Each morning we walk barefoot in the sand along Zicatela Beach…what a relaxing way to start the day. Besides burning off last night’s indulgences, the sound of waves provides passive meditation  in the middle of this playground for dogs, surfers, fishers and walkers.

After huevos rancheros or huevos divorciados for breakfast, we plop under a palapa (thatch-roofed shelter usually found on a beach) for the remainder of the day and read or write or look and listen. Oh Mexico.

Let’s take a walk-about around a point that leads to another bay. The walkway twists around cliffs over the rocks to Bahia Puerto Angelito, a sheltered bay full of fishing boats and ocean activities, but that is not what we seek this morning. We’re looking for a little more solitude.

Farther along the coast and straight down several hundred stone stairs, we find Playa Carrizalillo, a small, hidden paradise with a beach safe for swimming. Go ahead…order a Corona with breakfast, it goes well with huevos a la Mexicana.

After a swim we find ourselves, well you guessed it, under a palapa again. What do you do under there? Whatever you want. Today we sit and just be, and thank the abundant universe that we do not have jobs to return to back in the states.

We walk through town on our way back to Zicatela. El Adoquin (Paving stone) is full of relaxed pedestrians and shops and restaurants. A stroll across Bahia Principal, the public beach/marina, brings us back to our oasis at Zicatela Bungalows, where happy hour in the pool descends with the sunset.

Things slow down so much here that time is quickly passing by…and we wonder how long we could stay?

A few days from now we will say goodbye to our friends here and fly back to Zihua, where we’ll savor our final four days on a Mexican beach. 

Professional surfers flock to this International Pipeline destination. We watch them while sitting under our palapa, safe from the lethal undertow of huge waves, astounded by how the surfers keep getting back up after taking multiple body blows from the pounding surf. No swimming here…only with a surfboard.

Thong bikinis and board shorts rule the fashion, and I thank the Abundant Universe that Speedos have gone out of style. Still, the beach remains nature’s viagra.

A sea turtle lays about 75 eggs and buries them on shore. The crowd of folks is allowed to get near her after she finishes the  arduous task and then heads back out to sea. Her eggs will be dug-up and moved to a safer place for hatching. Baby turtle releases are a popular tourist activity.

Puerto Escondido derives its name from Andres Drake, brother of Sir Francis, who kidnapped and imprisoned a Mixtec Indian woman. She escaped, swam to shore and hid in the jungle never to be found. Since then, other Pirates referred to this place as Bahia de la Escondida, the hidden bay.

Dwight, Chuck, Judy, Chrissie and Scott share some cheer with us back at the casa. The biggest concern of the day is where to eat dinner, who has the best special, and whether or not we will go listen to live music.

For Mare and I, breakfast becomes the favorite meal of the day, and we often forgo dinner and music, opting to enjoy the sunset, take a midnight swim in the pool, and frolic in our room.

Tonight’s sunset reminds me of Planet Jupiter. If I did not know better, steam might ascend after the sun descends into the sea…and no I haven’t had a smoke, at least not today.

Mare and I sit on the beach in this laid-back fishing village with only one regret…we must leave tomorrow for an 18-hour bus ride to Puerto Escondido (Hidden Port). Our recent week-end in Puerto Penasco, (Rocky Point) wets our appetite to re-visit deeper Mexico, you know, down where you hear hardly any English.

“Zihua” relaxes our being. We sit on the beach under a palapa, near fishermen selling their catch and repairing nets. Boats bob in the bay. Our $30 per night cement room offers a clean sheet on a firm mattress. Who needs hot water or a mirror? As soon as the late night music from town ends, the roosters start to crow as if trying to mimic the lyrics of the evening.

Etanilado Valduonos Olea, manager of “Hotel R3 Marias Noria,” spends much of the morning arranging our bus tickets. He ends up driving us to the bus station to purchase tickets to Alcapulco, the first leg of tomorrow’s journey. He won’t accept any money for his efforts. “I just like to help, that’s all.” He explains that hotels are trying to survive a 50% occupancy rate in this small village, next to the larger resort destination of Ixtapa.

Mare and I meander from the beach to town, where we munch on some street tacos and stumble upon a community of white, winter visitors. Many of them sit on street corners sharing quarts of Corona. Mare asks a man, who looks like my reflection (Bald with a goatee), where to find an ATM.

“Ah, Americans,” he responds. “You’re the first ones I’ve seen in a while. Most of them quit coming and us Canadians took over.”

Zihuatanejo derives its name from the Nahuatl Indian word “Zihuatlan,” which means “Place of women.” Spaniards later added the suffix “ejo” which means small. Perhaps if they saw the place today, they might rename it, “Gringos Gordos.”

This last evening in town, we treat ourselves to “Lety’s,” the restaurant next to our hotel. Lety is our hotel manager’s sister. (Across the street, his mother serves daily breakfast to a loyal following of fishermen) Lety shows us an article from the Wall Street Journal travel section that praises her place. “This makes me feel important,” she proudly says. Mare and I don’t feel that fresh shrimp need the help of coconut and sour cream, but Lety’s signature dish of Coconut Shrimp tastes spectacular.

On a bus in the morning we wind along the coast until reaching Alcapulco 4-hours later. While waiting 5-hours for the bus to Puerto Escondido, our eyes burn from exhaust fumes held captive by the humidity, and we dine on grilled chicken from a roadside stand. After an 8-hour bus ride, during which we munch on unrecognizable morsels at the various stops, we arrive at the Hidden Port.  It’s one o’clock in the morning…time to get busy living.

Soon…sip cerveza, feast on fresh shrimp and gaze at amazing sunsets over the Sea of Cortez…almost by yourself.

“The US Government is mad at Mexico,” a gringo from Prescott, AZ says. “All that news about this place being dangerous is simply not true. That police captain was killed over two years ago and they make it sound like it happened yesterday.”

The lack of crowds moseying around the Malecon feels eerie. Several years ago, consumers filled the fish markets, shops and restaruants. Most folks from the US are reluctant to visit and they are missing out.

Fresh caught humongous shrimp sell for seven dollars per pound. Fresh flounder and halibut cost only four dollars per pound. Clams, oysters, squid and octopus chime in for even less. “We miss the Americans,” Marcos, a fish dealer, says. ”Not just the money, but they are nice and like to have fun. They appreciate the beauty and simple life that is Mexico.”

Walk along miles of barren beach, explore tide pools and watch pelicans and other seabirds dive into the sea. An occasional vender may approach, but the days of high-pressure sales have developed into a simple inquiry, followd by your “No gracias” that ends with a respectful smile.

Mare and I walk the shore while shrimp boats bob in the water. Along the way to Cholla Bay, deserted RV parks await resurgence, and houses appear abandoned. High-rise condos sit idle. Back during the housing boom, resorts and condos sprung up like palm trees. ”Now’s the time to buy,” says Johnnie, a real estate agent. ”I paid $219,000 for my 2-bedroom  oceanfront and now the same one sells for about $119,000.”

We walk 12 miles and around the barren point of Mummy Mountain. Two men linger ahead, suspiciously. “I think that they’re gutting a deer,” I say to Mare. She says that there are no deer here. Turns out, they are surveyors, mapping ground for the next resort. See what propagands paranoia can do to our thoughts?

Some folks still come, though. Birds migrate to this warmer weather, along with Canadians who flock to the sea, immune to negative hype. They are rewarded with serene paradise and excellent food…Chile rellenos, chorizo, beans and rice and fresh tortillas come to our table but cannot last long enough for a photo. (Sorry)

Rethink a visit to Rocky Point. You can still rent ATV’s to ride through the dunes, or charter a boat to explore and fish.

Shop the eclectic marketplaces, where prices have not been lower in years. Most of all, relax and immerse in the casual beach atmosphere that is uniquely Rocky Point. Give it another chace. You’ll be glad that you didn’t miss out. We were.

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• Rocky Point Puerto Penasco Mexico (puertopenascojoe.wordpress.com)

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“I’m more interested in the brothels,” I say.

“I used to be a bouncer at one,” Billy Bob responds. “I’ll tell you what, if you buy me a drink, I’ll take you there.”

Mare, Billy Bob and I squeeze into my pick-up. A few miles later, we pull up to “Bikini’s,” conveniently located next to a landing strip.

We sit at the bar, several feet from a totally nude dancing woman whose poses become somewhat gynecological.

A hot brunette with long legs sits next to me. She extends her hand. ”I’m Desire.” I stare into her eyes for a few moments. “My real name is Candy, but they gave me this name. (I wonder why “they” changed it.) “What would you like?”

I lick my lips and look over at Mare, who is talking with Billy Bob. ”What about you, me and her?”

“Absolutely!” Desire walks to  Mare’s bar stool and hugs her from behind. She whispers something into her ear. “I don’t know about this,” Mare responds.

“At least let me show you the rooms.” Desire walks us into a courtyard with a row of rooms. Mirrors line the walls and ceiling and a container of condoms sits next to the bed. I must say that the place is spotless. I watch Desire’s reflection as she engages in a form of focused frottage with her every move. ”We all live across the courtyard.” She points to another row of rooms.

 ”Let’s do it. Five hundred dollars for half an hour.”

We politely decline, and head back to the bar.

Desire massages Mare’s neck. ”They will let me go down to three hundred dollars, but that’s as low as I can go.”

The bartender hands Mare some “fu-fu” drink. The next time I turn around, she dances on the stage, holding the pole. ”You are the one who sets the limit,” the bartender says to me as he watches Mare. When Mare takes off her shirt, I walk to the stage. Without a word she falls over my shoulder, and I carry her to the truck. Billy Bob follows. He wants to continue the party. We wisely decide to call it a night. Hey, we have to save ourselves for Vegas, baby!

“Are there any motels with kitchens around here?” Mare asks.

“Yes, right down the street at the Seaquest,” the lady looks at me. “You’d better buy a shucking knife.” She senses Mare’s passion for oysters.

I purchase my first shucking knife, and head out armed with 2 dozen Kumamoto oysters in search of a motel with a kitchen sink. We have stumbled upon the oyster capital of the world, South Bend, Washington, located along Willapa Bay in Pacific County. We cop the last available room with a kitchen in this small town. We shall shuck and drink, and then drink and shuck.

Several small towns sit among the mud flats and waters of Willapa Bay. Factories harvest freshly farmed oysters by the millions, in fact they provide one out of six oysters consumed in the US. They plant the seed on private intertidal beds and the oysters do the rest with their strange sex life…

All Kumamato oysters are born as males. They release massive amounts of sperm which murk the waters. Many of the males mature into females after mating season. Essentially, they have sex and reproduce quite solo…and I think about how difficult things were, back when I hunted to mate, around 1970 BI (Before Internet). However, I’m glad that I did not turn into a female.

We venture to Longbeach, Washington, where Alaska Jack gets back to the Pacific ocean and dives for rocks and driftwood…then it’s off to a larger seafood shop, “Seasonal Seafoods” where fresh oysters only cost $4.50 per dozen. Here, we stock-up for the remainder of our stay.

Mare runs Jack in the muddy rivers where he dives for oyster shells. Then she wanders around South Bend to capture some photos. Old “Invisible Man“ games and eerie dolls crowd the local craft shop “Creepy Beautiful.”

At the Pacific County Courthouse, a probationer tells her, “They should’ve let tweakers steal the copper roof. When they remodeled, they got peanuts for the copper. An insurance claim for theft would’ve given a better price.”

In the morning we purchase two dozen more oysters to go, along with five pounds of steamer clams and two dozen razor clams. We will share the harvest with sister Pat and brother Frank in Portland, where I will use my knife one last time.

Yes, the world is my oyster…more accurately, “The world is whatever I make of it.” I guess it comes as no surprise that Mare is flying to Rome in a few days to join her sister on a two-week Western Mediterranean cruise. I shall stay in Oregon to cat/apartment sit and enjoy quality time with the brother-in-laws at the Springdale and Brass Rail taverns. Or, perhaps I shall hibernate in Pat’s apartment like a bear…or should I say an oyster?

A cop calls the tow truck to take us back to Whitehorse Toyota. The dealership assures us that they will take care of everything. So..they pay for the tow, buy us breakfast, replace the rotor and tighten all the wheels. Then they present us with a check for $1500, the repair estimate for dents. I sign the check, releasing them from liability, and again hit the highway, this time $1500 richer. My truck earns the title of “Babe Magnet II” which is a different story. I have no intention of repairing the dents.

Every little rattle on the truck makes Mare nervous.  Three hundred miles later, through rutted, twisty, muddy roads, we settle down and realize that the wheels probably will remain attached. In the bar at our hotel that night, we learn that heavy rains have closed the Cassiar Highway, so we will stay on the Alcan. Mare relieves some stress by singing karaoke, which makes me wish I was back at the cabin.

The best part of driving the Alcan south of Whitehorse, Yukon runs through the Northern Rockies, from Watson Lake to Fort Nelson. Jack swims in Muncho Lake, while bears, bison, elk and caribou roam the colors of fall.

Finally, we settle in downtown Vancouver, BC where luxury spoils us. We plunge into paradise with a splurge at the Century Plaza Hotel and Spa, courtesy of Whitehorse Toyota Motors.

We enjoy a fun night in a friendly city. A total stranger with whom we converse pays the tab for our drinks. I cannot remember the last time somebody bought me a drink. We stroll to Rodney’s Oyster House and feast on raw oysters. The staff buy us another drink and throw in extra oysters. A woman sitting next to me at the bar says, “You guys look so wholesome.” I tell her that living on fresh fish in Alaska must have some benefits. Then I pay her tab…hey, pay it forward. Two gals sitting next to Mare ask her, “What’s you’re secret for such beautiful skin?”  Although we don’t pay anymore forwards, this re-entry into the rat race proves easier than we had expected.

NFL football games play the entire next day in our room on the 29th floor. Oh yeah babe, bring on the room service. Our final day tomorrow will consist of finding a “Japadog” (very special street vendor hot dogs) followed by a search for sushi. The following morning we shall head for the lower 48 and see what adventures the abundant universe has in store, perhaps along the Oregon Coast.

I sleep to sounds of rain, wind or silence and after one month of living remote, my senses tune in to visual movement in the bush. I love the bush…all bush. (The bikini wax is way over-rated). Hey, being in the bush bring us back to our natural state, in my humble opinion.

Mare, Jack and I must leave before fall changes to winter. Fall kills leaves. Hunters kill a few bull moose, and masses of salmon find their way home to” have sex and die.” (Could that be a bumper sticker?) I would like to stay for the final salmon run, the 12 to 22 pound Coho who come to spawn, but snow in the Northern Rockies could strand us on our drive if we wait too long.

Bear cubs and moose calves prepare for the changing season. Each November, 3500 Bald Eagles converge in Haines to ”conference.” Some stay for the winter…but no, not I.

We appreciate the close friends we have made in Haines. Mostly, though, I will miss the fishing…and having coffee on the deck in the morning while watching the surf scoters, those water birds that float daily in the Chilkat Inlet and dive under in sequence.

Mare will miss the bears and flowers and even the thousands of visitors who flock to our deck.

Jack will miss chasing chipmunks, but not as much as diving for rocks and retrieving sticks from the waters.

After sleeping on the floor for four months, with a wet or drying dog, we develop a newfound agility – simply from getting up from bed in the morning, or several times during the night to go outside and pee.

Looking forward to motel luxury along the drive back, the irony of insomnia intrigues us. That white noise of electronics and motors returns. A mattress a few feet above the ground makes us toss and turn. We must adjust, perhaps back to our natural state.

Goodbye Haines. Thank you abundant universe!

Hunting, fishing and mining shacks sit in this nowhere. Road construction seems the only activity this August. Hard to believe that within 30 days the change in season will blanket the volcanic tundra with ice and snow.

All rental cars in Nome come with 4-wheel drive. We understand why. Especially after turning off on a side road a few miles beyond Salmon Lake. We’re climbing a road on top of black lava rock, which provides a dark contrast for bright flowers. Throw’er into 4-wheel on the way to Pilgrim Hot Springs.

Mare steps easy wearing those sexy water boots, through large puddles in front of the car. She makes sure of no really, really deep holes…could be funny to see her submerge four or five feet.

On the other side of the mountain the terrain transforms to lush forest. Looks like a lovely place for Musk Oxen. We park near a gate, and walk through the trees, surrounded by steaming ponds. A few geologists conduct research here.

“This machine drills 2-inch pipe 200 feet into the ground in 2 hours,” a worker says. We’re hoping to find a geothermal hot spot that could provide electrical power to Nome.”

The path leads to an abandoned church and some dilapidated buildings. The Pilgrim Hot Springs caretaker emerges from a shack. He explains that in the 1800′s a man farmed this land year-round. The boiling waters make it possible. When the farmer died, the Catholic church gained the ground and opened an orphanage for children whose parents were wiped out by the 1918 influenza epidemic. “They cut down all the trees for firewood, but you can see they grew back.”

Hot springs in the tundra? Mosquitoes zoom in on us and I notice a can of bear pepper spray dangling from a worker’s belt. Soon, we spot a platform supporting a steaming metal tub. I strip down, slap bugs, and try to submerge. Too hot! I feel blisters form on the bottom of my feet. Mare snaps a photo of me in my underwear, which will not be published here because it looks like a pathetic Viagra commercial.

We spin four wheels back through the small lakes and continue the quest to the end of the road. We turn around at the anticlimactic end, with one last chance to spot the Musk Ox during the ride back. Although we spot nothing but construction trucks, the tundra’s terrain puts us in a trance. 

Okay, back in town, we ask at the visitor’s center where to find the rogue gold panners? “Down on west beach. Past the containers.  They ran them off of east beach,” says the portly brunette. So we go, manuvering through the town, past cargo docks and around storage containers, through the mud and debris trying to find the beach. Whoopee! Not a gold miner in sight, but a whole herd of the ellusive magnificent beasts. Yes, after driving over 300 miles of tundra, we spot the Musk Oxen  a mile outside of town. They bring us to tears, resembling our deceased dog, “Runt” who had all but the tusks. 

We celebrate in a smoky bar until our eyes can take no more. Let’s take a six-pack, sushi and some spaghetti back to our luxurious room over-looking the Bering Sea.