Free Sisterchicks in Sombreros by Robin Jones Gunn Page B

after all these years that she didn’t name her dog after Russell what’s-his-name.
    I closed my eyes and felt the subtle sway of the ship. It hadn’t seemed very noticeable while we were moving around our cabin, but now that I was lying still, I felt like a baby being rocked to sleep in a cradle.
    Releasing a long, low sigh, I thought maybe I should pray. I’d been too frantically active the past few days to even think about praying. Now that I was lying still in the comfort of this cocoon, being lulled by the gentle sway, my mind played with some of the lines Joanne had read to me. I remembered something about “rushing around like some monster loose in God’s beautiful world” and how “you shouted past my deafness.”
    Have You been shouting to me
? I asked in an inaudible prayer.
    The answer was apparently “no,” because only silence prevailed in our stateroom. For a long time I lay still, barely breathing, only thinking.
    At last my heart whispered,
I won’t run around like a monster anymore. I’ll control my temper and stop being so full of anxiety about everything, okay?
    I knew it wasn’t a confession comparable to Augustine’s, but it was all I had at the moment. At least it was a start. Apparently that was enough to calm my mind, for I fell asleep.
    Joanne was up early. I know she was trying to tiptoearound, but it’s hard to open a sliding glass door quietly.
    “What time is it?” I muttered without opening my eyes.
    “Seven o’clock here. Ten o’clock by my head.”
    “Are we docked yet?” The motion of the boat seemed to have stopped, or else I’d become used to it.
    “Yes, we’re in Mexico. You should come see this.” Joanne had wrapped up in one of the long terry cloth robes that were hanging in the closet when we arrived. She stood out on our small balcony, and the cool air from the new day filled our room. The faint scent of burning trash came in along with the air.
    I grabbed the other thick robe and joined my early bird sis on the balcony. Variegated panels separated our balcony from the ones on either side, but we could hear our neighbors on the right side. It sounded as if they were moving their patio chairs around.
    On the deck underneath us, the covered lifeboats were lined up and secured in place. Far below the lifeboats was the dark gray water of the Port of Ensenada. The day had not been roused for very long from its early December snooze, and though fully risen, the sun seemed to shine on us with the same grogginess I felt.
    A faint haze floated in the air as Joanne and I leaned against the railing and studied the panorama before us. Low hills rose behind the sprawling city of Ensenada. Houses dotted the hills, their adobe-colored tile roofs blending with the dusty browns of the landscape. Directly below us was a modern-looking dock area complete with an outdoor restaurant, pavedwalkways, and a duty-free store. Just beyond the newly developed tourist stop sprawled a soccer field void of a single blade of grass. It was more like a dirt lot that was set up to one day become a soccer field. However, from the general appearance of the town’s worn-looking structures, it seemed we were looking at a soccer field that was used regularly.
    I couldn’t relate to any of this—the touristy area in the foreground, the dirt lot that served as a soccer field in the middle of my view, or the sprawling, foreign-looking jumble of buildings that made up Ensenada. But my stomach didn’t tighten at the thought of disembarking and heading out into the city on our own.
    “You ready for the morning buffet?” Joanne asked, stirring me from my reverie.
    “It’s so early. I was considering another half hour of sleep. We won’t be able to pick up our rental car until ten o’clock, so there’s no rush to disembark.”
    “But we’re up,” Joanne said. “We might as well go to breakfast, then dress and have a little time to look around town before we pick up the rental