San Gregorio
The Higuera family lives in Baja California Sur at the boca of La Purisima River where it stalls before entering the Pacific. Beyond the tidal waves at the point of contact between brackish and salt-water, the view to the west spills over the horizon uninterrupted. The vast estuary created at this liquid interface is peppered with pickle-weed and salt grass, and no vegetation is taller than knee-high. At low tide one can almost, but not quite, walk across the river channel to the other side, where sometimes sand dollars line-up on edge in the sand as a spare change offering from the Pacific. Pelicans and sanderlings and great blue herons go about their daily business undisturbed, as they have since time began. It is one of the most beautiful places in the world.

It is December 29, 2001, and it is here at San Gregorio we choose to camp, as we have every New Year's since Don and Ann O'Neil introduced us to their private paradise a decade ago. It is here we came when Don died in 1998, and it is here we met Marisol when she was a very little girl. It is a secret place shared with us by people we love. Ann is here with Jack this year, in Jack's white Ford truck and camper. Ann will be 82 this year, and Jack 85. It must be very strange for Ann to follow behind the mustard-colored truck and camper she and Don shared from 1984-1998. Kirk and I are driving it now - another gift of love from them. Kirk talks about the moment we first sighted Don and Ann driving this camper down a jungle road outside of Puerto Jiminez in Costa Rica for Don's 80th birthday, and the recollection makes us both smile.

The northern mesa at San Gregorio looks the same as we drive up, but the flatlands of the estuary below have changed dramatically in the past year. Hurricane Juliette passed nearby this summer and the river very obviously swelled and yawned wide at its mouth, thus allowing the incoming salt-water tides to encroach. Water has invaded most of the formerly dry tide-lands where we are used to camping. Kirk scouts out an appropriate place to set up camp on the highest flat and dry location available, and we get settled-in. One of the greatest comforts over the next three nights will be our evening campfire and the luxury of retiring shortly after sunset to the sounds of the ocean. The full moon and starlight are almost bright enough to read by. As an added bonus, when we head out on New Year's Day, we will have avoided all New Year's Eve noise and the multi-day fiestas in Loreto!

At San Gregorio about a dozen houses are randomly placed upon the mesa to the north above the river-mouth. Some are deserted and falling to the winds. Others are only temporarily empty, their occupants having gone to visit relatives in La Purisima for the Christmas holiday. We know a few are occupied because the next morning we smell smoke from their dawn fires in the northerly breeze. A rooster crows and several dogs bark as the sun rises to the east over the river. We climb down out of the camper onto a sand island. The early morning high tide waters of the Pacific have encircled our camp. Long fingers of salt water tickle our truck tires, but we remain safe and dry, albeit temporarily stranded. That's O.K. We aren't going anywhere. The early morning air is chilly and clear and crisp. Kirk lights a fire and brews camp coffee.

All of the houses above us are surrounded by trash, thrown anywhere and without thought. It is cultural here, and no one has been taught otherwise. Trash cascades down the bluff for a short distance. This is a fish-camp. Shreds of a plastic bag cling to the spines of a garambullo, snapping in the breeze as if to say "I am an old man cactus, look at me." We are unabashedly egocentric and do not consider these habitable "houses" by any stretch of our American imagination. They are shelters from the sun and wind, clever constructions of cardboard and palm-fronds, with an occasional car hood or door for reinforcement. None has water or electricity. All have dirt floors. Each has its own unique combination of textures and colors. Someone one the bluff is a rico and has the beginnings of four cement-block walls.

About eight families currently live at the San Gregorio fish camp, three of whom fish for a patrón, the others of whom either fish independently or for a cooperativo. Independent fishermen make the most money and are considered rich because they own their own panga and motor and nets. They have the luxury of selling their catch at full wholesale market price. However they also have to pay for their own outboard repairs and gasoline. We are astounded that the price of gasoline, which is purchased by the liter in La Purisima, comes to almost $3 U.S. a gallon! Those who fish for a cooperativo make less per kilo for their catch, but they have a guaranteed market and income. Here the cooperativo is closed to new members.

Nabor and his son, Luis, and two other men fish for a patrón who lives in La Purisima who is both rich and ruthless. In many ways the patrón controls their lives, because the fishermen are economically dependent upon him and have no means of escape. The fishermen turn over all of their catch to their patrón, and he in turn pays them subsistence. But not always. Last year Nabor went for more than four months without being paid. His outboard needed repairs, and since it is up to the patrón to fix the equipment, he can fix it at his leisure. This only serves to strengthen the control he has over the fishermen in his fleet. Nabor and Luis waited every day, day after day, week after week, hoping it would be the day their outboard was fixed so they could fish again. They are hungry. They need food and clothes. With such a system in place, there is no way they will ever be able to save enough money to become independent fishermen. Meanwhile, their patrón sells the fish they catch to markets in Ensenada where he receives the highest possible price.

Luis tells us a good panga will last over 20 years and a new one costs 1000 pesos a foot, about $112 U.S. The panga they fish for their patrón is 23 feet long and has a 70 horse-power Johnson outboard that is ten years old. We learn that pangas built for use in the Pacific are different than those used in the Sea of Cortéz. Ocean pangas need a higher bow and wider flare to the body. Luis and his father fish 23 miles offshore with no radio and no auxiliary outboard. If their engine fails, they sleep in the boat until the next day when other fishermen come to find them. Yes this has happened to them.

Each year we camp at San Gregorio, Kirk and I learn a little more about the life of the Higuera family. This year I laugh at myself and inexplicably feel like an idiot - part voyeur and part cultural anthropologist. Perhaps my 30-year-old University degree somehow tickles my brain with familiarity as I take to a pen.

Delia Higuera is shy and rarely speaks. She spends all her days taking care of her husband, son and daughter. Marisol, since birth, has required extra attention and effort. We can't help but notice that although Delia spends the most time with Marisol, Marisol is more closely bonded with her father than anyone else. It is he who translates to us in Spanish what she is saying when we don't understand. We can only guess this is because they "speak" better with each other. In growing up, Nabor's deaf younger sister, Rafaela, must have had a profound effect upon him, and he is naturally at ease with deafness. Delia, however, has had to learn how to raise a deaf child by trial and error. She is glad they live at San Gregorio where nothing can hurt Marisol. There is no traffic, and life isn't dependent upon hearing sounds. A week can go by without a car coming or going. Just the simple light of day and the darkness of night guide them through 24 hours. Theirs is a world without clocks or calendars. September 11, 2001 is just another date. Few colds or sickness reach their isolated fish camp, and when they do, everyone gets them. Marisol has grown up free to roam the estuary and long sandy beaches. She lives barefoot in this sandy environment, and her feet are calloused and splayed. Most shoes do not fit her large feet. Nabor is very proud he bought her a pair of tennis shoes on credit last March. They are "Air Nice" shoes, cheap Korean Nike-knock-offs. We don't ask if they are paid for yet, but in any case, Marisol doesn't like to wear them. When she has to, she wears pink plastic thongs Ann gave her.
Next Chapter: How it Came to Pass