The news from Honduras had not been good. In an early morning raid, soldiers stormed the palace. Mel was tossed out by the seat of his pants–the first military coup in South America since the fall of the Berlin Wall.
It was dusk. I was up in the lifeguard stand again, aiming a Crimson Trace red dot at the early moon. Marianne’s cat was with me on the bench.
She nudged my ribs then whipped around and swaggered to the other end, John Wayne-style, then decided to sit and lick herself.
Something moving in the woods made her stop. She’d been rather skittish lately. Two nights before, there had been a wild crazy ruckus underneath my sailboat, the cat hissing and making kung-fu-fighter sounds, spine arched, ears back, in a Mexican standoff with what–Marianne told me later–was probably a coyote. I went out on deck, firing into the air, and the coyote ran off. I squeezed off a few extra pot shots and got a yelp in response. When I checked the next day, I found nothing: no blood trail, no tracks.
# # #
# # #
Author of Blue Rubber Pool
Surf Director at Pineapple Hill