,” he explained, “look, I bought it for you.” The fake wife slapped his hand backwards and the necklace of shells flew across the sand. 

“Why, don't you just stay in this disgusting place with your new little bimbo, you perve,” her mouth squirmed in an ugly shape. 

Everyone watched but dared not interfere. Finally, once on the boat, the fighting couple apparently escalated the argument, when suddenly, the husband, Bongo Dick threw his empty suitcase overboard and leapt to the top of the rail and jumped! From shore, this was my cue. As the jilting new lover I came running, waving and throwing kisses to my new love as he swam back to shore to live happily ever after....

We watched the entire boat of tourists move to the leeward side when Bongo jumped overboard fully clothed. They had fallen for our dramatic performance hook, line and sinker. All of us were delirious from laughter and when he reached shore in his soggy suit grinning from ear to ear, I ran to his arms. We embraced and kissed passionately and waved Peggy on to her ride to town. Mission accomplished and entertained for another day.

Wastin' away again in Raicillaville

Jimmy Buffett is going on annual tour again, yes, it's been 40 years of touring for him and his band! I just read this in the Sunday news yesterday. I've never really been a fan of Buffett, however, one of his big hits was the foundation of many a musical night on the playa. Who hasn't sat around a full moon fire with friends and sang offkey with all their heart and not just a little tipsy: “wastin' away again in Raicillaville” (Margaritaville), and, one of his 1977 hits, Changes in Latitudes, Changes in Attitudes. This was hardcore Yelapa entertainment, folks. According to the newspaper, the name of the upcoming tour will be: The Year of Still Here and just maybe that should be the name of this blog! 

“At 61, the poster boy for laid-back living is in the middle of a 28-concert tour, filled with third-generation fans. No, Buffett says, he isn't tired of it. And if you haven't seen thousands of so-called Parrotheads acting like sharks-with hands clasped above their heads-all singing, “fins” moving in unison, you've missed a cultural phenomenon.” quotation from interview with Buffett by Ann Oldenburg in USA Weekend. 

I can't believe I'm as old as Jimmy Buffett. But does he feel old? “No,” adding, with a twinkle in his eye, “I'm certainly not acting my age.” Now  that's a Yelapan attitude!

A Proud Moment

One afternoon I stumbled upon a large turtle laying on its back in the middle of the playita near the Yacht Club. At the exact moment I spotted it, coming from the opposite direction toward me was my friend who shall go unnamed. I could see that he was as stunned as me to find a turtle that was going to become turtle soup. Turtle steak and turtle soup were served at the Yacht Club often. Without saying a word to each other, our knowing eyes locked and we met at the turtle that was trapped upside down by its own shell. It was obvious a fisherman put it there for safe keeping til he could kill it and sell it. My friend and I looked around quickly and not seeing anyone nearby picked up the poor creature and ran to the water's edge with it as fast as we could. We heaved it into the sea and heard it take a huge gasp of air before it disappeared beneath the surface. Then we disappeared. No one ever caught us and we never talked about it to anyone, but it's one of the proudest moments in my life.

story contributed by David B

I first met Allen the summer before I turned 14. I had been spending all of my summers in Yelapa since Buddy, my dad, had moved back there from Zihuatanejo in 1969. That sixth summer, like the previous five, was spent diving in the morning, home by one, put away gear, clean fish and myself, chill for awhile with lots of books in the hammock looking across the bay at the changing light on the beach. Buddy would drink a coffee and flip through a book, Kenneth Lo's Art of Chinese Cooking or Tales From the Mullah by Idris Shah; some Foo Chow Fish Soup and Side of Parables with jazz playing on our stereo. At that time the stereo was still a big novelty and, I believe, jazz may still be a novelty.

We had a Blaupunct car stereo hooked up to a car battery and once a week we would go across the bay to Hotel Lagunita where the battery would get charged by their generator, the only power in town. Dad would exchange it for one he left the week before, now charged. My first step of pangero apprenticeship was dropping him off at the beach, doing a few laps around the bay, then picking up Buddy holding the charged battery.

Anyway, when the afternoon breeze picked up at around 3:30 or 4, he would go next door to Ratza at Casa Vieja. This would require going over the seawall around the canoas that were tied up above the little playita that separated Casa Bari (the Mexicans could not pronounce Buddy, and, so, called him Bari or more specifically, Don Bari) or the Blue Note (for the Blue floor in our kitchen and the constant jazz drifting up the trail from the palapa. Years later

Maria Von Big Tit, as Buddy called her, took over his house and it is still there now bigger and presumably better with a watsu pool and another owner. That is another story.

Over at Ratza's, people would gather every afternoon when the breeze kicked up and in the summer, right before the rain would come down. Ratza, by the way, was not her real name. I guess it was as real as any name people take on, but her given name was Shirley. She took on Ratza when she and my dad's then girlfriend Ruth (sister of the first Nurse Christina mentioned in earlier blog) had briefly followed a guru of dubious repute.

There was a smallish wooden table off the kitchen under a piece of blue lamina that would let in light, but, as dad constantly observed, would heat up the kitchen in those late afternoons like a sonofabitch. Ratza would sit facing the ocean with her back against the trail towards Juana, the pie lady's house. To her left was the sink and beyond the window the root canal portion of the trail. My dad would sit there with a chairback to the ocean and another facing that trail.

Ratza would make pot after pot of coffee using a French Press, which at the time was the most technologically advanced gadget in town other than Eliadoro's Juke Box at the cantina! Ratza would lead discussions about higher consciousness and she would use certain phrases over and over. I would tag along with Buddy and if we were early and there was room at the table I would sit and learn that there are no accidents and what Jung would have said about this or that.

Ratza was like Yelapa's own Yoda. With her head tilted down, she would gaze up at you with her huge Betty Davis eyes (I swear) a joint in her hand and tell you something like Good God man, you need to wake up! Raise your consciousness...or some other shit to a kid like me. Somewhere between the second joint and the first toss of the I Ching coins more adults would show up and I would be bumped from the table which was fine, because , like my dad, I didn't really like that many people.

Some people I liked because I thought they were cool like Jim and Georgia Stanley, Casa Vieja regulars until their first child, Sunny Day, was born, the first gringo kid born in Yelapa. Jim was a professional gambler so I was impressed. Others were fake, full of shit and smelled weird, so I was relieved when I was relegated to the hammock where I could still hear Ratza, the thing of it is...and I could keep an eye on Las Palmas where my novia Emiliana would soon be making her way down to the playita in between Panchito's house and Las Palmas.

Emiliana lived in the white brick house above Panchito's brick house on the water. Panchito was a fisherman like all his brothers except Ramon who became a mason. The Mason. What these brothers had in common was their wives were the first pie ladies; Augustina and Juana. Las Palmas was the grove of Cocos with nice boulders for sitting that was in front of what is now Ronco and Ana Rosa's home and apartmientos.

Ana Rosa is Emiliana's aunt and when my family first moved to Yelapa in 1963, Ana Rosa, then 12 years old, became our maid and my nanny. I am honored that her first son is named David, mi tocayo. In those hot summer days, where the pier is now, all the young cousins in that neighborhood would go swimming in the afternoons to keep cool. Meanwhile the parents would sit in Las Palmas knitting bathing suits, doing needlepoint and swatting jejenes gnats.

I'd sit and watch for Emiliana walking down to the water. I could see her looking over her shoulder in my direction to see if I was coming and I would follow after a minute or two. I'd slip out of the hammock, jump the seawall, and be in the water swimming toward the pangas moored in front. I knew the adults were watching, so I'd swim up to Santos or Carlos or any of her other cousins and talk about what fish we caught that day while the girls would talk about boys while giggling and splashing each other.

Eventually one of us would drift off, dive down and end up on the windward side of a panga where the adults could not see us from shore. I would hang onto the panga with one hand with my feet pressed onto one of the ribs that run the length of the bottom of the boat and Emiliana would sit on my legs. My free hand on her back, we would talk about what she did that day or what fish I'd caught and so on. She would correct my Spanish and make fun of me and after about two hours of this there was an unseen signal and it was time to go. We'd have one quick kiss and that was it.

And so it was day after day with little change. All of my gringo friends lived on the other side of town or up river and if I went to hang out with them I would usually stay over night or until dark. This was before the Water Taxi, so, if I was upriver I was staying. There were lots of gringo kids. Tony and Giles, whose parents built Rancho Los Naranjas were my best friends and in the small world category, the brothers who built that house would later build the Rancho at the Point (now part of Verana) for Buddy's girlfriend Celeste's sister; Sara. This casa

was eventually occupied by my wife Josee, just long enough to give birth there to our oldest son Nico.

My other close friends were Tali Shapiro, Pichon and Reyna, Rick the Stick's kids and Todd and Letty, Ratza's grandchildren. Jeff and Dariah Elias and Monica Tillet and her crazy brother Marco were there, too, but they were older and we'd only see them occasionally at the beach or a gringo party.

One of those afternoons was different when we got to Ratza's. There were new people there at the table. There was a large man sitting to Ratza's right, facing the trail and a womann with her back to the ocean, facing Ratza. I held back and my dad went and sat in his chair by the sink. I went straight to the hammock, too early to see my girl but I could look out and pretend not to eavesdrop while I scoped out the new guy. Her was a big guy, tall with long dark hair and a big mustache. He looked like a pirate or Doug Henning. One would be cool, the other would be lame. I hadn't decided which he was yet. My dad sat down and there was some chitchat. I was deciding I didn't like this guy when my dad called me over. I got up and grabbed a chair by the door and pulled it over to the table next to this new guy across from my dad. As I sat down, I got my first glimpse of Susie Helschein. I had to look away because she was so pretty I blushed immediately. Damn, it was hot in here! It must be the lamina roof overhead.

I don't remember what the topic was that day, but I do remember Allen talking about what he did, something about diamonds. Yeah, right, whatever is what I thought. Who is this guy anyway? I was pretty much deciding he was full of shit when I took another glance at Susie. To that point in my young life she was the most beautiful person I had seen up close. She wasn't talking much but sat there with her serene look, occasionally gazing lovingly at her man. He was a total asshole in my eyes now. He didn't deserve, no, couldn't deserve her. No one could. I remember Susie's profile and her skin and her little mole. I don't know or remember how long I was looking at her and it wasn't until my dad kicked me under the table that I realized I had been staring at her.

I don't remember seeing Allen or Susie again until six years later when they met me at the airport after I was released from the PV jail. (another story altogether) Allen had come up with the money to get me and crazy Alan Curry out. It would still be a few more years until Allen and I became best friends. I love him to death but it took me that long to realize he is a pirate, not Doug Henning and, therefore, not lame.

Well, it is now 32 years later and I still stare at Susie, one of my best and most loving friends. Allen now kicks me (with his remaining good knee) when I need it, taking some place of my dad who has since passed away. Looking back, the best thing about the day I met Allen is that it is the day I met Susie!

The White Prince of Reggae

Josh Mills came sailing into Yelapa and my heart on his boat the Silverheels from Sausalito, CA. He was a wild musician that carried his axe around the beach and played all the Bob Marley tunes and other current expat songs of the day. Josh was popular on the beach as there was always a crowd waiting to embrace any decent musician, just like today.

We met and fell for each other instantly and I was his top groupie for a few months. He lived on his anchored boat with his partner Dave. Each night he rowed to Isabel's beach, pulled his dinghy up onto shore and made his way to my palapa where I waited with open arms. I'd hear him shout my name and run to greet him with a ready kiss. How I loved that man! One time the ocean was full of fluorecsence and I could see his oars paddling diamonds across the sea each time they dipped into the water. It was so very magical being surrounded by sparkling black water when my strokes broke the surface while swimming out to him. I'll forever cherish the beauty of the sparkling night seas.

He had a cigarette ready at the head of the bed for his morning ritual. I've never seen anyone smoke so much before. If it wasn't a cigarette, it was a joint, but I didn't care what he did as long as he was mine. I had just been in Yelapa for a few months. During that early time, I just hung around the beach, but didn't talk much. I watched and listened as I was still shy and unsure of myself after my separation and overindulgence in pharmeceuticals back in the Midwest. Josh brought me out of my shell and I'll forever be grateful to him for that.

He would sail in and out of Yelapa and my life during that first year. When I first came to CA looking for a place to live, I found him in Sausalito on a houseboat. He had a son named Thor and a wife! I was shocked and saddened, but she seemed to know her man and took me in stride when I appeared. Shoshanna was a very nice person and I had no intention of stealing her man once I knew the score.

I can't help but picture him when I hear Marley tunes like On the Rivers of Babylon and Get Up Stand Up. Once I found a note on my door from Josh. It was signed The White Prince of Reggae!

Chicharra

Orange Charlie was another eccentric character in Yelapa. He always wore orange-colored clothes and drank orange-flavored Fanta. Rumor had it that Charlie had taken one too many tabs of LSD, but that could probably be said about many of Yelapa's early gringo residents. In my mind, Charlie was a harmless character. He always carried a clicker that made the sound of a cricket or chicharra (cicada) which attracted the village children. He would click above their heads and offer a prayer and then give each child a small square pscyhedelic sticker. He was the Orange Pied Piper of Yelapa.

When I first came to Yelapa, I only knew how to count to 15 in Spanish. That was my limited vocabulary. One time I went into PV to do some shopping. I wanted some dyes and other art supplies. Obviously to me, chicharra was the word for orange. I went to several shops and asked for chicharra only to be met by blank stares. I finally pointed to the box of dye colored orange and was informed by the clerk that word was naranja!

Great Beauties

Ana Rosa along with her sister Irma are two of the great beauties of Yelapa. Ana Rosa is married to Ronco and have several children now grown up. I remember her as always smiling and happy and she was friendly and nice to me, too, although I probably had more of a relationship with her sister Irma in the early days of my Yelapa adventures.

One year Irma, who is married to Angel, decided to open a little hamburger place along the path in town below her house just past Eliadoro's Cantina. It was right below where their apartments are now. That year I brought vintage jewelry to try and sell. I had been part of an antique collective in the early 80's in Santa Cruz.  I set up a little stand at her “fast food” place along the trail and she sold jewelry for me. One day she came to my palapa and handed me about $70 dollars which was my share of our enterprise. I was shocked that we earned so much. Even girls in Yelapa liked the rhinestone glitz! I gave her my portion of money to put toward the youngest daughter Jasmin's education. She lives in San Jose now.

We were always connected after our negocio and then Angel came to Santa Cruz to find work along with his brother-in-law Ronco. I tried to teach them some English and over the years they became very skilled stone masons working on some beautiful homes and businesses in my town. You can see this great work at the Shadowbrook Restaurant in Capitola and Angel's sons are still here doing excellent work with their own company.

Ronco put the stone in for my fireplace so many years ago and recently I watched him put up a new wall in Yelapa...still an excellent craftsman.

That's Mary Ann in the photo, too.

Pesos?

If you've spent even a minute on the main beach you have probably met this woman. She wanders around with her palm extended and a gap-toothed grin. Some people think she is from a wealthy family and just likes to beg for pesos. However, I think she is somewhat poor and really needs some extra money. I think her family is a little embarrassed by her constant begging and maybe ignores her needs. I don't really know. Her name is Agripina (please correct me on this if I'm wrong) and she looks exactly the same just add 30 years on to this photo. Sometimes she wanders out to the point and I can hear her shouting from the path at the top of the gate. She is persistent and along with pesos is always looking for some type of handout. She's friendly and seems to have a good sense of humor through it all. Agripina wants a hug just like the rest of us! If you have more information about her, please email me.

True Blue

When I showed up in Yelapa in 1977, I was a mess. I'd been going through separating from my husband of 10 years. Along with that, I'd been dabbling in pharmaceuticals that left me too thin and too crazy. Yelapa saved my life. The most wonderful part was the new friends I made that didn't judge me, condemn me, or lecture me. I met many unusual characters there that first winter and some are still my closest friends today. I was healed in the tropics and I still feel very safe there. I can just be myself in Yelapa.

One of these kookie characters was MaryAnn Day from Ketchikan, Alaska. MaryAnn was really an easterner with a heavy accent and strong opinions. She was a beautiful buxom blonde that didn't take shit from anybody. She worked on a ship as a burser and came to Mexico to relax every winter. MaryAnn had a younger boyfriend with curly hair and he was part of the pubheads consisting of me, him, and my sister Cris. Cris is a Canadian of Italian descent and had been travelling with a girlfriend Catherine all around Mexico. She was 10 years younger than me, but we hit it off at once and have been friends for life. We pretended we were sisters with the same father and that we coincidentally found each other in Yelapa. We had quite a story about our heritage. Since we both had dark curly hair and I could pass for Italian it didn't seem that far-fetched. 

Cris was quite the little actress and over the years we pretended we were exotic dancers, French girls, hookers, and many other fantasy characters. Once in Victoria, we went to a bar where her husband was meeting with his running team for a round of drinks. We dressed very provacatively and sat at a table near them. He pretended not to know us whle we flirted and sent him drinks and notes to make the other guys jealous!. His mates never found out that was really his wife.

When we were the French girls we ordered pie at a restaurant. They asked what pieces we wanted and in our fake French accents we said we wanted ze whole blueberrry pie! The waitress finally believed us and brought us a pie and Cris dug right into the middle of it as if that were the most natural thing in the world. Another time we pretended we were hookers on the street in Gas Town in Vancouver, but we realized people were taking us a little too seriously and we were afraid we were going to get arrested and hauled down to jail. We cut that ruse short. I still think of her as my other little sister even though she's a grown woman with a family of her own now.

I met two guys that also met each other on the same day. They became lovers and are still together 30 years later! You might know them as Lalo and John, but when I first met them the dark handsome one was called Lawanda. He had long beautiful hair and a beard and was so dramatic and very creative and fun. His new boyfriend, John was blond and more athletic and a great swimmer. We spent many hours on the beach perfecting our tans and ogling all the new guys that came to the beach. The 3 of us were inseparable and spent many years in close harmony in Santa Cruz. Now they live in Mexico full time and John still swims across the Bay daily when he's in Yelapa. The stories we could tell! 

The Scorpion Incident

One day I was visiting Allen who lived at the Point in Fuller's House, which became Allen Singer's House, which now is Chrissy's House. It was a screened in house...like a summer porch in the Midwest, but on the waterfront. A scorpion appeared and I had never killed one before and knew very little about dealing with them. I just knew they meant danger.

Al proceeded to show me how to kill a scorpion. First, he got a huge kitchen chopping knife, then he cut off the tail, scooped it up onto the knife blade and proceeded to jump up on the table rather flamboyantly! He pulled out some matches lighting one and started a little fire to burn the tail in a special brass bowl. He told me this is what you have to do to kill a scorpion, chop off the tail and burn it! It was quite a little complicated ceremony! I hoped I'd never see one on my own as I was pretty sure I wouldn't be able to chop off its tail so mercilessly. Some part of me really didn't believe this demonstration, but Allen had a way of convincing saps like me to believe his crazy stories. He calls it being playful!

My only other scorpion incident up to this moment was living in the little school house near Christina Woodruff. My boyfriend Josh, the White Prince of Reggae, insisted on putting it into a jar of alcohol and for several days that poor scorpion suffered at our hands. I never forgot that and vowed not to kill one unless I absolutely had to do it and no more slow torture, it had to be a quick kill of some kind. The negative energy coming off that little jar is still vivid in my mind and those that insist on putting scorpions in alcohol for medicinal purposes are being cruel in my opinion. They should at least kill them first.

The day came that I saw one crawling in my clothes on the closet shelves. I was living in Casa Cynthia then, which is now Casa Sol on the water. Old John Williams (Cynthia's dad) was my landlord and he lived in the Crow's Nest above me. That house is called Casa Estrella today. I freaked...I had no big chop knife anywhere near me at the moment. I screamed for John to help me. He ran down from the top house, pulled off his flipflop and gave the critter a hard slap killing it instantly. 

I realized Allen had punk'd me that day and, thereafter, I knew I could dispose of the next scorpion when necessary.