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Baja Babes: Four is Never a Crowd Appalachia, December 2002 When it was time for bed, I dragged my sleeping bag far away from the group because I didn't want to be awakened with someone screaming about a crab. It took a long while to get comfortable on the rocky beach, but I finally fell asleep. This time it wasn't a scream that woke me. It was a rustling behind me. Terrified, I grabbed my headlamp and searched the bushes. Tina had spoken earlier about the dingo, a wild dog known in these parts, and Terry had told a story about the scupacabra, a vampire that sucks on goats. This was ridiculous. There was nothing there. I turned off my headlamp and forced myself to sleep, but couldn't. I looked for the stars they'd shown us at dinner, but only remembered the North Star, Orion, and the Seven Sisters. I finally drifted off, counting shooting stars. A few hours later, the same rustling awakened me. There was definitely something out there, even though I couldn't see anything with my headlamp. Was it a coyote? A fox? At breakfast, Maureen complained she'd seen a small brown mouse inches from her head. That's what must have been rustling behind me. Someone renamed Danzante Island "Mouse Beach," and as soon as breakfast was over, I dragged my sleeping bag from my private location to the group's sleeping beach. It was a lot easier to be scared with others than to be terrified alone. We were paddling to "Honeymoon Cove" for a day of hiking and snorkeling, when suddenly Nancy called out, "Shark!" I turned, and not 30 feet from us was the dorsal fin of a dolphin. And a second dolphin. And a third. And a fourth. And finally a baby dolphin! They surfaced every few minutes, leading us toward the cove, then finally disappeared. I felt the same way I do when I'm hiking in the woods and see a deer: It makes the trip magical. Tina said, "There's an oyster catcher." I searched the water looking for fishnets but saw nothing. "There it goes," said Tina, as a bird with an orange beak flew away.
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