Pat (Maire’s sister) and Bill arrive in the night and Maire mentions that I have explained the “we” of my blog. I write about our guests coming and going, but not about the core group, an oversight I promise to rectify.
Of course there is the writer, me, whom my husband has always called Katy – hence Katywords. My husband Vince is my buddy, my confidant, my lover, my guide. He blossoms in the warmth, loves to bay watch and body surf the waves, has a playful sense of humour that sets his eyes alight. He gives himself a calendar day for climbing to the top of the mountain: Bicente, Conquistador de la Cruz, January 14.
Maire and I have known each other for over forty years, since we were barely adult. We have worked together, lived together, become moms at similar times, shared tears and laughter and successes and failures, and now, Manzanillo. She is a part of me, of who I was, am and will be, we are very best friends in the whole wide world. When Helen gets here, our trio of VBFsITWWW will be complete. Maire’s husband John is her soul mate and I have to admit I love him too, feel his friendship as a deep and abiding gift, cannot imagine the two of them without one another.
Peter is John’s brother and I have just begun to know him. His eyes look upon the world with a kind, lively, witty expression and again I am privileged to have another Kearns as my friend. When Vince does not come with us on one of our trips, I find Pete waiting for me just outside a shop, and I am warmed by how unobtrusively thoughtful and protective he is. Peter’s wife Bonnie is our coach, cheerleader, organizer and story-teller. She coaxes our own stories from us too and teaches us a great deal about the spirit of adventure, about extending our capabilities and believing in ourselves. She is always energetic and alive and open for the next great escapade, embracing life as a journey to be savoured.
What I will always remember and appreciate is the hearty laughter with our Manzanillo companions: the chuckle, the open-mouthed belly laugh, the mischief-infused guffaw, the light-hearted giggle or the uninhibited hoot.
Today, after breakfast at Tacos Bricios, we sit at the ocean and watch the action. Jesus teaches us how to say a few words in Spanish as he tries to sell necklaces we really don’t need. He is pushy this morning, a sign of his desperate status, the lull in tourism. He keeps a smile on his lips but it doesn’t light up his face or take away the tension in his shoulders.
The shadow of a Magnificent Frigate (its real name, honest) drifts over our umbrella. Vince points out the bristle-thighed curlew and the willet, two little sandpiper-type birds who hop and sail and fish together. The curlew, his beak bent perfectly for digging in the sand, unearths the cockroaches of the sea, which look like beetles shrimps. He plucks his prize from safety, digging at the flesh, rolling it over and over to get past the shell, while its legs wiggle desperately. Eventually, the smaller willet takes over, eating what his buddy has left him. Now and then a crab tries to approach, as though trying to frighten the birds away from the scrumptious meal. No crab is successful as we watch.
Marilynn, Bill, Cam and Bruce take the bus to Centro while the rest of us have a lazy day at the beach and the pool.
Tonight we plan dinner at El Caribe, right on the sand just as the sun makes the horizon blush.
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