17 February 2010
San Carlos, Sonora, Mexico
Wind blows the dust out of the hills, off of the roadways, from dusty parking lots. I eat a fish taco and drink a limonada and wait for Marike to come back to land. She's on the boat with Salvador, the electrician, doing repairs. I've been online all day trying to figure out how to get the computer to stop thinking the gps feed is another mouse or pointing system. No luck. Next to me a couple speaks urgently, quietly, into a telephone. There has been an acidente grave. They seem to be everywhere these accidents. We've had word from home that our doctor's daughter was thrown from a car and hangs between life and death; her pelvis shattered, she's in an induced coma in the hospital.
Inside the bar, Cesaria Evoria sings and men drink alone, so I've come out to sit in the sun and watch the street--and the dust--blow by. The couple next to me goes on speaking softly, anxiously, in Spanish, reviewing the details--four young people in the car; one girl--the woman's neice, and three young men. Suddenly the man breaks out into English, his accent pure LA--SH I I I T! How'd that happen? Nothin'
moves fast here, not even a burnin' bar. What you got to be in a hurry for?
So I eat slowly and watch the palms bend in the wind.