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the wheel over and gave the engines full throttle for a few seconds, swinging the aft into the dock with a satisfying whack of my fenders.
    In the end, I received a smattering of applause and hoots, which I acknowledged with a bow before my shaky legs powered me to the head below.

Chapter Five
     
     
    Bubbles, blowing burbles against the hull, woke us at five the next morning.
    Po Thang was off the bed and up the steps before I could grab him, but I'd locked the doggie door the night before, as I do at the dock. And, as always, Po Thang crashed into the locked door a few times and howled in frustration before getting the message that he was no longer free to roam at will.
    With the arrival of his BFF, he paced and grumbled, looking for an alternate escape route, but I had the boat buttoned up tight. Pulling on my jeans—speaking of tight—I gave him a sympathy pat. "Sorry, Romeo, no Juliet stuff today. She shouldn't even be here. I've never seen a dolphin in the marina."
    I'd seen them swimming in the bay, but never inside the marina itself, so I made a management decision; I was wide awake, there was no wind or current to speak of, and it was getting light enough for me to maneuver my way to my dock. Better yet, I could see that the other half of my two-boat slip was empty, so all I had to do was aim and I'd get in without much damage. Just kidding. I really can dock a boat, but it is sooo much easier when there isn't a half-million dollars worth of fiberglass sharing the slip.
    I started the engines, which roused a crewmember from one of the mega-yachts. He hustled to handle my lines, probably eager to get us gone, since Po Thang, held prisoner inside the cabin, was raising all Billy Hell.
    If you are going to single-hand a boat, you come up with clever plans when docking and anchoring. My docking procedure was the lasso theory. I rigged a breast line on a center cleat of Raymond Johnson and after getting into a slip, I'd stop the boat the best I could, wait until I bumped the dock, and was able to lasso the dock cleat from the flying bridge. Without another boat to worry about next to me, all I had to do was cinch us in, then, even with a tricky tide or wind, at least the center of the boat was snugged in securely. Getting the bow and aft lines was then a piece of cake .
    And, since I had no neighbor, I had the leisure of finding a place for Se Vende later in the day, since the pesky sucker increased the width of my boat by a good five feet.
    After shutting the engines down and patting myself on the back for a job well done, I downed a celebratory cup of coffee and hooked up to power, water, and Internet: all those blessedly convenient luxuries you learn to either do without or conserve while anchored out.
    As an appeasement to my very disgruntled dog—as I hoped, Bubbles had not followed us in—I took him for a long walk into town.
    The malecon , or bay front walkway, stretches for five kilometers from Marina de la Paz all the way to the other end of town and is our favorite morning walk. The bronze artworks alone, some of them eleven feet high and depicting sea life and historical characters, are worth the trip. Since we were early, the daily clean up crews were out sweeping into piles whatever went on the night before. The malecon is a popular spot for discothèques (yes, they still have them), bars, restaurants and draws young people who hang out all night, drinking and dancing. The aftermath often resembles a war zone early on in the day, but by seven a.m. everything is usually spic-and-span.
    Even though meeting and greeting other walkers and dogs is a great way to start the day, my patience level is soon tested. I'm only good for about a mile each way because being dragged much farther by a badly leash-trained dog soon becomes a test upon our relationship. Like, I want to kill him. Nary a palm tree escapes a sniff and a leg lift, every dog must be nose-greeted—and some are not all that friendly—and if I'm