- Feb 27, 2014
- Feb 11, 2014
- Feb 08, 2014
They didn’t hoist the Jolly Roger or fire a shot across my bow, but their intentions were worrisome. I was 80 miles off the coast of Nicaragua, on a rhumb line course from Panama to Key West. The seas were sloppy and felt more like Mother Maytag than Mother Ocean. My Spanish is bueno, and I had been trying to raise my visitors on the radio for 20 minutes. Surely the four hombres aboard the 70-foot rust museum weren’t blasting through these dreadful seas just to sell me a fish.
Anchored off a fishing village on the Pacific coast of Mexico’s Baja peninsula, my daughters, Eleanor (8) and Frances (6), sat at the dinette, manipulating small piles of found objects and plastic pieces into spiral shapes as part of some kid of game.