AS I SIT in the cockpit of Moody Blues with camera in hand impatiently waiting for the crocodile to slither by the slip here in Ixtapa Marina, I can’t help but think about how the fleet has dispersed. Almost all of the friends we made on the Baja Ha-Ha have turned back north.

     Where are they now? Do they smile too when thinking back to how we forged the dangerous sand bar in Tenacatita in our dinghies? How brave we were to defy the breaking waves enticed by the uniqueness of  a Jungle River Trip.

     Perhaps they were lured back to the jungle for it was so beautiful in a ragged, dense, junglie way. The stillness eerie, only disrupted by the river’s  flowing chatter or the squawk of a startled snowy egret. The dinghy engines were at a purr and our eyes strained to see what hid in the bush. 

   Jean on Southwind.

Barry & Pat on Pacific Voyager.

                                                                                                                           Kent & Heather on Hiatus. 

  John & Gilly on Destiny.

   Left to right:

Steve & Pam/Full Quiver. Dave & Helen/Jammin. Scott & Janet/Vinmar. 

BOB OLDWYN’S at the wheel of a rented VW something. We instantly see that he is a contender to any other car, taxi, or bus speed-freak out on the road.
     “Bob, jeez!” I say, shocked at his aggressiveness, but then I remember he drove Alaska’s North Slope so I clutch the overhead handle and shut-up as he wiggle-wags us north on Mex 200. A herd of cows led by a Brahma bull are galloping toward us on a bike path. I could spit out the window and hit one as they pass. Bob is not phased. You don’t see any bulls out in the ocean, but then you don’t see any whales on highways. I contemplate how We are the ones out on Moody Blues cruising and wonder how it is that Bob and Bon fly into Zihuatanejo, scoop us up and take us on a “real” cruise? My thought flies into outer space as we screech off the highway in an obscure place and I crash into Bon~Bon. Bob downshifts to make it to the top of the steep hill.
     The view is a blur yet We can’t miss an especially ornate, new, memorial on the side of the road. Bon and I look at each other, she shrugs, I cross myself. Wheeling around a corner we suddenly slow down. We arrived in the small, dusty village of Troncones. Peering out the window its quaint demeanor glows with open-air taco stands, regalo booths of hand woven blankets, shawls and wall hangings waving in the breeze. Horses are saddled ready for a dash up the beach. Kids of all ages run around like free-range chickens. I note a “learn to surf” sign tacked to an adobe wall. There are condos, small motels, distinctive waterfront homes, little very lived-in homes, shacks tucked in and back and away full of character and poverty. Like most of the Mexico I’ve seen there’s either lots of money or only a little money. There are no in-betweens.
     Troncones is the home of some of Bob & Bon’s oldest friends. Guys we’ve heard of yet never met. “Su amigo es me amigo,” they jointly say to Bob and embrace us. Soon we all take off in “mules”—like ATMs with tiny pick-up beds—over topes (speed bumps) off the main dirt road onto beach-front sand dunes. We bounce rickety-rack over swells of silver dollar pebbles, football size stones, sculpting sand bars. We weave around boulders, all the while enchanted by the gorgeous beach with shapely waves breaking 4 to 6 feet. Their power heard in an echo and their fresh salty scent penetrates the senses.
     “Hey look, a surfer is getting tubed! You can barely see him,” I point.
     Still looking at the camouflaged surfer the car makes a hard right and now we’re heading inland. The vehicle barely fits on the lane running between the overgrown brush, tree limbs and fencing. The view of coconut, mango, and papaya trees is awesome. My mouth waters. We pass a field of corn and a tied up burro. We discuss the difference between a burro, donkey, jack ass, dumb ass and a mule. We think it boils down to gender. Cute pigs trot out of our way. We sniff deeply at the aroma of chicken roasting and notice the numerous families lounging around in the Sunday’s shade. A grandpa swings in his hammock, as we swing pass their hidden paradise waving grandly hello.
     We arrive at the funky palapa where the river meets the sea. The view is spectacular. Too many help move card tables together to accommodate the twenty-one people. We are rewarded with beer, water and wine. Open-faced blue corn tostadas appear exploding with refried beans, avocado, tomatoes, onion and a salsa that makes you hiss when you next speak. Shrimp, lobster, and octopus grilled in butter and garlic Frisbee in and instantly disappear. Finis we rub our tummys and like stuffed pigs we take off.
     Now for the crème de la crème: we head to the “secret” aquarium. It’s amazingly close. We pile out of the mules and stop short, for the ocean’s blues are more than moody, they’re a gamut of azules–breathtaking. Dewey, leader of the pack,  is first in the water. We follow, squeezing ourselves into fins, masks and snorkels, and wade out into tepid sea. It is a bath, a pool of live coral and reef fish the colors exactly as  the most brilliant rainbows you’ve ever searched for a pot of gold under. I want to touch the cute little fish. They laugh at me, swish their tails and dart away.
     This is bliss. This is exploring. This is cruising. You don’t have to take off on a sailboat.  All you need is friends. Da-ta-da-da-da!