Codrescu's "Ay, Cuba!"

OK, I am back at the blog, after being virtually quarantined while cranking out those 3 tech books, especially the last two, which are thick textbooks. Totally draining and monstrous tasks, which I am in no hurry to repeat.

Today the U.S. government announced it will begin to relax restrictions on Cuba, so more Americans can visit (with permission) and they can bring back a few cigars and some rum. Also, more money can be sent from the U.S. to Cuban relatives.

It's been a few years since I've been in Cuba -- too long -- but my last trip was 3 weeks, and I got a good sense of the place. And I had been wanting to read Codrescu's take on it for a while, so I bought his book that he wrote in 1999 along with a photographer. Another guy tagged along with them.

The book is only 200 pages, and he spends the first 45 or so writing about the preparation and anticipation for the trip. I was bored and think that could have been cut to 5 pages. Once he started, it was sort of funny how they went out of their way to find a real voodoo or Santeria ceremony, acting like foolhardy tourists. But Codrescu stuck with it even if it didn't really turn out to be much. 

I thought of how typical it was, the set up, to fly down there and bring some cash to try to buy some experiences, but just end up getting scammed. Sure, I got scammed on some cigars early on, but I let myself fall into it, for curiosity's sake. I stopped when they wanted me to go up inside someone's house, since they didn't want to do the illegal transaction on the street.

Throughout the book, Codrescu and his 2 (and sometimes 3, including a local chica) companions write poems where each one writes a line, but they can only see the last word of the line the previous person wrote. So it mostly comes out as gibberish, but sometimes there is a hint of art. It's a good stab at it. But it seems more like a word game to me. Codrescu calls the output an "exquisite corpse." Maybe in a century scholars will find them and uncover their artistic worth.

One thing that bothered me throughout the book is there seems to be a concerted attempt to show Cuba and it's political system in a bad light. Codrescu, having fled communist Romania was a good candidate to make these critiques, but many of them I found tired, the same old U.S. government party line. No attempt was made to highlight the facts that Cubans do not have a drug problem on their island, they do not have homeless (sure, much of the housing is substandard, but people are not on the streets), and they are well-educated. In fact, Castro's regime took the island from about 95% illiteracy to 99% literacy. He also brought water and electricity to rural areas and every Cuban citizen receives free healthcare for life. They have some of the best doctors in the world, and their infant mortality rate that is better than the U.S. rate.

Sure, their economic and political system is restrictive, party due to their dumbness on business issues, and the lack of understanding of economic policy. Castro's theories failed miserably there.

But I found the Cuban people to be proud to be Cuban, and they find simple pleasure in the basics of life. They love to dance and sing, and they eat healthy food (pesticides were outlawed on the island in the 1990s, so they do not have problems with bees and depletion of soil) but also eat fried pork and fried plantains and everything. I ate fresh seafood and salads and even found some outstanding restaurants. After a few weeks I felt like Superman with all that good healthy food. And the pretty women.

I did enjoy the book, especially when Codrescu would slip in some funny lines and since I know him, I laughed even harder. The hotel he stayed in was the same one my brother did when we met up there. It is supposed to be 4 star and it is big, but it is more like 2 star. That's the way hotels are in Cuba, since the government runs them. Hotel Nacional, where I stayed the first time I was there, is rated a 5 star but it is more like 3 star, but with some grace. It is pretty cool to be there, where Churchill and Brando and Sinatra and all those gangsters stayed. The building needs more maintenance, but the ocean view, breakfast buffet and nightly dancing shows are great!

Codrescu admits to bedding one woman at the end, in an entertaining story (she pukes), but knowing him and knowing Havana, I am sure he didn't pass up all those opportunities he says he did. 

Sailing Across Panama

I took the bus across Panama from Panama City west to the Bocas del Toro archipelago; I went during the day so I could see some scenery on the 12-hour or so trip, but found that the middle of the country is largely uninspiring other than the dusty little native kids skittering down unpaved roads. I stopped about halfway, in David (pronounced Da-VEED) and dropped in on Richard, a retired sea captain, writer, and seasoned traveler who had lived for a time in New Orleans and had been providing me a lot of good information about how to manage in Panama. Those little tips and insights (like, "bring a nickel when you take the bus - you have to drop a nickel in the turnstile before you get on the bus but no one gives change," and "beer can be 75 cents a bottle in one place, and $3 next door, so be sure to ask in advance or check the menu") were helpful and he lined up a local Panamanian to pick me up at the airport, and I enjoyed the conversation. It's good to do as much research and planning as you can when traveling to a new country. So I dropped in on 70 year-old Richard and we went to buy some beers and he broke out some cigars for an evening of storytelling and good New Orleans music. He let me stay in the upstairs apartment at his house. I thoroughly enjoyed meeting him, and we stay in touch.  He writes an interesting blog, which sometimes is simply great:
http://onemoregoodadventure.com/

He has also self-published books and keeps himself busy writing. In the morning, we went to get some breakfast, and the local place didn't even have ham and eggs, so we went next door to the grocery and I bought ham, and a few eggs and they cooked them up for me, and I was off.


After the overwhelming beauty of the San Blas (Kuna Yala) Islands, the scenery was a let-down, except when the large van filled with Panamanians and me labored up into into the mountains, and then across the Continental Divide.

Arriving at Bocas del Toro, I took the water taxi to the main island (Bocas) and walked down the street and the first people I recognized were Zac and Indra, the young Aussie couple I'd met in the San Blas Islands. Good folks. Zac is mellow and easy-going, an avid surfer and skateboarder, and Indra has a sweet personality, a smokin' body and a big smile - a perfect couple. They had been working on a yacht in Spain, and took some time off to travel into Panama and Costa Rica. What I thought was cool is they didn't really have a travel plan or schedule - they were just going to go with the wind and stay where places seemed interesting, until their money ran out.

Since I hadn't planned much I walked the main street in town, lined with small shops, restaurants, and bars. (no Starbucks, no McDonalds) looking for the hostel the Argentinians I'd met in San Blas had suggested. Toward the end of the street I tracked it down. It was a huge place with over 100 people staying there. That's 100 backpackers, mostly all in their 20s, from all over the world. I wasn't crazy about staying 10 people to a room but that was the deal, as accommodations were tight. There were two old partying dudes who were actually older than me staying in the room. They were Key West-ers, free spirits. They said they were heading to one of the other islands, Basimentos. And there were a lot of surfers. Soon I was partying with the Argentines Juan, Andres, and Guido again, and some girls they knew from home. Julia, a fun-loving vivacious blonde, laughed through most of the evening. Later I found out that she is a serious photographer. We had a lot of fun that night!You might want to see my YouTube video - it starts with Julia laughing uncontrollably and about halfway through I joke with Andres and Guido:
Partying with the Argentinians

I was waiting on my ship to come it -  literally. Waiting on a boat to arrive from Maine for a planned trip across the Caribbean waters. So I didn't know exactly how long that would be, and I also was waiting for the Crazy Canuck and Meggie to arrive (he from Canada, she from Seattle).

The group of us went on a boating tour the next day, watching the dolphins, then to a good snorkeling spot and a nice restaurant on the water for lunch.  The coral was amazing.

Then we headed off to a different island to hang out on the beach and swim for the afternoon. As we were nearing the island, a group of bikini-clad gals came into sight. They looked to be doing some sort of photo shoot. Talk about paradise!

 So we swam and snorkeled and relaxed and Julia and Juan posed for a goofy shot.

The next day we took a trip to Red Frog Island, which has a nice bar and a great beach. The frogs are tiny and red - and poisonous.

After a few days the rest of the group (including the Aussies) moved on to Costa Rica and I hung out waiting on the ship and the rest of the my shipmates. I decided to stay a few nights on Basimentos Island, about 10 minutes away by boat. It is more Caribbean in culture, mostly populated with black people who speak in English and Spanish, but also a French Creole patois. The island is not as developed as Bocas (the main island) but it also has a slower, simpler pace.

You can rent rooms for about 10 or 12 bucks a night, although I went upscale and stayed at this place for $25 a couple of nights. It was a sweet spot!

The owner is John, an American man from California who sold his house at the peak of the real estate bubble and moved to Panama. He said, "I made more money than I ever thought I'd have when I sold my house. So I came down here to drink, fish, and womanize - and I've been doing that ever since!"  He laughs heartily and his giant pot belly (he never seemed to wear a shirt and was perpetually sweating) bounced and jiggled like a bad Santa Claus who'd taken a wrong turn. John makes a trip to the main island about once a week to play poker at a local bar, and he filled me in on a lot of the locals and local news. The most interesting item was his knowledge and detailed descriptions of a serial killer, "Wild Bill Cortez" - who had been caught after killing off a family, a loner, and a well-regarded local (American) lady, and then taking over their land. The stuff was creepy, like right out of a movie.

Here's a report on ABC News about it:
ABCNews Report on Panama Serial Killer


Near John's place there is a nice, paved and covered basketball court that the locals play at every evening once it cools off. I decided to get in on a game. Of course, all the other men were black guys in their 20s or 30s. I had a hell of a time running up and down full court, and my shot timing was off, since these guys would swarm when anyone got the ball and they could out-jump me by a mile, so I stuck with pushing the boys around under the bucket and grabbing some rebounds, and playing some hard defense to block up the middle. At the end of the game, huffing and puffing, I had a chance to win it and I set up a nice baby hook (a la Magic Johnson), but it careened off the backboard and tight rim, We ended up winning, but I quit after one game, I was pooped.

After a few days I returned to Bocas, and hopped around between hotels and hostels. I rented a bike and bought a basketball so I could get in better shape, and found an apartment which I rented for the month. it was a great location in the Saigon section of town, not far from a basketball court, local bars with 75 cent bottled beers, and a couple of beaches. I also found a campy little dirt court in town to play on, and I'd shoot around with the local kids, and played a few pickup games.

I got news that the boat was getting closer and they were going to anchor near Basimentos, so I went back to that island to wait. And finally, finally, there it was!  The good ship Maggie, cruising into port. I missed the Captain (Patrick) but we exchanged notes at a local hostel and soon we met up. He ferried a group of young travelers along with me over to the boat and we had a party. He wasn't too pleased with the mess they left, but everyone sure enjoyed themselves.

I was still waiting on Crazy Canuck and Meggie to arrive. They were almost a month late according to our original plan. But one morning they made it in. I was ready to go sailing! So Canuck grabbed an apartment across the street, and we were set to go. But then, bad news: I had just received an email from an editor at the publishing house and they needed me to re-write the book - again! That was unsettling. But the next day we packed our things and headed out to meet up with the ship.

When we got there the ship was empty. We climbed aboard and found a note, saying Patrick, Meggie and another shipmate (co-captain) had gone to the other side of the island to go surfing and they would be back within a couple of  hours. Canuck was pissed off, but we decided to go back to shore and just wait. We ate. We drank. Still no sign of them. So after about 4 hours we headed back to Bocas. I had work to do anyway.

Meantime, Canuck had gotten his buddy Johnny interested in taking the ship ride too. But he wouldn't arrive until the weekend. This would give us one more paying passenger, and another friend to share the experience, so we decided I would work on my book and we'd wait for Johnny.

Meggie and Patrick wanted to leave the next day, and we met at a bar had this big pow-wow, but settled on leaving on Sunday. I'd already paid, and Canuck was on the brink of canceling the whole thing, but I convinced him to wait it out and we'd have a better time. I certainly would feel better having my work behind me. And Johnny was coming in which would make the trip more fun and more profitable for the captain.

Johnny flew in Saturday and we immediately started pounding beers and planning the night. There was a happening bar on another nearby island that was loaded with hot young chicks in bikinis and surfer dudes, around 10 o'clock an night. It was mostly outdoors with swings and decks and ocean pools, where people would swing out and jump into the water. We got there and made the brilliant decision to do some shots of Jagermeiseter. Of course, we didn't feel them at first, so we kept going, Next thing you know we're chatting up girls, and Canuck jumps into the water without realizing his new Panama cell phone was in his pocket. We got just ridiculously blasted.

Next morning Johnny was sick - really deathly ill - but we were shoving off. I gave him some antibiotic I'd brought along and he was a little better. We got to the boat and found they hadn't stocked up on supplies - not even water or ice! We weren't happy since we'd already handed over our money and told the captain what we wanted to eat on the trip. He'd sent Meggie out and she'd gotten cookies, cereal and some other garbage. We wanted chicken, meat, and salads! So we went into town and stocked up pretty good - including 9 cases of beer (for the three of us). I bought Panama beer - my favorite - and the other guys bought Balboa.

The Captain had picked up some woman who'd been left on Basimentos by her boyfriend after an argument. Suddenly we had another (freeloading) passenger. She said she was Moroccan, but lived in the U.S. I got a bad vibe off of her right from the start, but what the heck - we were ready to cast off!

There wasn't much wind so we used the motor which cruised at about 4 knots (about 5 mph). After a few hours, we didn't get far, but needed to anchor since if we went farther, there would be no place to let it down. In the morning, the captain said he had some repairs and things to do so we swam ashore to a nearby island and hung out on the beach.


This wasn't how it was supposed to go: we had paid to sail and we were still stuck in the Bocas del Toro islands! Our patience was growing thin.

Finally, finally we shoved off. I held off on drinking beers and Johnny was still sick so Canuck was the only one drinking away. Within an hour I was seasick - this was totally unexpected to me since I generally have a cast iron stomach. I started puking, and puked probably 10 times  during the night, rushing up the stairs and leaning over the edge, projectile vomiting into the sea, with the boat rocking wildly from the high waves. This sucked! Johnny and I were down near the diesel engine which was ramming away moving the ship against the current, and against the wind. This went on for 36 hours. It was like a puking marathon to me. Horrible. Of course, Canuck was drunk and laughing the whole time. he took this pic of me ailing which he thought was hilarious.

The boat was tossing and turning from one side to the other, taking on water, and the water would rush down the hatch and soak me. I closed the hatch but some still was seeping in. We were in high seas - nothing but water all around. I'd nearly drowned in the Pacific a few months earlier, so this wasn't much fun.

I asked the captain how bad it was and if he ever got seasick, and he said this was pretty bad and that sometimes, rarely, he got sick too.

We pulled into the port of Portobello, a quaint city by the sea with a good harbor. As soon as the ship leveled off and slowed down, I felt better. We found a restaurant and hostel, Captain John's, and it was busy. We ordered up burgers, beers and fries. I hadn't eaten for almost 2 days so I was starved.

That night, I heard the captain throwing up over the side. He'd eaten the cerviche.

The next morning we had to look for gas for the dingy, and to get some vegetables and ice. Finding gas was hard - we were told usually you have to order it a day in advance. But I talked a local lady into getting us a couple of gallons at premium price, 5 bucks a gallon.

Canuck and Johnny were off shooting some hilarious video which involves an angry spider monkey lurching at Johnny and a black Jesus. Once I get the video from Canuck I'll post it. The entire boat was filled with laughter watching them cut up!
 
Captain Patrick told me he had some Dramamine, somewhere in his First Aid kit. I wish he would have told me that the day before! So I downed one and started pounded beers with Canuck and Johnny (that's him with a cigarette being a dork), once we shoved off.

We had a great time!

The next day wasn't bad at all and soon we were in the San Blas Islands. We stopped at one and went to a small museum, and asked some directions, since we were searching for Senidup Island - which was not on the nautical map. But we did eventually find Pero (Dog) Island, which I knew was only 10 minutes or so away. With a few more directions, we finally pulled up close to Senidup/Franklin Island (each half of it has a different name - due to a family dispute) and a small boat came up to check us out.

I recognized the young man in the boat as Tony, whose grandfather owned half of the island, and he pretty much ran the place like a little prince. He was short like all the natives, but had all the ice and pot and cocaine he wanted (not illegal in their nation) and with his good native looks and long hair, foreign girls flocked to him, usually a different one every night. When I was there the first time it was a sexy tall woman from Denmark, and the second time it was this very sexy and coquettish Argentinian girl, who, BTW, could also belly dance. And wow, what hips!

So I said 'hello' to Tony and told he recognized me and I said we were coming ashore and were going to stay the next couple of nights at the island. We came in by dingy except for Johnny, who swam ashore. The people visiting the island were excited that some sort of pirates had landed (literally hadn't shaved for a week, and had bandana around my head). The energy jumped up, and the lights went down, and Tony cranked up the music and broke out a bong, for a few select individuals. Since I was almost a regular, I got in on the act, and got Johnny a few hits too. We looked around for Canuck and later learned he was off with this German chick - and up to his usual shenanigans.

And later some other fun stuff happened!

A Day to Remember

The knock came at 5am; but no matter, I had been wrestling the sheets all night in a fitful sleep. Tired to the back of my eyeballs.

"OK, gracias."

I pulled the door open to let señor Luis know I was up. It was goddamned 2am my time; I hadn't adjusted in my three nights in Panama.And I was trying to wean myself from the calming pills the doctor prescribed for my anxieties, and the pain pills to ease my aching back. If it weren't for that idiot high school coach I might be in better shape now that middle-age was solidly upon me.

I flicked on the light and began to gather my things for the trip to Kuna Yala - the San Blas Islands of Panama, a stunning tropical archipelago off the northern coast. Hundreds of clusters of these pocket islands--some so small they only have one tree; others where stunted Kuna villagers live that take all of five minutes to encircle on foot. Only about 10% of the islands are inhabited, but the Kuna tribe owns them all, and every single coconut tree is owned by a tribesman.

"POW!!"

An explosion rocked the Panama City barrio and multicolored sparks shot from a transformer across the street, while the whole block went black. "Holy shit!"


Between the strobe-like flashes of lighter fire I one-handedly gathered my things. If only I'd been packed and ready to go! Why didn't I do that last night? I knew I had to check out early. Dumb traveler.

On the front balcony, señor Luis lay half-awake on the couch, his shapely teenage niece on the other, looking like an angelic Latina maiden.

Well, where the hell is my ride? "A que hora es?"

"Cinco y medio."

It could be another half-hour, so I rolled out my yoga mat and began some limbering poses.

Just then a horn blared - my ride!

I stowed one backpack behind the desk, grabbed the other and swirled down the stairs. Just as I reached the SUV the horn went off again. I pounded on the side window and the door opened. A large Caribbean-mix driver said in perfect English, "Get in front." Perfect. Maybe I could nap on the 2 1/2 hour drive to the coast.

We drove for about 15 minutes and picked up an Argentine couple, who climbed into the back seat. We made a few more stops, honked the horn and soon the seats were full.

We arrived at a large grocery store on the edge of town, and the group of us got out and some more SUVs unloaded and everyone was led into an office to select the island we wanted to go to, and to reserve a spot in a rustic cabana.

Franklin Island sounded good--I always liked ol' Ben--but most people were signing up for other islands. I wasn't sure, so I looked up from the honey-blonde chica's cleavage to ask.

'This your first time?"

"Yes."  I felt virginile.

"Senidup for you." 

I made the entry and paid, and went down to the grocery to prepare for Paradise. I was starving--no dinner last night which proved to be a mistake when I shattered my cocktail glass of dark rum on the floor in front of a small group of travelers, which I took as a Sign for the Universe to get my ass to bed.

Bananas, water, Gatorade, peanuts, and peanut M & M's would do it. After all, three meals a day were included.

A group of Argentinians were stocking up near me. "Hey, where'd you get the flashlights?"

"Over there," Juan replied, pointing out the aisle.

I was set. It had been a rough year, a tough couple of years, really, and the stress was pulling me apart. I'd gained weight, increased my drinking to a daily afternoon habit, washing down some pills later on, then rising before sunrise to work on that damn tech book that I was contractually bound to write, and had already spent the advance money several times over. If the editors had made the ground rules clear early on, it would have saved me a lot of re-writing and headaches. I had to toil through that monster four times in six months.

*     *     *     *     *

After driving a while we stopped at a roadside fruit stand and I picked up some oranges, fresh strawberries and a ripe pineapple. I needed cleansing.

The highway wasn't bad until we wound into the lush mountains where whole chunks of road were washed out. I quizzed the driver about Panama as he maneuvered.

"So what do Panamanians think of Noreiga coming back to go to jail here this week?"

"Some like him, some do not."

"You know the U.S. CIA was in business selling drugs with him, but then I guess he got crossways with them so they turned around and had him arrest for drug trafficking."

"His mistake was he tried to play both sides and the U.S. did not like that. He was in with the Communists so they took him out. What can he do now? His is an 83 year-old man."

"He can do nothing."

"Probably. But he still has some power. he knows the secrets of many government officials."

 *     *     *     *     *

Pulling into a clearing we parked alongside the other vehicles, emptied the SUV and approached the small band of pint-sized copper-skinned men in fishing boats.

We piled into the boats. I took a front seat, guided by the Kuna boatmen. This one had a cover overhead for shade, and it was getting hot.

We cruised slowly through the marshes. A half hour of this would be easy. Paradise was just around the corner.

When we hit the open water they opened up the throttle to wild cheers.

"Yee!  Wo-hoo! Aghh!  Aye!  Olé!"

We careened off the waves, with sprays of salty water wetting some passengers. We bounced and jumbled and the seawater blasts grew until everyone in the boat was soaked but me and the man next to me. I nudged him, "Driest spot in the boat!" A few more bounces and sprays and we were drenched too.

"Driest spot, eh?" He wiped his long face.

There was an upside. Through her wet bikini top, I caught a glimpse of the hard nipple of a Panamanian beauty sitting nearby. Her boyfriend noticed me noticing her. So I turned around and noticed a few more attentive nipples. But the Panamanian girl's were the most outstanding, so I peeked a few more times until she moved slightly and blocked my view.

Then her boyfriend told me she had to move to the edge of the boat, and I should move over unless I wanted to get puked on. It was a pretty rough ride.

Finally, the island was coming into sight.

There it was: Paradise! Like a postcard, picture-perfect palms waving from the tiny island.

The engine stalled.

The boatmen tried their level best to re-start it, but it sputtered and stopped each time until it was dead.

I'm thinking I'm going to be stuck on Gilligan's Isle.

Paradise, almost close enough to swim to (I nixed that thought after recalling my near drowning a few months earlier in cold Pacific waters.)

We drifted for about an hour. I made some conversation.

"You know I just read this Mark Twain story about these sailors whose ship burned at sea, and they had three lifeboats, and 10 days of provisions. After 43 days they were down to eating their boot leather."

"Didn't they catch any fish?"

"They caught one dolphin and a bird,  but at the end the crew was plotting to eat the captain first, saying it was his fault they were in that predicament. But the ones in his lifeboat were the only ones to make it back to shore."

"Well, we have food."

"I'm sure we'll be OK."

There was some talk about Robinson Caruso but eventually a boat pulled in front of us and ropes were secured and they towed us slowly to the island, where we were greeted by a group of colorfully-dress Kuna women and children while the men tended to the boats.

I was ushered to a bamboo slat cabana along with two ostrich-like German blondes, and an attractive Australian couple.

"This is weird," I said.

'What?"

"All of us in one cabana? I thought we were getting our own."

"Well, I suppose you should have reserved your own private little cabana," one of the Germans snapped.


'Fuck you,' I thought. I simply wanted some time to write.

I did some quick calculations about the cost of a private one, but decided to just roll with it. 20 bucks a day with three squares was a steal! I just wasn't crazy about the three women hearing my snoring and farting. That's more of a wifey thing.

 *     *     *     *     *

The long-faced man, David, and his sister, Sarah, peeled off of the buzzing group to the other side of the island, (which is about a one-minute walk). Then they were back.

"Where'd you go?" I asked.

"I've been coming here every year for eight years. I like to stay on the other side to chill, and hang on your side for partying."

"I'm on the right side for me then. Hey--what's with the fence?" I pointed out the chainlink fence that split the island in two.


"Oh, there's some dispute over the land and profits between two families. So they cut it in half."

"Families are the same everywhere, I suppose."

 *     *     *     *     *

I walked slowly around the islands' white sandy edge, which took all of five minutes. I tried to slow. This break had been a long time coming -- what with my brother's cancer and incessant need for attention, and the changing demands of the publishing house. I had gotten so discombobulated that I could barely function.  I wasn't me. I felt as if worms were eating my brain. The booze and pills had dulled my memory and dried up my creative juices. I hadn't written a damn creative sentence in a year, and my body was drooping in places where only old women should droop.I had to get out. So once my brother finished his rounds of radiation and chemo,and the tumor had shrunk and was projected to go away, I was off to warmer climes.

 *     *     *     *     *

I walked barefoot across the sands, found a basketball and shot at the makeshift island hoop nailed to a palm tree. Terrible shot. Again. Missed by a mile. I couldn't hit a thing.  What happened to that agile athletic young man I once was? I kept at it until I sunk one. Then another. A few more misses and another Argentinian traveler strolled up.

"Want to play 21?"

"Sure," I replied.

We were still warming up, and I was starting to hit some shots as the tropical sun filtered through the palm leaves overhead. A small Kuna teen walked up. We were getting the rules down when another athletic traveler came up and joined in. He was very pale, so I  just called him Whitey. It was me and Whitey against Kuna boy and the Argentinian.

The Kuna boy was on his home court and he was good, and damn fast. At 7-7 I was panting and beet red, thinking I might have a heart attack. I felt almost as tired as I did after my near-drowning. It felt invigorating but I wanted it to be over.

On the next possession I drove for the basket and tossed it in. Next, I dribbled a few steps and hit a short jump shot.

Bring the ambulance. I can't keep this up!

I dished to Whitey and he finished them off. I staggered victorious to the ocean and stumbled over some coral and plopped in. After about 20 minutes of floating I had caught my breath. Time for a cold beer.

The beers were warmish but no matter. I sat in a plastic chair as my legs tightened and watched others play ball.

Eventually, I made my way back over to the beach area, where three Argentinians were passing a bottle of sun-heated dark rum. I plunked down and Andrés handed me the bottle. I took a pull.

"Mas!"

I took another. But they were way ahead of me.

We spoke in broken English and broken Spanish the best we could. Soon a few more people showed up and later the Aussie couple joined us, and the siblings showed up too.

The sun was high in the Caribbean sky on this New Year's Eve afternoon. It was perfect.

 *     *     *     *     *

Someone got the idea to grab a boat to Pero Island to go snorkeling around a sunken ship. I was in. Sure - I wanted to see everything.

After a bumpy 20-minute ride, we hopped out, rented some snorkeling gear and swam out a short distance to the underwater ship.

It didn't seem very large at first since not much of it stuck out above the water.  A large, rusted wench and gears jutted out, and below the surface, vividly-colored blue and yellow fish floated and darted about. One small pretty one was in front of me, and I playfully tried to catch him -- nope, he was lightning fast. But he didn't swim off, he came back and we had a little game of 'catch-me-if-you-can' and each time my little buddy returned. I gave up trying to hold him, and just marveled at his magnificent, perfect beauty. He had a bright turquoise-blue head, followed by a black stripe, and another band of turquoise followed by another black stripe, a greenish-blue body and a blue-black tail.

I floated and admired that little fish as time stood still.

He was a joy.

The the Aussie Goddess swam by like a mermaid who'd just gotten her legs - long, sleek, beautiful legs floating from her womanly body. Her long hair waved in slow motion when she ascended to the surface.

When we came to the surface and tried to stand on the slippery, plankton- and coral-covered ship deck, the ocean's current made us slide and slip about which resulted in a few minor cuts and scrapes.  After about an hour the clouds were moving in so we swam ashore.

I grabbed a six-pak of beer from the cabana store just before we shoved off to head back. You would have thought I'd discovered fire for the group:

"Gracias!"

"Aye, Papi!"

"The Godfather! Thank you!"

The beer was much colder than on our island; it was as refreshing as it could be, the salty water spraying our faces as we bounced across the waves back.

Back at the beach the party was in full swing. It's gotten more crowded and drunken since we had left. The sun started to set over the crystal-blue waters.

A small boat eased to shore and the Kuna men unloaded huge sacks of lobsters, still flicking with resistance. They dumped the sacks on shore and pulled the langostas up by their tenacles. I picked a couple up, and then we went back to the bottle of rum and beers.

Soon the conch horn sounded across the island meaning our all-you-can-eat lobster dinner was ready. The meat was tender and delicious, with only some salt to quell the fishiness - no butter no garlic, au natural. The freshest lobster I've ever eaten. I ate four and staggered over to my cabana for a siesta.

At nightfall a bonfire was lit, and a party crowd gathered around. Guido was probably the drunkest man, and he spent the end of the night with the drunkest woman, a smelly Irish gal who had been on the island a week.

And a good time was had by all!

  *     *     *     *     *

"I think I lost my t-shirt and my dignity last night," Guido deadpanned.

Rising out of the clear Caribbean waters, I replied, "Did you have the Luck of the Irish?"

"Ha haa. Not so lucky. I have to recover. But that was a hell of a party!" Guido flopped down and floated on his back. "Sometimes this is the best medicine. The ocean's waters. Water."


  *     *     *     *     *

Had to Stop and Enjoy It

I couldn't work today. Yesterday, copies of my new book arrived. I slit open a box using my keys - but not too deep so that I wouldn't damage the precious contents. Folding the flaps back I could smell the fresh ink and paper -- sort of a 'new car smell' to me; I reached in and cracked open the pages of my baby. She'd arrived! I kissed the cover and held the book to my chest. This one, this one, it really took a lot out of me. During a tumultuous time, I had to re-write it three times, at a hectic pace each time, the last time being a week in Bocas del Toro, Panama. The Internet connections and power on the island were shaky, but I got it done and took off to sail the Caribbean.

Today I just wanted to savor the result of all that work in the past year. I'll get back to finishing up this next one tomorrow.

Ocean Inspriation

did i tell you how amazed i am at the ocean - every single day? well i am. the pacific waves are going on like they have for thousands of centuries, yet each wave is unique; like each generation it slowly forms and then surges and rises and at its crest it looks powerful, indefatigable, and strong; yet just as each generation withers and fades away, it falls forward, loses its strength, and fizzles into the shore.

Discipline, Desire and Writing

The other day I ran into an acquaintance, Jack, a salt-of-the-earth older man who does things hands-on.  He built a house off the electricity grid in Arizona - that's the kind of guy he is.

He asked what I'd been up to and I told him I was writing three books on contract in a year. He replied, "How do you find the discipline to write?"

"I need the money!" was my quick retort.  I laughed and walked off.

That's not really the reason. It's been said that about 80% of the people in the world want to write a book. Less than 1/10 of 1% ever do.  Is it that the others lack discipline?

Partly.  But also you have to have the desire to do it. And you have to have the perseverance to keep going even when it gets rough. Lately, it's been tough for me. yesterday was a little better; I got through a dificult chapter and almost have it in hand.

In my 30s, I had the desire to write; I even started what I thought could be a novel or two a couple of times, but I just didn't know where I was going with them.  They were just words. I didn't really have a story, just a few ideas, and also, I didn't really know how to go about it.I didn't know any other writers personally either.

At 39, I had a biz/tech book deal with a major European publisher. I wrote a few chapters, got some bad feedback from a technical editor, then the business editor left and I ran into personal problems (divorce, and much more) and the thing just died out.  What a mistake. It took me 12 years to get back on track and get another book contract. I sure as hell am going to finish these books. The regret that filled me for not finishing the first one is enough to keep me focused.

But in the interim, I learned to be a writer.  I learned by going to poetry readings and talking with poets and writers. I learned by reading the biographies and autobiographies of writers. I learned by reading books on writing. I learned by having other writers that I respect review my progress on my novel. But mostly, I learned by reading the works of great writers - a task that is never finished.

I'm still learning, of course, but it does take discipline.

For me, it also takes discipline NOT to look at business email or that confounded, soul-draining facebook crap first thing in the morning when I come up to my office. On my best days, I roll out my yoga mat and do my little 20 minute routine, and then go to my desk. For weeks  now, months, really, I have been getting up at 3am-4am and starting to work before sunrise. That's the best time for me. It's quiet.  I almost cringe when the sun comes up since my little piece of private solace is soon to be gone, the dogs will start barking, a fire siren goes off, or like yesterday, the neighbors start arguing loudly in the street.

On the weekend, I have to force myself NOT to work on this book.  I hit the wall a couple of weeks ago and started having physical problems with my back, neck and right arm, from toiling away too much.  I was coming apart. So I have to have the discipline to make it a point to get away, to rest, to contemplate and to take care of myself by relaxing a little.

And it took discipline to write this post when I have to get back to my business/tech book writing this morning.

So yeah, it takes discipline, but mostly, you have to have the desire to do it. My first novel took seven years of learning, writing, reading, and working, sometimes putting it away and coming back to it. But the payoff when you see your name on that book cover and hold it in your hands and leaf through those pages you write is simply divine.

Failing Forward

Yesterday I failed.  And the day before that.  It happens almost every day: I don't accomplish what I set out to in writing. Yesterday was Memorial Day, but I have so much to do on this current book that it was less stressful to try at it than to take the day off.

After about two hours or so, I wasn't making much progress.  I ate. I rested. I came back to it and struggled through another hour or so when I realized it just wasn't going to happen.  It was worse than pulling teeth.

Some days, I succeed!

But only rarely. Some days, I get done what I had been planning to get done in less time than I thought. I quit.  I don't jump in to the next thing to bog down that day.  I try to leave some in the tank. It's the getting to it that is the hard part, the mental stuff.

But mostly, most days, I fall short.

After a string of days and weeks and months of failing, I can see progress.  I'm getting there.

This is nonfiction, a textbook-like tome that I'm working on that must follow strict rules and guidelines.

In writing fiction, the rules are a little different.  If you come up with one good idea in a day, it's a good day.  If you sat down and wrote, it's a good day.  If you found just the perfect word you were looking for to dress up a sentence, it's a good day.  Maybe you want to write 1000 words or 2000 words but if they are crap, it doesn't really matter  What matters is that you wrote well, that you moved yourself and your writing craft and your work forward.

For now, through, I'll take another stab at things and see if I can inch this monstrous boulder up the hill.