The marina we are staying in is on an estuary, and we awake in the mornings to the crazy jungle sounds of exotic birds. The estuary is connected to a freshwater lake where reportedly, crocodiles ply the waters. I hope to tour it before we leave. There are parrots nesting in palm trees and stalks of bananas on the banana trees.
Patrick saw an iguana about a meter long slide off the dock into the water the other day. I glimpse dozens of white egrets roosting in trees near a swamp or a redwood-sized tree trunk covered with thorns from the bus window, as I whiz by on some boat-appointed errand. There are full grown coconuts floating in the water. (That's the way coconuts get around: They float. How else do all those coral atolls get vegetation on them? Coconuts are just the palm tree's crafty way of spreading its gene pool.)
To a Seattle-lite like me, the heat and humidity are oppressive. I don't think it is even 90 degrees out, but I'm uncomfortably hot all the time (and no, this is not the hormone-induced heat of "my own private summer"--- an apt turn of phrase by a friend at Marina Palmira.) It can't be that humid---because it hasn't rained once---but it is humid compared to anything we've experienced in Mexico so far. Our new dinner time is 8 p.m., because that's when it becomes cool enough to even think about using the stove. We finally put away the cushy fleece sheets that have accompanied us down the coast and exchanged them for cotton: About an hour before dawn, we might actually need a sheet.
Several of the boats we met in La Paz will be making landfall in French Polynesia within a week, and we have not even left for the Galapagos yet. From what we hear, the 40 boats at anchor in the Galapagos are waiting for wind to leave for the Marquesas. Boats everywhere are languishing in the doldrums, and we are languishing at the dock. Did I mention that I'm anxious to get underway?