Of Finance, Fitness and Flies...

Been here at San Pedrito Beach for over two months now and have been thoroughly lulled into a lazy routine. I had such ambitious plans for this period of the winter. I figured I’d be bored with endless days in the sun and could direct energy to contemplating the next phase of my “career”. Would I finally start writing (or rather, finishing) that novel I’ve always talked about? Would I decide to actively pursue something in fashion or design? Would I do a business plan for my own consulting company? 

Nada! I’ve spent all of twenty minutes thinking about these things. Guess I’m just not ready and must accept it will come when it comes. Or I’m financially forced too. 

At least I’ve harnessed the motivation to get back into fitness over the past month. After weeks of gorging on delicious tacos and cerveza with only the occasional beach walk as exercise, I had to face facts that my waist had almost disappeared. That’s the wake-up for me! I created a strength routine using body weight, heavy rocks from the beach and the elastic bands we brought, wrote it down above the door of the trailer and signed it, and told Andrew and other friends on the beach they had hold me accountable to doing it each morning. 

I can already notice the difference and actually now look forward to it. I find fitness has its own inertia - once it wanes, it really drops, and conversely once it gets going, it picks up steam. Feeling strong then encourages me to go for more walks and runs, helps me choose salad over fries, and say “no” to that extra bloating Pacifico. 

The only problem with my morning work-outs occur when there is no wind. I don’t recall sand flies being a problem on this beach before, but egad, even dousing myself with Deet doesn’t seem to help when they’re in the nipping mood. My lower legs have never been more covered with maddeningly itchy spots. 

As I write, they are in all stages of blossoming and healing. New bites just showing as pink bumps, scabs that are covered or uncovered for the umpteenth time from scratching, and purple hyperpigmentation spots from previous scabs. Andrew says, and I have to agree, I look like a meth addict from the knees down. Of course, the gnats don’t seem to bother him....guess I must be tastier! 

A Fashionista’s Freedom

One of the greatest things about RV living on the beach is the freedom it provides for women to escape society’s cult of beauty. Here, no one wears make-up or does their hair. No one cares if you wear the same thing every day...if fact most ladies don the same bathing suit for weeks on end. In my third winter of being here, this is a list of the “un-stylish” things I’m enjoying: 

• Natural nails - acrylic nails, gel nails, tips, glues, polish, salons, manicures, nail art, egad! I've calculated false nails can cost over $1000 and a day's worth of time in the salon each year. Who can be bothered? Here, mine are kept short with the only upkeep being daily (no, make that near-hourly) scraping to remove the sand from under them. 
• No-style long hair - with good hair care products, I can go a week between washings and a year between trims. Hallelujah to the messy bun and braids! And I’ve cut out the hair dye. So what if I have a few greys. Here, they are “highlights” ;-)
• 24/7 jewelry - This alone has been one of the best simplifications in my life. How much time, energy and money did I used to exert trying to coordinate jewelry with my outfit every day? I'm ashamed to think about it. Now I have a set of good quality, minimalist classic pieces that I wear all the time - yes, sleeping, washing dishes, showering, swimming in the ocean, etc.
• Bralessness - funny, rhymes with “lawlessness”, huh? ‘Nuff said. 
• No shoes - I brought eight pairs on this trip and lately have been wearing zero. We even go for two-hour beach walks barefoot. I only put on my Crocs flip-flops for a trip to town. 

Now, everyone knows I’m a self-professed fashionista with a penchant for accessories - namely handbags, shoes, scarves and baubles. But living here in this way is helping me hone my style and its accompanying budget into something more refined...less knee-jerk to the whims of fashion, less longing of couture, and more thoroughly suited to me. The quote that keeps going over in my head is “Are you buying for your real life or your imagined life?”. And when I look at my real life, I realize I already have an abundance of all I need. 

Death of a Pelican

Andrew was the first to notice it tumbling in the surf and assumed it dead. But when it reached shore, the pelican clumsily righted itself. One of its wings flopped feebly at its side, broken and bent completely backwards. Without intervention, this poor bird faced a tortuous slow death. 

Andrew tried to approach it but the pelican still had enough vigour to waddle back into the water and paddle away. It bobbed in the current, floating south towards the middle of our beach where other campers noticed its plight. For an hour, the pelican stood on a large rock as we all debated what to do. A couple of spear fishermen strode past with their day’s catch; I suggested they shoot the bird. They didn’t seem to like this idea. 

Finally another young camper tried to stealthily approach the pelican but was interrupted by several of the dogs on the beach who thought now they’d get into the act. Barking, they ran at the bird. One, named Tecate, almost reached it before it startled and awkwardly flapped back into the ocean. Ironically, even if Tecate managed to get to the bird, the dog was far too gentle to know how to kill anything. If only there was a savage pit bull on the beach...

It bobbed back towards our camp and everyone lost interest, resigning the pelican to its fate. It stood on the sand at the far north end of the beach out of everyone’s view. Andrew looked at it and quietly said to himself, working out the plan, “if I can approach it from behind and drive it onto the rocks...”. Suddenly he picked up a big piece of wood and scrambled down the rocks. I quickly grabbed Coco’s ball in an effort to distract her and prevent her from interfering. 

By the time I’d caught Coco and approached the beach, the deed was done. Andrew managed to get close enough that the pelican had nowhere to flee. Trapped, it snapped at him. Andrew brought it down with one hard crack to the head. 

I gave Andrew a big hug as he blinked tears away. “It had such nice big brown eyes”, he said. Andrew loves animals and hates to even kill a spider, but he knew he had to spare the pelican days of hunger and pain. This is one of the many reasons I love him. 

As word spread through the camp that Andrew had killed the pelican, many came by with beers and pats on the back. “Sucks but had to be done”, “Good job”, etc. We built a fire and had tequila shots with friends. RIP pelican.