Some poor schmuck at the Aquarium has been sorting through sea turtle poop.

Really.

It turns out that the sea turtles won’t be returning to the Outer Bay exhibit at the Monterey Bay Aquarium just yet.

The back of the giant, almost two-million gallon tank is covered in tiny tiles. Almost impossible for the public to see, but the turtles discovered them a while ago.

I don’t know if they were just bored, or hungry, or acting out. It’s not unusual for sea turtles to nibble algae, so that may have been it as well, although great efforts are made to keep those walls very clean.

Or maybe the turtles had an artistic vision—a kind of abstract, negative mosaic—in mind. Maybe they were spelling out a message.

Regardless, tiles began disappearing from the wall. And appearing (seems they’re not digestible) in turtle poop.

So some poor schmuck got assigned the task of collecting and sorting through the turtle poop and counting the tiles they found.

The good news is, careful turtle poop sorting was successful: they recovered exactly the number of tiles that had gone missing.

This is dedicated science in action.

The bad news is, that until the aquarists come up with a way to keep the tile-tasting-turtles from tasting tiles, the turtles will remain behind the scenes, in off-exhibit tanks not visible to the public.

Too bad. The turtles are a big crowd-pleaser, and a personal favorite. It would be nice if there were somewhere else they could be exhibited safely, without the dangers of them tasting tiles, or the occasional Great White shark tasting them.

The people at the Aquarium are the best in the world at what they do. I’m sure they’re already working on it.

And I’m still holding out for a mola.

Lasting Relationships, Changing Times

I got a catch-up email from a childhood acquaintance who found me online. She wrote that after nearly twenty years of marriage, she and her husband are still ‘fond’ of each other.

Although it was stated positively, it seemed a slightly backhanded turn of phrase. But it wasn’t more than a few weeks later that she mentioned that for every one of her birthdays, for every Christmas, and for every Mother’s Day since their son was born, her husband has written her a love letter.

That’s a lot of letters. Wonderful letters. She has a whole box full of ‘em. And that, it seems to me, says a lot about a relationship, about a marriage, about what ‘fond’ means to her. And they’re still married. They still make the choice, every day, to spend their lives with one another. That says a lot right there.

I wonder if she knows how lucky she is?

Part of me is jealous. Part of me is just beginning to realize how completely I don’t understand the process.

But I’d like the chance to learn.

I spent a wonderful couple of days recently with a beloved cousin who’s the closest thing I have to a sister. She spent a measurable portion of that time pointing out how completely clueless I am. We’ll skip the part about my hair (I pull it straight, back and up; she says I should wear it curly, loose and down.) And the clothes (I like to be put together, and comfortable. She says I need to go more casual, lower, and tighter.) And the lifestyle: I’m a bit of a hermit…well, occasionally downright anti-social. (Although another friend pointed out last year that I’m not anti-social, I’m just discerning. It’s all about the spin.) My cousin wants me out on the dance floor. Or at least out of the house.

But aside from all that, she’s convinced that I don’t even notice when, in spite of myself, other people (read “men”) notice me. That I never have.

She’s not the first one to point this out.

(Every since she fell madly in love & got happily married years ago, she’s wanted the same for me, bless her. If there were any less distance than the thousands of miles there usually are between us, I’m sure she would have managed it by now. She’s a real go-getter, that one.)

But left to my own devices, I seem to be falling short. And according to her (and everyone else I know) it IS for want of trying.

So maybe I shouldn’t have moved to a town the size of a very small private college and opened a business directed almost exclusively to women and children.

At first I was too happy and busy to notice that I was single. Too relieved to be in one spot for a while, enjoying a five-minute commute and coming home to my own bed every night instead of getting on another plane, and waking up in another hotel room, in another time zone, on my way to another meeting with another group of overgrown boys pushing and posturing their way to the top of the corporate heap.

When it did finally hit me, I looked up and realized that everyone around me was either “newlywed or nearly dead.” Or already married to their high-school sweetheart, a shiny happy little family with two-point-three kids, a dog, and a SUV (yes, it’s that kind of town), so the point immediately became moot. I got on with my life.

In my defense, I have met BOTH the single men in this town, and one of ‘em still has all his own teeth. (That might be exaggerating a tiny little bit. Not much.)

For a couple of years there, it was a little hard. A little lonely. A little desolate when all of your friends are married and their idea of a good time on a Saturday night is a Little League game and then pizza with 30 screaming kids at Gianni’s. I’ve been to more than my share of birthday parties, and ballet recitals, and really awful amateur theater productions. And I’m still not old (or desperate) enough to hang out at Mission Ranch. (Sorry, Clint.)

But lately things have been changing.

Toddlers are turning into teens and heading off into the wide world, leaving their doting everything-revolves-around-my-children parents at loose ends.

Friends whose weddings I remember are getting divorced. For some it’s a relief, a blessing. For others it’s not. For all of them it’s a change, a huge upheaval in life, and a sudden (or not so sudden) veering away from, or sometimes back to, the road originally plotted.

Even more tragically, in the past few years several dear friends have had terrible losses—spouses, parents, and most tragically, a child. A beautiful, beloved, magical, only, child.

So all of a sudden, almost ALL of my friends are single. Suddenly they ALL have time to play—all the time. They all want to go out, or to lunch, or to dinner, or the movies. And can’t figure out why I don’t always have time for them.

Because in the meantime, I’ve filled my life with other things.
I’m busy.

But maybe I’ve changed, too. I’m ready to meet someone special. Now. Someone to share my life with, someone to laugh with, someone to dive, and dance,  and travel with. Someone to cook for. Someone who can fix the door in the my office. Someone who loves horses, and dogs, and curling up on the couch in front of the fire.

Someone who writes love letters to me.

I suppose it’s natural at this time of year to be thinking about the things that change. And the things that don’t.

For now, I’m single. It would be nice if I wasn’t.

But I have cousins who are like sisters to me, a mother who’s a saint, and the best extended family anyone could wish for. I have a sweet, funny dog who’s always glad to see me and sweet, funny, wise, wonderful friends. For all seasons.

Family and friends. And faith. My life is full. And happy.

And I’m giving notice that there’s room for more.

The Discovery of Coffee

It’s maybe a little late, but I’ve finally discovered coffee.

I have an aunt who would tell you that she’s never been on a diet in her life—and she’s never needed to. She has a cup of coffee at quarter to dawn every morning, a cup or two for breakfast, another cup for brunch, and then one or two cups between that and the cup she has for lunch. She’d also tell you that, while she doesn’t eat breakfast or lunch, she snacks constantly. She does. All of half an open-faced sandwich here, one or two home-baked cookies there, (she’s an incredible cook), maybe an apple, or a piece of cheese. If there’s any excuse at all to make a second pot, she’ll have another cup or two of coffee in the afternoon with a couple of cookies or a piece of fresh pastry.

Of course, she hasn’t slept well in years, but she has the figure of a cute nineteen-year old, boundless energy, a kind word and helping hand for everyone, and gets more done in a day than any four other people I know put together.

I figure it’s worth a shot.

Bye sharkie, sharkie.

There’s now one more Great White shark in the waters off California.

Yesterday, the Monterey Aquarium released the Great White shark they’ve had since August. She’s visibly grown in the two-plus months she’s been here, thrived, and had recently been spending more time nearer the top of the giant Outer Bay tank, instead of down in the depths where I first encountered her.

But she’s apparently also been getting restless—you know teenagers!—and the decision to release her was made on Tuesday after she exhibited some “aggressive behavior” toward the other sharks in the exhibit over Halloween weekend.

Youch.

The local news joked that the surfers currently competing in the Cold Water Classic surfing competition on the north side of the Bay might want to keep their eyes open.

Realistically, though, she’ll probably head south, like her predecessors, toward the warmer water in Southern California. Maybe as far south as the tip of the Baja peninsula, and then maybe north up into the Gulf of California/Sea of Cortez. Researchers are still not sure if that’s a Great White breeding ground, or a nursery, or just a place the juvenile in-crowd likes to hang out.

But it’s a popular Great White destination and researchers are doing their best to find out why. This Great White was fitted with two electronic transmitters before she was released, and her progress will be tracked via satellite. Rumor has it that last time they released a Great White, some of the most venerable of the Aquarium founders and staff camped along the beach in Baja, hoping for a glimpse. (Or a beer.)

An interesting tidbit here: surfers and swimmers in Southern California have about a 50% chance that any Great White they encounter in the water will be a juvenile, “only” about five to seven feet long.

In contrast, surfers and swimmers in Northern California have more to look out for: most, if not all of the Great Whites sharks up here are older and much, MUCH bigger. It’s not until the Great Whites get to an impressive size that they start preferring the colder water and rich feeding grounds north of Santa Barbara.

Of course, Northern California is also culturally superior, but that’s another post.

For details on how they isolate and catch a Great White shark from a two-million gallon tank that has also has lots of other sharks in it (VERY carefully), how they lift her out (How do they pick who gets to hold the biting end?) and transport her safely—like most tourists, she took the scenic route, right down Cannery Row—to the boat, to the Bay, and to an appropriate release point, you can check out the last two Aquarium blogs here:

 http://montereybayaquarium.typepad.com/sea_notes/white-shark/

They’ve got details about the scuffle with her tank mates (one of the Galapagos sharks now has a NASTY-looking five-inch gash and a couple of tooth punctures behind her right fin), some great pictures of the her release, and a good link to the just-published findings about Great White movements along the California coast. Turns out that Great Whites do occasionally swim INTO the San Francisco Bay, as well as along their more well-known routes down to Baja in the south to as far as Hawaii in the west. And congregate in what’s known as the “Great White Cafe” in between.

Now that the Great White is gone, I’m hoping the two sea turtles will re-appear. They’ve been kept in some holding tanks off-exhibit for the duration of her stay.

Just in case.

But it turns out this shark was a picky eater—the piscine equivalent of that phase where teenagers will eat anything, as long as it’s pizza. It’s not that pizza isn’t nourishing. It’s just that a little variety doesn’t hurt. Maybe now, back out in the ocean, she’ll expand her palate.

No more mackerel-on-a-stick for her, darn it. I wonder if she’ll think back on that fondly?

They’d already added a small school of mahi-mahi, or dolphin fish, to the exhibit with her last week. Bright, colorful, funny-looking things, with their odd-shaped heads, and, as it turns out, curious natures.

But what I’m really hoping for is a new mola mola.

More about that another time.

My Wild, Wild West

I'd been living out here for about a year when my friend Sarah came to visit from London.

We were driving home one afternoon after having lunch in town when she started to giggle. I asked her what was so funny. “Every time we drive out here, I feel like I’m heading into the real Wild West,” she said.

I must have looked at her in complete disbelief.

Don’t get me wrong. This is no metropolis, but it’s not exactly the Badlands, either. I think of the Wild West as open, empty vistas, tumbleweeds, and…well, ok, I have to admit that we do have rattlesnakes. And coyotes. Not a lot, though. The occasional mountain lion. But I live in a neighborhood; there are houses on three sides of me; the electric and cable service isn’t any worse (and sometimes a lot better) than in the towns of Monterey, or Carmel, or Pebble Beach, or Pacific Grove (especially Pacific Grove); and most of the roads are paved—although not recently.

True, she admitted. Then again, none of her neighbors in London have geese. She said this just as we were heading past the last, and one of the most successful, business in the Village—the Saloon—so I let it go.

About a month later I drove into the Village center to pick up a few things at the market. It must have been rush hour—all four parking spaces in front were filled, so I backed up a bit down the road to find an empty spot.

It’s common wisdom (every fictional detective from Sherlock Holmes to Morse quotes it at some point) that people don’t look up.  Which is why in science fiction films the slimy alien with the reptile face and poison claws leaps DOWN on the unsuspecting victims from his perch at the top of the warehouse, or from where he was glued to the ceiling of the dark passageway between the engine room and the crew quarters.

I guess it’s true. Pulling into a parking space just a couple of doors down from the market I’d been going to about once a week for a year, I happened to look UP. And was taken completely by surprise to see a sign in front of the upstairs rooms—a sign that has clearly been there for some time—that said Gunsmithing.

Really.

And it isn’t a small sign, either. It stretches over the equivalent of two storefronts underneath, written in a kind of graceful, outmoded script. The sign is slightly faded, but from the size and location of the space they inhabit on the coveted second floor—up the rickety wooden steps on the side—it’s clearly a thriving enterprise.

I parked and got out of the car. To my right, the woman getting into the bronze Bentley and the  “dog” in her arms were dressed in matching pink Jackie-O Chanel. (Cropped jackets. Contrasting trim). Hers looked original.

To my left, a giant black and tan bloodhound straight out of Mayberry with droopy eyes and even droopier ears, was glowering over the top of my car at them in disbelief from atop a dusty white half-ton pickup truck with mud on the wheels and rodeo tags on the bumper.

Next to him, a spotless, forest-green late model Subaru station wagon had a crate of prize-winning chickens in the back. Not that I know from prize-winning chickens, but  I’m pretty sure that’s what all the blue and red ribbons hanging from the side meant.

I stepped onto the covered walkway, sidled carefully around the massive German Shepherd sprawled snoozing in front of the Art Gallery and glanced at the new notices on the bulletin board:

New Yoga Class starting!
gentle, stretching, some Pilates
Community Chapel
BYO mat
Call Tristan

 Mobile Farrier Service            The Middle Way
   20 yrs. experience          Zen in the 21st Century

Overwhelmed?
Chakra Balancing
by Compassionate Professional

Best price
Dry Oak Firewood          
You split, you haul

Brad—you can come back. M

ONE NIGHT ONLY! 
The ORIGINAL
Creekridge Rollers at the Running Iron Saloon 
Beer & Barbeque

I resisted the urge to look through the pile of ‘read & share’ books in the weathered bookcase underneath. Every available surface in my house is covered in books waiting to be read as it is. I did pick up an old copy of “Horse and Rider” to page through. Just wishful thinking, at this point. But wouldn’t it be nice?

Balanced on a stool at the tall table outside the Market, the celebrity owner of a local winery was debating whether smoke and ashy run-off from the summer’s wild fires would affect the taste of next year’s Chardonnay. And the problems he was having keeping wild boar out of the vines. I nodded to the wooden Indian standing guard at the door, and went inside to pick up a loaf of sourdough.

Sarah may have a point.