Summer before last my friend Stella and I went to Belize. Our bigger kids were going on an eco-adventure to a tiny caye to be part of a team of scuba divers spearing invasive species off the world’s second largest barrier reef. That is a fancy way of saying that we like to do big, fun things, and have so schooled the kids. After we waived goodbye to their boat, my son shrunk with embarrassment as I snapped a picture. We had four days on our own to hang out and try to enjoy Belize on a budget.
Ninety miles away, in the Garifuna (West African) village of Dangriga, you can get a water taxi to a tiny bit of paradise: Tobacco Caye. We found the dock near the diner, and made contact with Captain Dog. He gave us a pair of life jackets to put on, but then left us on the dock to wait. He never came back. Some fishermen took pity on us and, together with their crew, we boarded a little rickety motor boat, and braved an incoming squall. Forty-five minutes later, we arrived at the sunny caye, drenched in water, but laughing hard. The fishermen motored away while we looked blankly at the nothingness. There were 2 docks, a marine station, and a set of cabanas, equipped with rain barrel showers. And that was about it. You get a bell for breakfast, lunch and dinner, and the rest of the time you relax, enjoy the water and the breeze, and talk to who ever else you intersect with. 
I met several Brits, a gal from Sweden who lived there year round, a father and son from Reno, Katherine from New Mexico who had aspired (unsuccessfully) to be ordained the first female priest in the Roman Catholic Church; and a guy from Alabama with a shirt that said “It’s not the guns that kill people…It’s the bullets.”
Stella is straight as an arrow, but she has an adventurous nature. We both like the water, but after being in it for four hours, it was time to relax. Sitting still is not something that comes naturally to either of us. In particular, this was the first block of kid free time we’d ever had. When you find the adult time to revert to be the person you were before children, or even the child you were (in my case the one who never went to a summer camp), well, it just helps you process everything you’ve learned along your road. That night we talked and talked and laughed and talked more. I heard her life story once again, in more shocking detail, on the breezy balcony of our cabana. Her childhood is somewhere between Sara Crew and Cinderella, but it does not end with the father coming back from the dead or a prince in a castle. It segues from bad dream to harsh reality to survival to finding her sense of well being by way of Christianity. This is not my way, but I understand it got her through. In our cabana, that first day, after swimming and eating and talking, and laughing out loud, we read our respective books and fell asleep face first on our cots. During the night the rain poured over our tin roof and the wind howled through the little house, like a fairy tale.
The next day brought the return of Captain Dog (his 2nd boat had sunk from too much weight the day before, leaving all the passengers and their luggage in the water to dog paddle to shore.) We returned the life jackets. Today he delivered two ladies who lugged a cooler in tow: vodka, mixers, chips and salsa. He said he would watch their rental car on the mainland while they had their time on Tobacco Caye. Hello to Denise and Liz. “We’re from Santa Rosa.” Not we’re from the Bay Area, or we’re from Wine Country. SANTA ROSA. Lifers. They poured me a fruity vodka drink in a plastic cup and we munched and gabbed and that was that. We were a group of four women now.
Liz and Denise went to high school together there, loud and proud in Santa Rosa. They were somewhere between acquaintance and friends, growing up the same-ish. As grown women they live just a block and a half from each other. All of their kids (save one troubled one) are out on their own. Liz is the big sister type. She’s short (I am short too, so hey) and ethnically mixed (hey, hey), and exudes caring when you, say, end up sharing your life story with her, just like that, on a tiny spit of land in the Caribbean Sea. And you just look at her know she’s got your back (she really does). Denise is the opposite of Liz in height and color. To give you a visual, I would say she is more corporate looking — she doesn’t look the Belizean vacation-type so much. But you can sense a very strong woman who is perhaps letting her hair down at last. She’d lost her husband a few months prior to a long battle with a chronic and fatal illness. She’d cared for him for 10 years. If you have ever been through this, you know it leaves the living barely standing. Liz got wind of this, and stopped by to reach out one day. After knowing and not knowing each other for decades, a friendship was born.
“Denise, I’m taking you to Belize. Pack your bags.” Liz instructed.
They had just come from the jungle and the amazing Mayan cave tour. We were headed where they’d already been. But for now the four women (me, Stella and the ladies of Santa Rosa) were sitting on the balcony of the cabana, tossing rocks into the water and watching the bio-luminescence ripple on the water — laughing, drinking, talking about the challenges of children, of parents, of men. Of life, death, and love.
On our last evening, there was a young man, Eric…too young for any of us, but a very nice and nice looking guy. A Garifuna, dressed more sporty, and less beachy. He was ripped and was tall like a basketball player. He had a gold tooth. We babysat him all evening, trying to figure out what his game was. After a while, you could see he had his sights set on Denise. We had already established a signal: caCAW, caCAW! if she needed us. We watched from the beach chairs as he charmed her on the water’s edge. She did not use the signal, as he was a gentlemen. He followed us back to the Cabana, but Bertha, the proprietress, shoo’d him away.
Stella and I took their invitation to Santa Rosa quite seriously. Inside of 2 months, we showed up on Denise’s doorstep for a sleepover. It was a weekday, but they arranged to get off of work a little early. Liz swung by to pick us up, packing up some cheese and bread and salami on the way out. And as they’d promised on Tobacco Caye, our new girlfriends took us wine tasting. Our friends are immensely proud of their wine country. We powered through two stunning wineries and had our picnic all in in 90 minutes. I had a nice buzz. With minutes to spare, our friends insisted we try to get to Paradise Ridge Winery in before the gates closed. We high tailed it there in time to see the beautiful tasting room overlooking the vineyards. It was in fact a stunning destination and I can see why they insisted we cram it into our brief visit:
The tasting room was closing and so we were really rushed to soak up the beauty of this place. There is a sculpture garden on the road leading out. We gave ourselves permission to languish and do a little photo shoot here. How grateful I am that we took this picture. 
The whole way back to Los Angeles Stella and I talked about moving to Santa Rosa. I’ll never be able to afford to live in San Francisco again. It seemed to be one of the last places in the Bay Area you could find a home for $500,000. So Cal weather but a gateway to such beautiful wineries and all. Stella was really thinking it through. She remarked it was probably “too liberal” and I noted her innocence and prayed maybe she’d give “too liberal” a chance someday. I could see she was really picturing a quality of life for her and her husband.
And how ironic that about 2 days before the fire, I sent Liz a message and told her I was coming for my second visit. I was thinking of going the weekend before my birthday, which would have been the 12th. And there went that, I thought, as I watched my Sonoma, Napa, and Santa Rosa friends all mark themselves “safe” on Facebook. Life’s hard. I feel helpless, try to make sense of non-sense.
Stella translated this into christian in a text to me:
Praying for hope for those needing a place of refuge in the midst of all the on-going devastation. I’m saddened because of the wonderful memories I hold of these beautiful places. So much they must endure as they recover, find healing, and try to move forward.
Amen.
Dear Denise and Liz: Ca-CAW, Ca-CAW. xoxo
P-Nut gallery notes.... 