Convergence at Two Harbors

by Dennis Herschbach

  David dressed and gawked in the mirror. He looked all of his sixty-seven years, and he combed his hair by running his fingers through the few gray strands protruding from his nearly bald pate. He put the coffee pot on and realized he wasn’t hungry, then checked his watch. Four-fifteen in the morning.

  He poured a cup of steaming black stuff, placed the cup on the table.

  David wandered around his tiny upstairs apartment, and his mind drifted to the time he had driven up the Old Scenic Highway to Two Harbors for the first time. That was in the spring of 1978, and he was going there to be interviewed for a teaching job in the Lake Superior School System. He was single then, a relatively young man with few worries.

  He was hired by a curmudgeonly superintendent, and he remembered starting teaching there that fall. David had planned to stay only two years but had ended up teaching history and political science for the next twenty-one. He remembered why he stayed.

  The fall of 1980 brought changes to the school system: some teachers left amid farewells, but new faces were hired to fill their slots. Among them was Alicia, an attractive redhead hired to teach sophomore English.

  He remembered how her appearance stopped him in his tracks the first time they had met in the hallway. She was tall and slim, fair skinned with a faint sprinkling of freckles. David was instantly mesmerized by her sparkling green eyes and her ready smile. And when she said hello, well, her voice had a certain seductive quality that had to be natural. No one could conjure up that quality.

  After learning she was his age, thirty-seven, and a divorcee, he made a point of stopping by her room to inquire if she needed help with anything. He convinced himself he was only trying to be helpful.

  But as the school year progressed David found himself taking the long way to his room past hers, and to his delight he noticed Alicia spending more time near his room. The day came when he finally screwed up enough courage to approach her.

  “Hi, Alicia,” David had said trying to sound nonchalant. “I have two tickets to the playhouse in Duluth on Friday night. The performance is The Seductive Life … I mean The Secret Life of John Doe. He turned three shades of red and thought to himself, Oh, God. Where did that come from?

  Alicia burst out laughing, and asked. “Well, which is it, David?” Then she added, “Either way, I’d love to see it, if that’s what you were talking about.”

  That day began a love affair that lasted for the rest of their lives.

  They taught in the same school for the next nineteen years, and retired on the same day in 1999. They were fifty-six, young and in good health, and over the years they had accumulated a comfortable retirement account. David thought of their plans: travel to places they had never been, evenings in a villa in Greece, perhaps a visit to Italy, or even to the Swiss Alps.

  A month later, Alicia had driven to the nearby city of Duluth, and David had stayed home to finish packing for their first post-retirement adventure. The doorbell rang, and when he answered it, David was surprised to see a state trooper at his door.

  “Are you David Craine?” the trooper asked. David nodded, his stomach beginning to knot. “May I come in Mr. Craine?”

  Again David nodded.

  Once inside, the trooper cleared his throat. “Do you mind if I have a seat? Perhaps you would sit down as well.” David slowly sat down without saying a word.

  “Mr. Craine,” the trooper began. “There was an accident on the expressway this morning. A person in a pickup truck ran a stop sign and broadsided your wife’s car. I’m so sorry to have to tell you that your wife was killed in the crash.” David slumped out of his chair onto his knees and lowered his head onto the carpet. His body shook as he repeated over and over, “No, no, NO …”

  The trooper placed his hand on David’s heaving shoulders and asked, “Can I call someone for you, a relative, a friend, perhaps a pastor?”

  David looked up, his eyes already swollen red. “We have no children, no close relatives either. We only have, had, each other. Will you call the pastor at Bethlehem Lutheran? Tell him I need him.”

  The next three days were a blur for David, but somehow he survived. After Alicia’s funeral, after she was laid in the ground, he was lost. For days, he sat and looked at his living room wall. After a week, he realized he had to get moving—or perish.

  As with most widowed people, he made it through the first year of living alone, and only then could he think about putting his life together.

  For as long as he could remember, David had wanted to own a boat, a big boat, and he wanted to travel on Lake Superior. Now he had a plan. He would sell the house, take the proceeds from that and his savings if necessary and buy his dream. He would put together a new David Craine.

  From his apartment window above Dunnigan’s, David looked out past Crusader I sitting high and dry on her blocks, looked over the harbor’s ore docks, and he remembered the day he visited the Silver Bay Marina. It was that day he fell in love for a second time. She was a beauty, all thirty-four feet of her. And he christened her Crusader, Too.

  After all the required courses, after hours of practice and trial runs, David eventually received his captain’s license. Finally, he could travel the Great Lake, sometimes with friends, sometime alone. He lived on the boat as much as he could, and life got better.

  The winters, though, were a drag. During the long, dark hours from December to April, David found himself sitting in his tiny apartment, staring at the walls too much like he had done after Alicia died. After church service one Sunday, his pastor took him aside.

  “David,” his pastor began, “Our synod is organizing a mission trip to Honduras. Your name has been brought up as a possible participant. Do you have any interest in such an adventure? I think it would be a perfect fit for you. Would you give it some thought?”

  After a few seconds to let the pastor’s words sink in, David asked, “Just what would I be doing on this trip?”

  “I’m not totally sure, but I know part of the time you could be working with children at the orphanage in the town of Valle de Los Angeles. The mission group will be divided into four teams of approximately six people. One group will be researching the need for outreach to Hondurans who have relatives in the U.S., legally or illegally. With your political science interest, that might be right up your alley.”

  David mulled over his pastor’s proposition for a couple of days before deciding to sign on for the February trip. Over the next eight years, David made a dozen trips to Honduras, each time becoming more appalled at the conditions in the country which forced workers to leave everything and to risk their lives to come to the States. They grasped any opportunity to earn money and send it home so their families could survive.

  With each trip to that Central American country, David developed a real love for the people. They had so little, yet were willing to share what they had. Most suffered physical problems from rotted teeth to chronic infection without complaining. His attitude concerning immigration laws soon changed because of what he saw and experienced in Honduras.

  In 2007 in Willmar, Minnesota, the INS made a raid on the town. Because of the practice of some employers hiring illegals to work in their plants, many Hispanics without documentation lived in that community. The INS used what some considered unnecessarily heavy-handed tactics during the arrests that had been made.

  David traveled there to make sure workers rights weren’t trampled by overzealous officers. He joined with a naturalized U.S. citizen, Marietta. Acting as an interpreter, she and David objected when the workers were treated in ways less than what he expected from his country.

  It was because of his actions that he appeared on the radar screen of two groups: the FBI and a loosely organized group of Latinos concerned for the welfare of their people.

  David snapped out of his daydream and checked his watch. To his surprise, only a few minutes had passed since he last looked. He sat down at his table.

  “David Craine, you idiot. How did you get yourself
into this mess?” he said to the floor, but it didn’t answer, didn’t have to. David knew how he had dug himself into this hole without being reminded by any impartial floor.

  I wonder what I’d be doing today if I hadn’t answered the phone? he thought. “No use asking the floor,” he mused out loud. “It doesn’t know any more than I do.”

  He took a sip of the coffee. In his memory he could actually hear the ring tone of the phone. Given the chance, he’d probably answer it again. As he sat at his table, he thought back to the call, and he could almost hear the voice on the other end of the line.

  “Hello. Is this David Craine?” the heavily Spanish-accented voice asked.

  “Yes it is. What do you want?” David snapped back, expecting to hear a telemarketer stammer out some prewritten plea for money.

  “Mr. Craine, my name is Herminio Valesquez. May I speak to you for a moment about a matter of some urgency?”

  David could not force the memory of the phone conversation with Herminio from his mind. It was as fresh as the day it had occurred a year ago.

  “Mr. Craine, you have come to my attention because of your many mission trips to Honduras and especially because of your work with the immigrant laborers during the Willmar problem.”

  Before David could say a word, Herminio continued. “I am a representative of a group, the Americans for Immigrant Justice, AIJ, and we commend you for your stand on behalf of our people.”

  David remembered responding, “Well, I didn’t do much, only advised people of their rights. In the end, they were all deported.”

  “We know that,” Herminio affirmed, “but you stood up for human dignity, and that’s what counts.”

  By this time David was wondering where the conversation was heading. “David, I would like to meet with you so we can converse more. Would you meet with me?”

  David’s mind immediately told him to hang up, but something inside of him answered, “I guess I could.” Then the thought occurred to him that he should be the one to select the time and the place.

  “How about tomorrow at 2:00 in the afternoon?” David said, thinking that would be a quiet time in any of the restaurants in town. “I’ll meet you at the Vanilla Bean Cafe on Main Street.”

  David penciled in the date of the meeting on his calendar, April 22, 2011, and so the stage was set for the greatest act of David Craine’s life.

  He made sure to arrive early at the small cafe and was already seated facing the door when a man with definite Latino features entered. David stood and extended his hand. “Herminio? I’m David Craine. Please be seated.”

  The lone waitress came to their booth and handed each of them a menu while the two men paused, each sizing up the other. When she left, Herminio spoke first.

  “Thank you for meeting with me, David. I know this is unusual, and you must be wondering what I want from you. And you are right, David, I do want something.”

  With that, David sat more upright in his seat. Herminio continued, “I told you over the phone that you have come to the attention of the AIJ because of your work in the Willmar situation. Also, we know you have a large boat capable of carrying several passengers on Lake Superior.”

  David nodded.

  “Here is our predicament, David. We have six men, three Hondurans and three Mexicans who have been in your country working without documentation. They are eager to leave here and return home, but it is difficult for them to make connections so far from the Mexican border. We would like to hire you to smuggle them out of the country before they are apprehended. If they can make it past the Canadian border, we have a network set up that will allow them to secure passage to the port in Thunder Bay, Ontario. A transport there is scheduled to be loaded with wheat in early June at the port. If we can get them on that ship, the captain has agreed to let them stow away for the trip to Panama. From there, they can jump ship and find their way safely home.”

  “Stop right there,” David interrupted. “There’s no way I’m going to break the law, so don’t waste your time or mine.” He started to stand.

  “Please wait and hear me out,” Herminio quickly said, placing his hand on David’s. “We certainly do not want you to break the law or to go against what your conscience tells you. But consider this. Is it wrong to help these men get out? Your government doesn’t want them here. Many of your people don’t want them here, and these men don’t want to be here. If they are caught, after months of waiting in jail and taking up your resources of space and time, they will be sent home. Is it wrong to spare everyone the trouble and trauma they will experience if caught? We thought that with your humanitarian attitude you might be willing to help. We can’t pay much, but I can offer you fifteen hundred dollars to ferry them to a spot on the lake’s shore just past the border.”

  David sat back down to think. He remembered the way the immigrants had been treated in Willmar, and what Herminio said did make some sense. Herminio could see David’s pause and took the opportunity to continue his argument.

  “It is how far from here to the border, a hundred-fifty miles at the most, probably less? Why, in eight hours or so you could make your delivery and be on your way home. You’d have your money. Your country would have six fewer illegal workers to worry about, and they would be on their way home.”

  With those words, Herminio motioned for the waitress. “Order what you’d like, David. This is on me. Come let’s eat. Take your time. I don’t need an answer today. I just ask that you think about this opportunity to correct a wrong.”

  They placed their orders, and when the food was served, Herminio did not bring up the subject again. Instead, he spoke of the conditions that David had witnessed in Honduras. The two men discussed the need for social justice in the world and the role individual people filled to help.

  After the meal, Herminio shook David’s hand and said, “I’ll call you in two days. Whatever answer you give me, I’ll take as final.” With that, the two men went their separate ways.

  Two days later, David gave Hermino his answer. “Yes, I’ll do it.”

  Chapter Nine

  After he met with Herminio, plans were made to smuggle the six aliens out of the country. David tried to convince himself that what he was doing was not illegal, but the thought haunted him.

  The idea was for him to have his boat fueled at the Silver Bay Marina. Herminio and the six men were to arrive just after nightfall, which in May would be around 8:30 p.m. Chances were, no one would be at the marina at that hour.

  The Silver Bay Marina was small, having only fifty-six berths. Harbor traffic was always slow during the week, and even on holidays there was little rush. Best of all for Herminio’s purpose, it was hidden from traffic passing on Highway 61.

  All went as planned, and on the night when the men were to board David’s boat, the moon was in its waning phase. David had the cabin lights dimmed in his boat, and Crusader, Too rocked gently in the swells. He was greeted with several, “Holas,” as the Latinos came aboard, and David shook the hand of each. As he did, he noticed that each man had his own distinctive look. One was of definite native descent, Aztec in appearance, another had very Spanish features, and the others resembled so many of the indigenous people he had met on his trips to Honduras. Two of the six were a little different, though. David had met several of the descendants of Palestinian immigrants in Honduras, and these men reminded him of those with whom he had contact. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary with the group other than he was beginning to feel like a criminal.

  With an, “Adios,” to Herminio, the mooring lines connecting Crusader, Too to the dock were hauled in, and David started the trip to the Canadian border. It was smooth boating, and the lake was unusually calm. The forecast was for the weather to hold for at least another twenty-four hours. Within eight hours he had reached the drop-off point, a private dock in one of the few sheltered bays along the shore.

  The men jumped to the dock with repeated, “Mucho gracious.” In his hurry to get back into American
waters before he was discovered, David did not stay long enough to see them climb into a dark-colored van.

  It didn’t take long for him to make it back to Grand Marais on the U.S. side of the border, and the sun was beginning to rise in the east, a red fireball edging up over the horizon. He pulled into the Grand Marais Marina, grabbed a cold bottle of juice and a bag of cashews while his boat was being re-fueled, and immediately set out for his berth in Silver Bay.

  David was a meticulous man, and before he left Crusader, Too at her mooring, he swept the floor and picked up even the smallest pieces of debris left by his passengers the night before. He noticed what looked like a piece of black plastic wedged into the crease between two seat cushions, but when he pulled it out, he discovered it was a flash drive for a computer, left behind by one of the men.

  David assumed it had fallen out of one of their pockets and had gotten pushed down without the man realizing he had lost it. He put it in his pocket, assuming it had records of time spent in the U.S., perhaps a record of earnings, or even e-mails from home. His computer was at home in his apartment, and he thought that after he rested it might make interesting reading. With that, he jumped into his car parked at the marina and drove to Two Harbors.

  By the time David arrived there it was evening again, and he was exhausted. He had been without sleep for almost twenty-four hours, and with a great deal of effort, he climbed the stairs to his second story apartment. When he unlocked the door at the top, all he could do was fall into bed. He tossed and turned in a restless sleep, dreaming that everyone, the county sheriff, Latinos, and the townspeople, were trying to capture him. When he awoke, it was seven in the morning. David had a headache, and his muscles were stiff as though his pursuers had caught up with him and given him a gangland going over.