“You’re dating yourself.”
“Really? Then how do you know who Brenda Starr is?”
“I took a course in classic comics while studying for my Masters in Journalism at Harvard. No, make that a PhD.”
He rolled his eyes.
Guaymas can best be described as a blue-collar seaport with few redeeming qualities other than a populace of very hardworking people.
My cruising guide said there was a new marina in town, but no one answered, so after we anchored at a place called Playitas, in water best described as fishily suspicious, we dinghied ashore, found a small motel, and asked them to call a taxi so we could scout out the city. We gave them ten bucks to keep an eye on the dink, but I was still slightly worried because, during the wait for our taxi, a couple of rooms changed hands. Twice.
From the looks of it, Guaymas qualified as a seaport only because it was on the sea, and it is a port. From what I could tell from the charts, the harbor was well protected, but aside from a fleet of rusting shrimp boats, not much was happening, big boat wise. After living near the Oakland Estuary for years, I knew what a busy port looked like, and this definitely was not it. But then, that’s why I was here; someone wanted to turn this small town into a major shipping zone. Fortunes would be made, lives changed forever.
I couldn’t help thinking, as a bunch of uniformed, clean-cut teenagers crossed the street in front of us, look out what you wish for. The kids retained a glow of fresh faced innocence of a bygone era. Not a tattoo, nose ring, or bleached hair among them. A few had cell phones, but instead of text messaging, they were actually laughing and talking. What a concept. They saw us and became shy. Not many gringos about, I’d wager. That, too, would change.
We found the port captain’s office easily, but after my little fracas in Magdalena Bay involving a disingenuous assistant port captain, I was on edge, not knowing what to expect. What we received was a genuinely warm greeting.
Decked out in crisp white with some gold braided scrambled eggs here and there, Capitán Reyes looked fortyish, with slightly graying, thick black hair cut in military style. Shorter than Jenks, he still hit nearly six feet. He cut quite the dashing figure, one that, pre-Jenks, would have definitely captured my attention.
We shook hands, I handed him my card, and his face lit up. “Sierra Vista! My niece lives in Sierra Vista. Julietta Bradley, do you know her?” He pronounced her first name Who-lee-a-ta.
Jenks cocked his head at me and lifted his eyebrows. His deep blue eyes shone with delight as he waited to see how I handled the mess I’d created for myself within minutes of officially arriving in port.
“You know, I haven’t lived there that long.”
“Oh, you must know her. She works for your newspaper.”
Oh, dear. “Oh, well, then. Which department?”
“I think it is the place where one sells things?”
“Classifieds?”
“Yes, that is it.”
“I rarely go into the office. I am more of a freelancer. When I return, though, I will look her up.” This subject needed torpedoing, rapido. “So, where is the best place to anchor our boat? I see you have brand new docks, but they are full. We’ll be around for at least a month.”
“Yes, we are very proud of our new waterfront, but as you can see, it is still small. There will be larger slips in the future, but for now you should go to San Carlos, a few miles north. There are two marinas, many yachts. Guaymas is more of a working port, but we have,” his face broke into a beaming smile, “big plans for the future. If you wish a marina seca, though, we do have one.”
“Marina seca?”
“Dry dock. A storage yard where work can be done.”
“Ah, a boatyard. Well, I only need a marina.”
“Then you must go to San Carlos. Or, if you wish, you can bring your boat there,” he pointed at a fleet of corroding shrimp boats, and a pier lined with old tires, “and tie to our dock while you made arrangements in San Carlos, or a slip opens in the Guaymas marina.”
I didn’t want to sound ungrateful, but there was no way in hell that Raymond Johnson, with a two-hundred dollar wax job done in Cabo, was going to cozy up to that dock, or anywhere near those riff-raff rust-buckets. “Thanks, but I think we’ll spend the night at anchor in Playitas, check out San Carlos tomorrow, if that is all right with you.”
He shrugged. “It is your choice. The wind should remain from the north.”
We thanked him and taxied back to our dinghy, which was safe but had already acquired some kind of gummy scum along her waterline.
“Don’t step in the water unless absolutely necessary, and if you do I’ll disinfect your feet when we get back on board. And when we do get back, don’t flush the toilet. I have a feeling what’s coming in is worse than what’s going out. I’ll flush the head with fresh water until we’re out of here, okay?”
“Yes, Howard Hughes.”
“Hey, I’m cautious, not obsessive. They probably have germs here we never heard of. Speaking of, have you ever heard of this San Carlos? I didn’t realize there was another one, here on the sea. I guess Mexico, like the US, has cities with the same name in different states.”
“So many saints, so little territory. Anyhow, it’s my guess that if yachties hang out there, it has be a big improvement over this harbor.”
As soon as we reached Raymond Johnson, and secured for the night, I grabbed my Mexico Boating Guide. San Carlos looked like my kind of town, with modern marinas, restaurants, and all gringo amenities. We’d get a good night’s sleep here in Guaymas, and tomorrow I’d settle in and get the ball rolling on my new project.
We ate a steak dinner, celebrated embarking on a new venture with a good Cabernet Sauvignon, and turned in early.
It was one a.m. when I woke up coughing and nauseous. Dazed and confused, I wondered just what strain of virulent harbor bug could work so fast.
“Jenks! Wake up. Did you flush the toilet? Something’s really,” retch, “wrong.”
Jenks sat up on full alert. “Shit! What’s that smell?” More than a little queasy, I sprinted for the bathroom and tossed my dinner while Jenks pulled on pants and went to investigate. He was back in a flash. “Shut all the hatches, Hetta, I’m gonna fire up the generator and turn on the air conditioner.”
Too sick to protest being ordered around, I meekly obeyed, holding my breath as I went. I heard the genset roar alive and fresh air whoosh from vents. I stuck my nose to a vent, inhaled the conditioned air, then held my breath while I dampened a washcloth and clamped it over my mouth and nose. I took another cloth to Jenks.
“Jenks, what is that stench? Chemical plant? I’ve worked in all kinds of petrochemical plants, and even a sulfur operation. None of them ever made me sick.”
“You never worked downwind from a seafood processing plant.”
The air conditioner and a full can of air freshener soon took some of the stench from our air, but couldn’t completely overcome the malodorous fumes of what we later learned was a tuna packing plant. It would be months before I could stomach another tuna fish sandwich.
The next time a port captain shrugs and makes some reference to the direction of the wind, I’ll damned sure ask why.
Chapter 6
I sent in my first report to the Trob two days after getting settled in at Marina Real. We chose Real not for its amenities—Marina San Carlos offered far more—but for the relative quiet. Situated north of town, it wasn’t in the line of decibel fire from San Carlos’s nightclubs. We made this decision after one sleepless night when our boat literally vibrated with the thump of a seemingly impossible bass emanating from a club. You know you’re not in your twenties anymore when you flee the action instead of wanting to be in the middle of it.
After a couple of snail’s pace trips into Guaymas by bus, I demanded, and received, a rental car appropriation from the Trob. Thinking I’d pocket a little change, and avoid a trip to the airport rental agency, I rented a vehicle from a local realt
or.
The Volkswagen Safari—called a Thing in the US—had a holey canvas top, no doors, a cracked windshield and alligatored, rump-sprung vinyl seats. Well, seat. The one on the passenger’s side cratered in the middle and required a piece of plywood and a throw pillow for minimal comfort. An overturned bucket did duty as a back seat. No seat belts front or back and, in places, one could see the asphalt rushing by through the rusted-out floorboard. On unpaved roads, choking dirt billowed up like volcanic smoke. Still, it beat the bus, so I avoided dirt roads and prayed it wouldn’t rain. Not one single instrument on the panel, including the gas gauge and speedometer, worked. To be on the safe side, I never left San Carlos without filling up, because the gauge was stuck permanently on FULL.
The contrast between San Carlos and Guaymas was as startling as, say, the difference between East LA and Malibu Beach. A glance at a map showed them both on the water, but there the similarities ended. San Carlos bustled with new buildings, condos, luxury homes, hotels, and, restaurants. My favorite, Barracuda Bob’s at San Carlos Marina, features fresh baked pastries by the owner. I stopped there most mornings, scarfed down a breakfast burrito or croissant, and picked up a scone or muffin for the port captain in Guaymas. Okay, so sometimes he never saw the scone, but my intentions were good.
In comparison to the gringo-ized San Carlos, Guaymas remains a hodgepodge of shabby, if colorful, homes on potholed streets. In San Carlos, signs in stores are in English and Spanish. Not so in Guaymas, where Spanish rules. If history repeats itself, the prosperity of a new port in Guaymas will greatly influence more affluent construction toward San Carlos, while the center of Guaymas will only fester as crime rates rise. Not my problem, though. I leave the ethics of development to tree huggers while concentrating on economics. Mine.
I began by checking out existing studies by various universities, Department Of Transportation entities, and general pie in the sky schemes put out by dreamers on both sides of the border. The Trob, of course, already had all of this info readily available, and e-d them to me. A walk through the port, with the helpful and handsome Capitán Reyes as my guide, garnered enough info to hash out a preliminary report.
I tackled the cons first, and they were myriad. Major questions, obstacles really, of political and strategic significance required addressing. Actually more than addressed—depth charged—if I wanted this project to fly, and I did. The phrase, conflict of interest, flitted across what little conscience I harbor, but I soundly swatted it down.
Roads: the border at Arizona, although only two hundred and fifty miles north of Guaymas, is serviced by a decent enough four-lane divided highway for the most part. There is, however, a major traffic bottleneck at Hermosillo where the road deteriorates into a nightmare bypass. A new bypass with bridges and overpasses was underway, but I’d have to check it out firsthand. A TEU and FEU capacity study was already in the works. A ship’s container capacity is measured in TEUs and FEUs—twenty-foot equivalent units and forty-foot equivalent units—indicating the number of containers it can carry. The road system would have to match up to the port’s capacity for unloading and reloading these ships.
Railways: already in place, but antiquated. Also what might be a major problem if rail traffic increased. Nogales Arizona is already cut in half, because the railroad tracks run right through the middle of downtown. Cross traffic is cut off for long periods of time while a train rumbles through. Emergency vehicles, like fire and police, can’t get from one side of town to the other. Best solution? A costly bridge. Which I will gladly build.
The other railway, which used to cross at Naco, Arizona, is defunct. A consortium is purportedly attempting to raise money for a new rail line, but is meeting with strong environmentalist protests because the train tracks run along the San Pedro River, one of the last wild rivers in Arizona, and a major source of water for the entire valley. Just the thought of a derailed tanker car dumping, say, several thousand gallons of sulfuric acid into the San Pedro Riparian National Conservation Area is sufficient to launch conservationists through the depleted ozone layer. This owl won’t fly.
The Port: dredging definitely required to make a deep-water port. Docks built and/or beefed up. The existing railway needs a serious safety study, and the cranes are inadequate. The one large travel lift won’t do the job. Oh, yes, let’s do it. My kind of project.
Politics: to avoid a serious bottleneck at the US border at Nogales, US Customs will have to maintain a sizeable presence in Mexico, with the ability to not only inspect cargo in-country, but also to install electronic seals on containers. Since Mexico has a deep distrust of all things involving the United States government, this could get tricky, but money talks. Especially to me.
Then the good news, which I played up, while downplaying the bad.
1. This project could be the answer to alleviating the logjam at Long Beach, help beef up security, since cargo will be inspected at several points.
2. Arizona, being landlocked, gains a strategic port.
3. Guaymas, and more importantly, Hetta Coffey, can use the money. I wanna be in on this project if it goes and if I have anything to do with it, it will.
Lest the Trob might find that last part, and my personal wants, a bit self-serving, and not the objective feasibility report he required, I lost line three and my precious opinions.
Jenks read the report and chuckled. I’d left the unedited version for his perusal. “You really do like Mexico, don’t you?”
“Oh, jes. I’ve had a thing for Mexico my whole life, and I don’t imagine there are many Texans my age who don’t feel a kinship. It’s in the blood. And, hey, what’s not to like? If I can land a spot on this project, I’ll live on my boat right here at the marina. Best of both worlds.”
“You wouldn’t be a subcontractor anymore, though. You’d actually be on someone’s clock. An employee, for crying out loud.”
“I’d at least know where my next boat payment was coming from for a change.”
He yawned and stretched. “Some things are more important than money.”
“Oh, yeah, then why did you and your brother take that project in a war zone? For fun?”
“There is no war in Kuwait.”
“The whole damned Middle East is a war zone.”
“It’s heating up around here, as well,” he teased, “judging by the color of your cheeks.”
“Sunburn.”
“Uh-hmm.”
I felt my blood pressure inch up another notch, but decided, for once, not to let my mouth spoil what might be our last couple of days together. Ever.
Jenks had concluded that, since I was working, he should get back to his project as well, before New Year’s Eve, I might add. Unable to reasonably object, I didn’t want to pitch a hissy and send him, pissed off, thousands of miles away, to a brother whose influence I didn’t think was in my best interests.
After all, it was Lars who told Jan he and Jenks had plans for the future that did not include either of them being tied down. I never told Jenks I knew about the brotherly master plan, even though I yearned to breach the subject. Although it is against my nature to do so, I swallowed my chagrin and asked, “Isn’t it cocktail hour yet?”
He checked his watch. “Somewhere. I’ll make us a drink while you call Jan back. She left a message on the machine today while you were gone. If you’re staying down here for a while, you probably need a Mexican cell phone.”
“Right you are.” I walked to the Satfone and dialed Chino’s cell.
Miracle of miracle, Jan answered. “Bueno.”
“¿Bueno? My, my, aren’t we adapting well? Got any new tortilla-slapping techniques to share?”
“I’m ignoring that,” she singsonged. I have to admit, she sounded happy.
“Where are you?”
“San Carlos, Sonora.”
“Where’s that?”
“About two hundred and fifty miles south of Arizona. On the mainland.”
“You’re not in Baja anymore?�
�
“No, Dorothy, but if I click my ruby slippers and say it three times, maybe I could be.”
“Dammit.”
“Why dammit?”
“I had a favor to ask. Never mind, too late.”
“Oh, no, you don’t. You cannot pique natural nosiness and then leave me in the dark. What favor can’t I do?”
“Well, like I told you, Chino wants us to get married, but he won’t do it until he tells his grandmother about me. We thought we’d drive down and see her, but he received a report of a landslide blocking the road to her village. Musta taken down the phone line, as well. There is only one phone in town anyhow, and it’s out.”
There is a God. With any luck, Chino’s granny won’t be found for years. Bad, Hetta.
“Hetta, you there?”
“Yes.”
“Anyhow, I thought you could stop by her village, bring her to the boat, and we’d talk with her on your satellite phone, but now you’re on the other side of the sea. Ironically, we are both in San Carlos.”
True, but she was in San Carlos, Baja California Sur, and I was in San Carlos, Sonora. “You’re on the Tanuki Maru now?”
“Yep, moved aboard yesterday. They’ve fixed us up a cozy cabin, but it still smells an itsy-bit fishy. It’s not the Tanuki Maru anymore, it’s re-christened the Research Vessel, Nao del Chino.”
“What’s that mean?”
“Well, the Manila galleons were called Nao de la China, ships from China. Even though they left from the Philippines, they carried lots of Chinese goods. In fact, they called Filipinos chinos. Thus Chino’s nickname, since his ancestors came over on the galleon they’re looking for. Nao del Chino. Get it?”
“Very clever. Now about Granny Yee, where does she live?”
“A tiny place on the Sea of Cortez. A fishing village named...hold one.”
“Don’t believe I know it.”
I heard the rattle of paper. “Ha. Ha. It’s called, Agua Fria.”
Yikes!
“Uh, does granny drive a Hemi muscle truck, by any chance?”
Just Add Trouble Page 5