It took us a little under an hour to get to Puerto Libertad from our camp site. I drove, again, exercising my droit a signore, or whatever right it is that lets you drive. Last year, in the Copper Canyon, John and I developed a mature and adult way to determine who was going to drive. When I wanted to drive, I would run up to the driver's door, ducking under John if necesary (elbows help), and slipping into the seat of power. John would grumble, and then get in the passenger's side, unless he wanted to drive, in which case he would throw a little of that swamp gas evil eye my way, and I'd pee myself in my haste to evacuate in or at least from, the seat of command.

There are reports that Mexico is a dangerous place for Gringo tourists, but the risk is greatly overstated. If you are careful, and you stick to the right parts of the country, you are unlikely to have any trouble. We were greatly reassured when we came upon the sign that it was 'prohibited to hunt Americans!' (to translate it literally, it says 'The American, it is prohibited to hunt.')

"Puerto Libertad, not your father's beach resort." Once there was a stinky ocean. --

Puerto Libertad was a working town. "What should we do here?" "I think we did it all, unless you want to work." We found a restaurant and a 'Super' (supermarket). We had Tacos Dorados (hard shell tacos), deep fried tacos, adn then tom and I ordered a breaded fish dinner, Pescado Empanizado. (see picture captions)

Puerto Libertad is a working man's town. The main highway runs on the Eastern edge of town, the ocean edges teh west. The road appears to dead end to the north at a military base. A large pier north of town is reserved for military operations."

'I don't think we need to go back to Pto Libertad/unless we want to work."/the only other thing to do in P. L. is to work.

Departing pto libertad to the south...

We left, cut to Desemoboque, the southern Desomboque, where we were beseiged by old woman with baskets. We made our escape town the most horrible washboarded road and now we are on the sea of cortez, accross from isla tiburon, in a wretched dump of a fishing camp. Somewhat abused crab pots litter the ground interspersed with middens of shell fish. There is a large rock with a small, hand sized rock sitting on it, and powdered shell fish surrounded by shells. A mountain of dead crabs, whole crab not processed, maybe there was a red tide that made them inedible, maybe prices dropped or they died in the crab pots, smaller piles of clam shells and other bivalves and John, lying christ like on the beach. If christ were to lay on the beach he would be described as 'lying johnlike.'

Whale Baleen Plate Arches are about the only charm of Desemboque.

Arriving in Desemboque is like pulling into a shell station in a boat. We pulled in, slowed down for some stupid reason, and were instantly surrounded by previously invisible people who all wanted to peer into the car, and saying 'basket basket' in spanish, and as we tried to escpe an old lady came hobbling towards us with a plastic bag that clearly contained a large basket, the people around us urging her to hurry up. I don't think that we ran over her foot.

El Chueco, the next day, was better. No baskets, no western imperial invader conquerer guilt as we tried to escape from even looking at the product of someone's weeks of labor. And it was on the ocean, with a small cove and boats pulled up in the sand.

We found our new camp (surf sound in background). The sun is setting. We have discovered all kinds of things. Strata of shellfish in the ravines that seem to indicate Human shellfish gathering over an extended period of time. There's a sponge on the beach, just having a great old time.

What is important? Tom: how you take care of the people around you. We heard strange sounds, so we walked out to the beach. The tide had gone out and I'm way out from shore/to sea in about three inches of water. It is amazing. There was a zone of rocks and little critters and baby shrimp baby lobster, here is a small crab that I am visiting.

I like my dog. Huddled around the fire in a tequila induced stupor, strange sounds came from the beach, forcing us to explore, but not convincing us to have the foresight to bring flashlights on our exploration. John had his keychain LED light, and Tom had his always present mini-mag light, with a fading battery and a dying bulb.

I lingered behind, with nothing.

We approached the water's edge and found ourselves in the middle of a clam field, a lot like a mine field, but without the explosions. We found that by walking out we could get quite far from shore, but still the sounds, the rasping 'come help us' sounds breathing, panting, continued. We returned to camp for larger lights, a new flashlight bulb, and wetsuit booties. And explored again.

I want far out, and still, the gasping, panting, helpless sounds continued, calling me further and further until I was farther out than I wanted to be, and I stepped on something slimy.

I found giant slugs, a whole slug bed, in two or three inches of water. I was able to convince John to come out and explore. He rolled up his pants and sloshed through. I told him that there was a sand bar, and I could carry him.

"Rich, if I'm going to go out there it is going to be by walking."

I tried to remind him of my experiences at safely conveying him across water, even International Borders, but he continued to be unconvinced.

So we went and explored slug land, and still the gasping, panting, help us cries continued.

There are places in the sea of cortez where the main problem with snorkling is that you need to pack for the hike to get to water that is deep enough to put your face in.

That was the beach where we first met the tampon fish.