Googling Tadashi Fujikawa got me all kinds of hits, but nothing I could definitively identify as our Tadassan. I knew nothing about him except he was probably elderly, but ageless in that he could be anywhere from seventy to a hundred. He had the wiry frame and thickened, wrinkled skin of many Asian seniors, but pinning an age on them is difficult. He probably practices tai chi or some such.
Next, I entered, Japanese in Magdalena Bay Baja.
I already knew something of their history in Baja because Chino recounted his involvement to halt Mitsubishi's plans to build a salt plant in San Ignacio Lagoon, one of the last natural whale birthing grounds in the world. Then, of course, there was my little project last year, involving Tanuki Corporation and the proposed desalination plant, and sea salt by-product. Ishikawa was Tanuki's contact in Japan, but he and Dickless had more planned than salt. And, I saw Japanese vessels daily in the bay, mostly cargo ships picking up seafood in Puerto San Carlos.
What I didn't know was what popped up on my Google search: In 1912 Japan evidently tried to buy Mag Bay, and was halted by an amendment, or corollary, to the Monroe Doctrine, prompted by Japan's attempt to buy a port in Mexico. The Lodge Corollary forbade foreign governments from acquiring sufficient territory in the Western Hemisphere so as to put that government in "practical power of control."
Interesting bit of history, but nothing to do with our two divers or Fujikawa.
Another tidbit I found using the same key words was of far more interest: Turns out that following the attack on Pearl Harbor, and probably even before that infamous day, the Japanese navy used Mag Bay as a hideout for submarines. They stayed submerged during the day and surfaced at night, awaiting orders from Japan. The Japanese expected a swift victory, and were poised to take over the United States from several directions, one being Mexico.
But my best find, and one that almost sent me to get Jan until I realized it was one in the morning, was about a Texas Ranger by the name of Van Zandt—Whoa! Didn't we have a county by that name?—who worked as an undercover intelligence officer in Baja during WWII.
I went to the galley for coffee; this was getting way too good to put off until the next day.
When I finally ran out of steam at three, and was forced to shut down my PC out of sheer exhaustion, I'd learned much, much, more and could not wait to share it with Jan.
Well, maybe I could, because it took both Jan and Po Thang to drag me out of bed the next morning, and it wasn't until we took Po Thang to the beach that I got a chance to tell her what I'd found.
Jan listened intently, then said, "Lemme get this straight. This Texas Ranger, who is a spy for the United States, hears from his network of spies in the Baja that fishing boats spotted Japanese subs in Mag Bay. Then, while some Japanese officers came ashore to make contact with their spies, their crew, I'm sure disobeying strict orders, did a little horse trading with the locals?"
"Yup. And this Ranger, Van Zandt, passed this info to an American actress, Rochelle Hudson, who was also a spy for the US, and she relayed it back to Washington."
"Wow, who knew? And who the hell was Rochelle Hudson?"
"I knew you'd ask. You might remember her as Natalie Wood's mama in Rebel Without a Cause. She was also the disgraced gal to whom Mae West imparted the immortal wisdom, 'When a girl goes wrong, men go right after her!' "
"Really? I love both those movies. How did she come to be an American spy in Mexico, for cryin' out loud?"
"Her hubby at the time was a Disney exec who doubled as a civilian espionage agent down here. They took several so-called vacations to Baja, looking for any German activities, and somehow hooked up with that ranger to pass on the Japanese sub info."
"So, what happened then?"
"This is where it gets really good. Van Zandt pulled a raid using some Yaqui Indian warriors and blew up two submarines."
Jan's mouth dropped open. "This just keeps getting better and better."
"And, in 1972 someone reported spotting a sunken sub around here, but it was never found again."
"So, our guys might be looking for the wreck? I can see their interest, but why would some Japanese money guys finance our expedition just to dive on an old sub wreck?"
I had no answer for that. "I don't know, but I'm going to keep digging. Meanwhile we need to keep an eye on Kazoo and Moto. You check the ship's computer history thing, and I'll do more research."
"So, when do you think we can bring up our vase?"
"Not today. The rest of the dive crew is still within sight. Probably tomorrow, when they dive another sixty-footer. Do you think we could drive to this beach in my pickup? I'd sure like to get that vase into a safe place, and it seems much easier to fetch it by road, rather than bringing it back to the ship by panga, then smuggling it aboard."
"When I was walking Po Thang while you buried the vase, I saw tire tracks all over the desert, but have no idea where they lead. Let's put in the GPS coordinates for this beach, and use Google Earth for a look-see. Maybe we'll spot a road."
I sucked my teeth, Japanese-style. "You very smaht gul, Jan-san."
Paraphrasing an old Kingston Trio song, she said, "You are surprised? I was, after all, educated in your country."
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Google Earth rocks!
There were all kinds of roads leading to Po Thang's beach. The problem is, there were all kinds of roads leading to Po Thang's beach. At least, they looked like roads, but I knew for a fact that many were probably very basic. And unmarked.
As the crow flies, the distance from Lopez Mateos was only about thirty miles. But desert roads in the Baja meander all over the place, so I figured on at least double that. So, best case scenario, the actual drive would take us four hours at an average of twenty miles an hour, and when you add in the times we'd get lost, maybe double that. And we would be completely on our own, as I didn't see one single village along the way.
I called a conference with Jan, told her what I'd learned, and we concluded we might have to make the trip an overnighter.
"I guess we could camp on those dunes behind the beach if we have to. We danged sure can't drive back in the dark. Talk about lost."
"We need a vacation, doncha think? After all, everyone else got a three day weekend, so maybe now it's our turn?"
"Yep, I'll download and print out those Google Earth shots so we maybe have half a chance at not getting lost too many times. What are we gonna tell the guys about where we are going?"
"The truth. We're gonna go camping on the dunes."
"Dear CNN: News flash! Breaking news! Hetta Coffey tells the truth."
We planned our beach trip for the weekend, hoping maybe there would be a few cars on those so-called roads, since many Mexicans take their families on outings.
Meanwhile, I was hot on my end of our snoopery, and Jan on hers. We met each evening after dinner to compare notes, as that was about the only time we had alone. Our days were a jumble of dives, along with all manner of other expedition projects.
The expedition finances were not getting any better. Chino flat turned down my offer of ten grand, as well as Jenks's twenty, because there would be no way to recoup our investment. Little did he know I had my own financial recovery plan well under way.
Chino called a meeting to let everyone know where we stood, because the paid crew would have to make other plans before too long unless we got more money.
"According to our expedition accountant," he nodded at Jan, "we've got six weeks, maximum. This is, of course, disappointing, but we do have six weeks and that is good. I, Jan, and Hetta will remain on the job until I have to return to the fish camp, but our efforts will be restricted by time."
I was watching the Japanese divers closely for a reaction. Kazoo frowned and poor Moto's face fell. Of the two, I'd rather play poker with Moto. Neither, however, asked a question, so I did.
"How much will we need to continue until September, as we originally planned?" I already knew the number, but just in case our
divers did have a pipeline to more Japanese funds, I wanted them to know how many yen we needed. I'd told Jan to pad the estimate, just in case.
"Jan?"
"Okay, if we're frugal, which we already are, but maybe we can cut a few more corners here and there, like maybe reduce Hetta's rations, another fifty-grand'll get us there with no problem, if we don't have any major equipment failures."
Fabio gave me an evil grin. "I'll limit the wine."
"And I," I growled, "will lead the mutiny."
It was the night before Jan and I went off to get the vase that I stumbled across this little unsubstantiated tidbit on an Internet post: 'In 1943, a Japanese vessel, disguised as the fishing boat Tama Maru, carrying $250,000 in gold bullion and Japanese gold coins, was enroute to Mexico with plans to take over the country. It was lost and never recovered.'
Say what? I did a quick calculation, using the price per pound of gold in 1943, and today's price, and came up with almost nine million dollars. What if this account was in fact true, and our dive buddies had information that the gold was near or in Magdalena Bay?
This was getting mo' bettah! And potentially very dangerous for someone, namely one Hetta Coffey, who might get into the middle of the whole deal.
One Hetta Coffey who might allegedly want that alleged gold!
But, first thefts first: My vase.
We packed sleeping bags, food, beer, a tent, bug spray, more bug spray, firewood, matches, water, and a GPS, so we at least knew where we were going, if not how to get there.
Let me just say right here that I hate, hate, hate camping.
And Jan's idea of camping was in a luxury RV.
Po Thang, however, was probably gonna love this trip, including sleeping on damp sand—as opposed to the nice, soft sandy dunes where I knew for a fact scorpions lurked. Jan had caved in once to Chino's pleas to spend just one night on the dunes, and when they broke camp the next day several scorpions were snuggled up under their tent. Remembering that incident, Jan insisted we take enough blankets to make a pallet in the bed of the pickup.
Chino was surprised we'd even consider this kind of outing, but then again, he was used to us doing the unexpected. He did give us a flare gun to shoot off in case we got in trouble, since they could probably see it from the Nao de Chino. We also took a handheld radio for backup.
As expected, the thirty mile trip from the highway into Puerto San Carlos from Constitución ended up being nearly sixty, with several dead ends, wrong turns, returns to what was the main goat path, as opposed to the road under a foot of water, and the like. We left the boat at first light on the off chance that we just might make it to Po Thang's beach, get the vase and beat feet back to a nice civilized hotel for the night, but by the time we wandered over all hell and back, it was two in the afternoon before we finally arrived.
Just in case we had some kind of emergency during the night and had to leave, we decided to retrieve the vase before dark, but first we pitched camp. While Jan piled blankets into the pickup bed, I made a fire site...or tried. Every time I piled the sticks into a nice teepee, Po Thang grabbed one and took off with it. I finally gave up and threw a small branch for him, each time a little further away, so I could get my fire pit done.
We made a sandwich, had a cold beer, and suited up in dry suits to get the vase, even though the water was around seventy-eight. A breeze had come up, and the last thing we needed was hypothermia. I grabbed the shovel, my mask and snorkel, waded out to my rock marker, and soon discovered that digging with a shovel in four feet of water ain't all that easy.
Po Thang paddled around us, wanting to play. I finally gave up on the shovel, and Jan and I took turns diving down and digging with our hands. The sand fell back into the hole repeatedly, and we soon regretted not bringing air tanks.
Finally, when I tried another dive, Po Thang swam under me and latched onto something that wouldn't budge. I had to go up for air, but I was really worried, because the stupid dog wouldn't let go of his find, and I was afraid he was going to drown himself. Jan and I hovered on the surface, watching him struggle, but when he finally came up, he had the end of a yellow polypropylene rope in his mouth.
Following a hard-fought tug of war, and what came close to Po Thang requiring dentures, we wrested the dog-slimed rope away from him, and pulled it straight as far as it would reach, which was just short of the waterline. Thanks to my dog, we now had a method for dragging our vase onto the beach, but we were worn out, so I drove a piece of driftwood into the sand and tied off the line. By this time we were so tired, all we wanted was a fresh water rinse down, warm clothes, and a beer.
Po Thang remained in the water, circling our dive site, while we sipped ice cold Tecate, and watched him. Every so often he'd dive under and bring us a nice shiny shell, and if we didn't move fast enough, a saltwater shower.
"Ya know, Hetta, that dawg has some kind of personality disorder. And, he isn't gonna dry out before we bed down."
"Seems like a touch of underwater OCD. Anyhow, I'm gonna make him sleep inside the pickup cab. I'll clean him, and it, up when we get back to Lopez Mateos tomorrow. You recovered enough to take a look at the vase?"
"Maybe after one more beer. We have some daylight left. Wet dawg alert!"
Po Thang made a beeline for us, his latest find clenched between his teeth, water cascading from his matted fur. We quickly held a blanket up in front of us to ward off his shake. This time however, instead of returning to the water, he sighed and plopped down near the fire. Even nutso dogs have a limit, I guess.
"He looks so sweet, laying there. Let's cook up some hot dogs and make a bunch of extras for him. After all, look at all the gifts he brought us." Jan reached over into the pile of shells and picked one up. "Even a nice bottle cap."
I laughed. "Never look a gift dawg in the mouth."
She handed me the cap and I held it up to the fading light to see if I could make out a brand. In this part of Baja, debris washes up from as far away as the Pacific Rim and it wasn't all that unusual to find foreign garbage.
My breath caught in my chest. "Oh. My. God. Jan, I think this is a Spanish coin."
"Gold?"
"Naw, I think it's silver." I grabbed a handful of sand and began rubbing the coin, but it was fairly well encrusted. However, I could make out what looked like a crest, and judging by the irregular edges, my guess was we had a coin of some age, and maybe value.
Jan grabbed it and squinted. "Chino can tell us what it is, but where did Po Thang get it?"
We both looked out at the water, but it was too dark and cold to go back in, and Po Thang was done for the day.
Needless to say, between the hard truck bed, coyote howls, a damp fog that rolled in, and the anticipation of finding more silver coins, didn't make for a good night's rest. Even before first light we were up and making a fire for coffee, using the truck's headlights for illumination.
"We need hot food, because we have to get that vase out first thing, and I'm going back in to see if I can spot more coins."
Jan went to the truck and came back with two large cans of chicken noodle soup, which we heated in a sauce pan. I think it was the best breakfast I ever had.
It took another hour before we were able to dislodge the unbelievably heavy basket, net, and vase out of the water and almost onto shore.
Jan grunted and gave it a heave, sliding our steal the last foot. "Dammit, it's a stinkin' vase, why's it so danged heavy?"
"Wet sand weighs a lot. Betcha this damned thing is over fifty pounds and if you add the drag of the water and the soft sand it's still in, we've had quite a fight on our hands. Oh, well, it's done. I'll get some tools so we can cut off the net and get that sand out. I'll feel much better when that vase is safely in my truck. I wish I could back the Ranger down here so we don't have to carry the vase up the dune, but I'm afraid we'll get stuck."
Inside the pickup I found a bag of plastic spoons we brought along for scooping out sand. I didn't want to chance using metal, so
the process would be slow, but safer.
"You start mucking it out while I scoop water into a bucket. I'm thinking we should transport it in seawater, because who knows what could happen if it dries out too soon after four hundred years on the bottom. As soon as we can see the base, I want to check it for markings."
"Uh, they'll be in Chinese, Hetta."
"I know, but on Antiques Roadshow they say if it's got marks, it can be identified as to year and maker. Did you see recently in the news where a Ming vase someone was using for a doorstop fetched over a million bucks at auction?"
"I'll spoon faster."
I was on the way back, lugging the overflowing pail, when Jan screamed, scaring the living hell out of both me and Po Thang.
My big ferocious dog, instead of running to defend Jan, tucked tail and headed to me for comfort, then trailed behind me as I ran toward Jan. She was still sitting in the edge of the water and I thought she'd been nailed by a stingray.
"What? Are you all right?"
She pointed to a pile next to her.
A pile of wet sand. And silver coins.
Po Thang, recovering from his fright, dashed in and grabbed a mouthful of silver.
"Crap! Don't let him swallow them! We'll be here for another day waiting for him to poop."
Jan, giggling, threw herself over the pile and pushed Po Thang, who now considered the whole thing a game, away. He gave her a friendly growl, trotted over to his treasure pile, and deposited the coins on top of the shell collection. He made one more pass at Jan, but by that time I was there to help fend him off.
Miffed, he went back to diving and even brought up a few more coins while Jan and I took turns carefully scraping sand from the vase, adding water, and scraping more sand and then putting the coins into another bucket. As we soon discovered, there was more silver than dirt in that vase, but the sand was so hard packed it was almost like concrete.
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