Everyone in the house but me is hemorrhaging out both ends. Our Casa is thick with a sulfurous cloud that clings to everything. The crew is listless. Intake of rum has dropped dramatically, and consequently morale is low. So I escape for a solitary walk down the beach, fishing line in hand. Alas, only the pelicans are pulling fish. As I trudge back to our reeking hovel, I step on a goddamn stingray. Yep, that fucking stings! Aptly named little bastards. On a side note, this particular episode once and for all disproves the notion of karma. You see, I had not but two days previous rescued a fucking stingray from certain death. It had been stranded by an exceptionally big wave that washed it far ashore and it was gasping its nasty little life away. I watched it for a minute wondering what to do. Do I intervene? Do I try and help it? Will it sting me If I try? I answered yes on all accounts, and carefully helped the nasty little fucker back into the water by flipping it several times like a frisbee. As an aside within a rather long aside, stingrays fly very much like a frisbee, being flat and all. Anyway, I tossed this bitch twice more till it made it back into the ocean, and it swam away, no doubt thankful for my intervention in its miserable bottom dwelling existence. So what happens today? I get fucking stung by a goddamed stingray! Probably the same one! Well, I got the point...from here on out its all about me. I ain't helping beast nor fowl nor fish. I'm looking out for Numero Uno. And, I'm gonna offer up a stingray sacrifice to appease the Gods, who are clearly angry. They turned the ocean cold for a day, and afflicted my mates with poopy pants, and they sent a vicious beast of the sea to attack my foot. I will find something to kill tonight!

Anyway.... our amigo Henry rode his horse to work today, and he insisted I take it down the road. So I did. He snapped this photo, which I think clearly depicts the delirium of the last couple days. I think it is a very old and tired horse. It might make a good sacrifice. I will ask Henry.

Tortuga chronicle

See these slimy little bastards? This is a clutch of turtle eggs freshly delivered via a long turtle tube attached to one tired mother turtle. We watched her claw her way onto the beach and slowly drag herself up above the tide line. She then dug a deep hole using only her rear flippers. Pretty neat to watch. Finally, the aforementioned turtle tube comes out and these eggs pop out two at a time.....upwards of 150 eggs. Lastly, one lucky Nicaraguan gathers up all the eggs and makes omelets and soup. Seriously. This particular turtle had the misfortune of choosing a non-protected beach to lay her eggs. She was quickly spotted and 'claimed' by a couple young Nicos, who were patiently waiting for her to finish. The beaches can get a little dicey at night with Nicos skulking around looking to rob turtles or gringos. You can't spell "endangered" without "danger", and I wasn't about to deprive these enterprising fellows their payday. Better the turtle get robbed than me, right? These dudes were pretty friendly, but there was never any doubt about the future of these particular eggs. Their empty shoulder bags and lotto-winner smiles transcended the language barrier; Winner winner turtle dinner!

We win again.

We win again. Photo from our digs. Internet is sporadic at best down here, so we've burst posted our last several entries.  Enjoy!

Radio shotgun!

This is a late night shot of a little impromptu jam we had. After steadily plying the guards with sodas and beer, Paul lured them in with his guitar and a song. A couple hours and much rum later, we took this photo. The fellow with the tactical shotgun has an amazingly sweet and pure falsetto that belies the heavy weaponry he carries. He had to be coaxed into singing, but eventually he launched a fusillade of cheesy latin love songs. Henry has an astonishing dexterity on the six string; nimble latin progressions akin to a Nico Eric Clapton punctuated by soulful strumming and backing vocals. Surprising, indeed, for one armed with an instrument as blunt and crude as a .45 revolver. Yeah, everyone packs heat here. Christ, even the gringos on the beach wear gunbelts with speed-loaders; Goddamn Wild West lives STRONG! Thankfully, the boys think we're friggin crazy, and they are on our side.  Our little band was completed by a coke bottle filled with rice  and a water bottle drum. Paul also produced a harmonica tuned to G, which was enjoyed by all present, but soundly despised by sleeping neighbors.

Today was a good day. We got our collective asses handed to us on the big, steep, hollow waves of southern Nicaragua. The surfing is difficult; no fucking joke. I can't ride a tube, let alone an overhead right to deadly closeout on a shallow shore break. We were all a bit scared and tentative today; a couple of rinse cycles will do that to a brother. When trying to surf in conditions beyond your ability, there is a brief moment - a pause, if you will - when you know you are about to choke on a mouthful of shit sandwich, yet a peaceful feeling envelops you. You stroke for the gathering horizon and feel the swell lift your board. The momentum is with you! Somebody yells "Stand up like a man you fucking puuussssyyyyy!" You steel yourself to pop up, and in the blink of an eye 6 feet of empty space opens beneath you and you're pulled ass over tea kettle into the maw. Game fucking over, good luck finding your teeth. Tomorrow we either find a wave that crumbles a bit and doesn't rain tons of pain from on high, or we snorkel for something delicious to eat and nurse our bruises with a generous ration of rum. Which brings me to chicken nuggets. So as we enjoyed this evening's half bottle, a Nico strolls up with a plastic bag he waves under our noses. Turns out this fellow has a sack of freshly hatched baby sea turtles, each about the size of a chicken nugget. I figure we're about to barter for dinner. As cute as the little buggers are, I know they're delicious with BBQ sauce. Alas, this Dudley Do-Right collects eggs on the beach at night as the mama turtles lay them. He gathers them up to protect them from poachers, dogs, birds, gringos, and whatnot. When the eggs hatch, he returns the turtles to the beach so they can make their way in the big, bad world. Whatever. Sounds like a scam for the white people. Anyway, baby turtles are pretty cute......and surely delicious.

Zombies On Tour?!!!!

Witchy! There is no doubt that I love a good time and this picture of my compadre's definitely show that they do as well. Reminds me of when I first listened to Ministry's 'Thieves and Liars', blaring out of the St.F.X. radio room, volume in the red, screaming and yelling at the top of our lungs, and knowing no one could ever hear us. Possibly because no one ever listened to our radio show and of course, the building was empty. I don't really know why I reference this song. It has nothing to do with the lyrics, the sound makes me want to rage in all things that I pursue. Knowing my buds, if they've ever heard that song, would make them or not, go big then go bigger! Satan was present in those early days and he sure was welcome! Living at 6200' feet, working our collective asses off, skiing, biking, playing music with the boys, pounding beer and burning the sweet herb, is definitely a great life. Yet, living on an empty beach with sweet friends, and more friends too come, with all the amenities too make one feel comfy and free, is pretty darn sweet! I love getting thrashed by huge waves, getting sent through the wash, coming up and being no worse for the wear. Yes Sir, may I have another! Thank the heavens and hell below because we're all gonna go!

Cliff, Aura and Christian enjoy beer, sunsets, medium sized walks and games of dice. Its the weekend here and we currently have neighbours. The family next to us are expats from Arizona, living in Managua. Why? I didn't ask, but if I were to guess, it would be they enjoy moving from one shithole to another?!

We have rented an old ass LandCruiser, and surfboards for the month. Our ride is a funky ole jalopy that rattles, emits the filthiest of dirty exhaust and will climb anything. Yesterday we visited a beach a few kilometers to the north; Playa Yankee. Tis a fun drive to get to this secluded, white sand beach with primo waves. Alas we were unable to surf because our trusty vehicle ended up being not so trusty. We parked the rig, then were asked to move it by the local gun-toting Nico. No worries, we can drive and park this sucker anywhere! I hop in and turn the ignition, and the key just spins! Trouble. Waves are breaking, people are surfing, good times abound and all we can think about is "Shit we're going to have to walk out of here in the late afternoon, with flipflops and surfboards!". Thankfully a fellow from Vermont and a pickup full of surfer dudes pull up. Everyone loves a redneck moment, so within seconds the hood is popped and the inspection begins. After much diagnostic talk, the only remedy is too pull the rig up the steep ass hill, release it, then pop the clutch. Voila! Houston we have ignition! So while Christian kept his foot on the gas Aura and I reloaded the surfboards and we peeled out of there pronto-pronto! We arrived back at the pad, called Irish John, told him what the deal was and he drove out from San Juan del Sur, with his mechanic, who apparently likes to fix shit with duct tape, zip ties and paint. They had to tow the rig back to town for further zip tying!

No worries for us though, because @ around 5pm the surf really goes off ! We were happy in the waves, and celebrated our triumphant good luck with our daily rations of rum!