One day I asked her if she could sing it in English. She blushed and began singing with that delightful Eastern accent.What I heard was not the genial...folk song we sang in college. The version I heard from her delicate voice was the tune of Barnacle Bill the Sailor but not the lyrics I remembered. She sang a bawdy vulgar version with salacious suggestions of what Bill planned to do with a young maiden. I wondered where she had learned the lusty lyrics that would be more common in a tavern sung. It was cooler there than it had been in Puerto Vallarta. The old printed tourist guides said that the beaches were littered with trash--plastic bags, dirty diapers, glass and plastic. In eighteen years nature had cleaned the place. Oh, the sharp pieces of glass were still there because it took a long time to grind it into beach sand. The charts on the walls of the fishing charter houses showed very deep water only three to five miles out, but I couldn't get there. At least, not immediately. I'd. More

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