He asked a few more questions, but what more could I tell him? Only that the men headed north.
As I was leaving, Captain Reyes shook my hand and we agreed on a meeting later in the week to get more details for my story. “Oh, Miss Coffey, will you be bringing your photographer?”
My photographer? Jeez, what was I thinking? What’s a newspaper story without the photos?
“Uh, yes. As a matter of fact, my photojournalist is arriving today.”
“All you do is aim and shoot, Jan, like you know what you’re doing.”
“Like when you fobbed me off as a marine biologist?”
“Yeah, like that. Hey, think of your resume. Marine biologist. Photojournalist.”
“Idiotic follower of a psychopath.”
“Not nice.” I swooped into a parking space. “Okay, we’re here. Reel in the bird.”
Jan whistled and Trouble fluttered onto the front seat, stretched his wings and panted. I gave him water from my bottle, and a pepper. We left him shredding jalapeño all over what served as upholstery on the Thing, and went into the Capitanía, where Jan presented Reyes the business card we’d printed out that morning.
Captain Reyes read the card and warmly welcomed her to Guaymas. “Do you know my niece?” he asked.
Jan gave me a wide-eyed look. I’d forgotten all about the relative who worked at the Sierra Vista Observer. “Jan, Veronica, in classifieds, she’s Captain Reyes’s niece. Isn’t that a coincidence?”
Jan recovered quickly. Being around me for all these years has honed her improvisational skills to the level of a Jerry Seinfeld. “Oh, yes, of course. Veronica. Sure.”
“Julietta.”
“Excuse me?”
“My niece, she is Julietta, not Veronica.”
Jan gave him a dazzling smile and the benefit of her big baby blues. “Oh, that Julietta, of course.”
The port captain, happily married man or no, seemed to forget he even had a niece. He puppy-dogged around after Jan while she snapped shots of everything in sight, especially him. In minutes, she had him practically drooling. I wish I knew how she does that. I send men scurrying instead of salivating.
After an hour we departed, leaving an increasingly pixilated port captain in our wake. We let Trouble out for his flight home, then Jan climbed into the passenger seat and studied my camera.
“Ya know, Hetta, I’m not sure this thing has film in it.”
“Ya know, Jan, it doesn’t. It’s digital.”
“So, you think I actually took some photos you can use?”
I shrugged. “Probably. We’ll check them out, and if there is anything, I’ll send them to the Trob. I figure a couple of more weeks here, then I’ll go to the Bay Area, give him my final report, collect my dough, and kiss some ass so I can get on the project. I still have that other schedule and logistics study for those guys in Oakland, but I can knock it out muy rapido.”
“You want to stay at my place while you’re up there? Well, actually Lars’s place. Since he’s still in Kuwait, he hasn’t gotten a chance to change the locks on me. I have to go up there and get my things out of his house one of these days. And your stuff.”
When I sold my house and moved aboard Raymond Johnson, I put my antiques, paintings and heirlooms in Jan’s care. Now we were both houseless, and Jenks’s tiny studio apartment didn’t have room for my belongings. Not that he’d offered to store anything. That, I’m sure, would sound way too much like a commitment of some sort.
“I’ll crash at Jenks’s, but if you want, I can collect your clothes from Lars’s place, put them in storage. We’ll handle the furniture and art later.”
“That’d be great.”
“So, how will I tell which clothes are yours?” I teased. Lars has to weigh two-fifty and is over six feet tall.
“Anything that’s too small for you.”
“Oooh, aren’t we sharp this morning? Living on the beach, eating all that fish, must be good for the old brain power. And I’ll have you know that inside of this body is a skinny woman yelling to escape, but I’ve quite successfully pacified her with Fritos. Speaking of, how’s the tortilla making lessons going?”
She shot me the finger.
“Oh, Trouble, Miss Jan is not only sharp, but very defensive. Think I hit a nerve? Maybe she’s having second thoughts about living in a hut on the beach when the treasure hunt is over? Perhaps considering that counting whale sperm might not be a suitable replacement for Oprah?” Oprah is Jan’s favorite show.
“Hey, at least I’m not the one conversing with a bird. Besides, I’m sure we’ll have satellite TV one of these days. Before you make your usual snap judgments, you should see where we live. Nothing but miles of beautiful water and beach. At night you can hear the whales calling each other, and now the babies are there. They come right up beside the panga so we can pet them. One mama whale actually turns on her back and hugs the boat. Lifts us right out of the water, ever so gently.”
“Wow! Can you send pictures? That is so cool.” I immediately regretted my enthusiastic outburst. After all, I lured her over here to talk her out of marrying Chino, but the truth is, I’d never seen her so enamored with either a man, or her situation. Maybe I was wrong? Maybe Jan belonged in a fish camp? Maybe I should mind my own beeswax? Nah.
“I hear gears churning and smell smoke, Hetta. Could it be that you are actually thinking you might be wrong about Chino and me?”
The woman is positively psychic. Either that or we have spent way too much time together when we probably should have been getting married and having babies like normal folk. “Okay, maybe you two do belong together, but why rush things. You said you weren’t pregnant.”
“Has it occurred to you that people actually get married for love, and not only because they’re preggers?”
“I guess it could hap—tope!”
We went airborne. And only one of us can fly.
A tope is the Mexican version of a speed limit. Since no one pays any attention at all to signs, drastic measures must be taken to slow folks down. Even a stop sign and red light are viewed as only a suggestion by most, but the tope, an axel breaking speed bump of mountainous proportions, is muy effective. Figuring that if one speed bump works, then thousands must work better, Mexican roads are strewn with them.
By some miracle, after we landed with a rib-jarring thud, the Thing stayed intact, as did the tires.
Back on the boat, we counted our blessings while checking for broken bones, and looked over Jan’s photos of the Port of Guaymas. Another miracle, they were very good, which gave me an idea. Perhaps not an excellent one, but an idea, nonetheless.
“Jan, let’s actually write an article, submit it to the Sierra Vista Observer. Who knows, maybe they’ll print the damned thing and I won’t feel like such a bodacious liar.”
“Never bothered you before.”
“True, but Capitán Reyes has been such a sweetie, and since his niece does work for the newspaper I’m fraudulently representing, he’ll surely learn the truth sooner or later. However, if the article actually gets published, it’s a win-win. I want to come back down here and live on the boat for awhile, until Jenks and I can take it north. Having the port captain pissed off at me is never a good thing.”
“Probably? Okay, I’ll pick out a couple of good pics, especially of your hunky captain, and you can improvise, lift info for the article from the report you’ve already written.”
Hetta Coffey, star reporter? Perhaps I was launching a whole new career.
I began cutting and pasting stuff for a fifteen hundred word article. I’d gone online and read the Observer's submission guidelines, and we followed them studiously. Jan picked out three good photos, one of which was me, looking very reporterly, interviewing the port captain. In the background, there was actually a ship, the only one I’d seen dock since I’d been there. According to Reyes, the ship contained a load of fertilizer, much like the gloss piece I wrote on the port.
When I finished, Ja
n read it, and giggled. “You make it sound like the project is signed, sealed, delivered, and the best thing for Arizona since the Gadsden Purchase.”
“Aha, someone did her homework.”
“I know my US history, not solely Texas history, like you.”
“Hey, I know about the purchase of Arizona from Mexico, but I prefer the way we Texans stole our land, fair and square.”
Chapter 11
I e-mailed the article, with photos, and by some miracle it was accepted the next day by the Observer. Slow news day, no doubt. They also offered me ten bucks for the piece. I told them where to mail my check and, quick as a wink, I was a bona fide professional writer. And they say it’s hard breaking into the business. Jan, spoilsport that she is, warned me not to get too carried away with the Hetta Hemingway bit, as I was way too full of myself already. She also demanded half the loot, as she, the photojournalist, received credit, but no money. Jeez, I’m glad I don’t have an agent. I’d end up owing money for something I’d written.
Jan was making noises about returning to the dive ship and Chino. They talked long and mushily on a daily basis via cell phone. Still no word from Grandma Yee, and Chino was becoming alarmed, but he couldn’t leave the expedition at this point. With his family mostly on the mainland, there was no one else to check on her. He called the police in Loreto and was given a lukewarm promise they’d try contacting Granny, but that was about it.
After one of those longwinded, saccharine conversations, Jan announced, “I’m gonna take the ferry back to Santa Rosalia, rent a car, and drive to Agua Fria.”
“I thought the road was out, or at least so bad that the only things that can get in and out are those lifted-up trucks Jenks and I saw.”
“Well, I can at least confirm the road is out. Got a map?” I reluctantly dug one out. A dirt track passing for the Agua Fria road turned off of Mexico Highway 1—affectionately and otherwise referred to as Mex One, or Baja One, the narrow paved ribbon that runs the length of Baja—south of Loreto. Even the map, which showed every goat path in Baja, declared the road as, “Unimproved Dirt.” From what I’ve seen of the roads in Baja, even the good ones, this kind of designation is ominous. “Think they rent Hummers in Santa Rosalia?”
“Oh, come on, Hetta. It can’t be that bad. You should see the road out to Ignacio Lagoon. Chino goes through tires the way you go through boyfriends.”
“Hey, you’re the one with the boyfriend du jour. I came off a five-year hiatus when I met Jenks. Of course, he’s not my boyfriend, really. Aren’t we getting a mite long in the tooth to have boyfriends? Maybe man friend is more appropriate.”
“In your case, cell mate is more appropriate.”
Ain’t friends grand? Always there, reminding you of yesteryears, especially when there’s a taint of smut involved.
“Maybe, just maybe, I need a new girlfriend.”
“Who would put up with you?”
She had a point, so changed the subject. I had an idea percolating on the back burner of my brain. “What if I take you to Santa Rosalia, we’ll go in search of Granny, then you go back to Chino, and since I gotta go north soon, you can take Trouble home with you. It’s a win-win.” Especially if I dump the critter.
“Might I remind you that Chino is a Mexican? And who, on this boat, attacks Mexican men on sight?”
Trouble fluffed up his feathers proudly.
“And,” she added, “how in the hell does he always know we’re talking about him?”
“It’s a gift? Listen, I think that, at some time in his life, Trouble was mistreated by a Mexican man. Chino, being a veterinarian and all, can surely retrain him.” Or lose his life trying?
Jan looked askance, but I could tell she was considering my proposal. I moved in for the kill. “Come on. We’ll have a quick cruise across the sea, leave the boat at Marina Santa Rosalia, rent that car, and go find Gran. Who knows? Chino and Trouble might become best buds.” If Dr. Chino fancies living in full body armor.
Jan tipped her head and squinted. “How long have you been planning on dumping this bird on me?”
“Let’s see. Exactly when did you arrive, Trouble?”
When Jenks called, Jan was off the boat, so I told him of my troubles with Trouble. For some reason he was quite amused with my chagrin, right up until I revealed my scheme to divest myself of the pesky parrot.
“What? Let me get this straight. You and Jan are taking Raymond Johnson across the Sea of Cortez?” he practically yelled. Okay, so Jenks doesn’t yell, but it kind of sounded like yelling.
“Jenks, it’s only eighty miles to Santa Rosalia. If we leave at first light, we’ll be there, easy, for cocktails.”
“You do remember that there is no Coast Guard to bail you out if you two have engine problems, or some other disaster? And, knowing you, that is inevitable.”
“Oh, come on. The boat is running fine and Jan is trained crew by now. I can always put out a cry for help on the ham radio if we get into a jam.”
“You still didn’t get your license.”
“No, but they announce, every morning before the weather report, that in an emergency they’ll talk to anyone. I’m anyone.”
Jenks’s silence screamed: lazy, lazy, lazy. I had a French tennis coach like that once, only he yelled, “Paresseux, Hetta, paresseux.” How about that, I’m bilingually lazy.
“You still there, Jenks?”
“Yes.”
“Are you mad at me?”
He sighed. “No, I’m not, but I just don’t understand why you constantly put yourself, and others, at risk.”
“Oh, come on, Jenks, I’m hardly taking our lives in my hands, you know. It’s a simple cruise over and back in a very seaworthy vessel.”
“Across the Sea of Cortez. Remember what Steinbeck said about the sea?”
“That sissy?”
“Okay, what about this? If Jan is coming back with you, what are you going to do with Trouble? Chino coming to get him in Santa Rosalia?”
Oops. “Uh, maybe.”
“Aha! Jan isn’t returning to the mainland with you, is she? Please tell me you don’t plan on re-crossing alone. That’s a long day for singlehanding, even on a powerboat with an autopilot. What if you have a mechanical problem?”
“Okay, okay, I’ll see about crew.”
“Now you’re talking. Who?”
“I’ll call Fabio.” Fabio is the Mexican boat captain I’d hired to bring Raymond Johnson, Jan and me down the Baja from San Francisco to Cabo San Lucas.
“Captain Fabio made it clear he never wanted you to call him again, if I recall. Last time he crewed for you he ended up in jail.”
“Look, I’ll find someone, okay? I have to get rid of this damned parrot and this is the only way I can think of to do it. Maybe I’ll leave the boat in Santa Rosalia and take the ferry back, stay in a hotel for a week or so, then fly home. Lots of options.” None of which I plan to do, however. “You worry too much.”
“You don’t worry enough.”
“Yeah, well, if you’re so concerned with my welfare, how come you keep taking off and leaving me all alone?” Yuck, that sounded way too whiney.
“I thought I left you safe and sound, settled in at a dock, with a project to keep you busy and out of harm’s way. Evidently, I was, once again, wrong. I have a meeting to go to. Do what you want, but don’t expect me to always bail you out.”
This conversation was deteriorating quickly, sounding for all the world like a lover’s spat. I hate spats, especially when you don’t get to do the making up part. It’s hard to make up with someone who is half a world away. Of course, that didn’t keep me from saying, “You know, Jenks, I was doing just fine before you came along, and I can bloody well take care of myself. Do me a favor and keep your friggin’ worries to yourself. Hasta la vista, Baby.”
I hung up and, as always when I do something stupid, immediately regretted my stupidity.
Jan, back from her walk in time to hear my last retort, sauntered
into the main saloon. “Gosh, that sounded mature. No wonder Jenks keeps running off.”
“Oh, stuff it.”
She grinned. She loves it when I go off on someone, especially when she’s not the one taking the heat.
We had a glass of wine and mulled over how we might lure crew for my return trip. “We could ask for crew on the local boaters’ radio net tomorrow morning, see if someone wants to cross over and back. You shouldn’t be gone more than a few days,” Jan suggested.
“I don’t know if that’s a good idea. God knows who we’d get, and we need someone who actually knows something about power boats.”
“You want a Mexican or a gringo?”
I shrugged. “Guess it doesn’t matter.”
“We could post something on the marina bulletin board, like, crew wanted for short cruise to Santa Rosalia and back. Must be mechanically inclined, and ugly.”
“Ugly?”
“Hetta, you know how you are. You’re mad at Jenks, so therefore it might not be a good idea to have a hunk on board.”
I gave her a lip curl and snarl. “It’s Happy Hour time. Let’s listen to the weather report, then make a decision on timing.”
“Ya know, Hetta, if you got your license, like Jenks wants you to, you could actually ask for a weather report.”
Unwilling to push my luck with the Happy Hour crowd, we didn’t get a weather forecast until eight o’clock the next morning, and it didn’t sound so hot. Santa Ana winds were in the works for Southern California, so we had less than a twenty-four hour window to cross over before a predicted norther roared down on the sea. Once the wind started, it could blow stink for a full five days.
“What are we going to do?” Jan whined. “I want to get back to Chino, and I damned well don’t want to take that ferry back when it’s blowing. Maybe I’ll take the plane.”
I'd already checked and no way was my parrot going on the plane. I saw my chances of ditching Trouble going up in smoke. “No, wait. Let me check the chart. Maybe we can leave right now, make the other side before dark. First thing tomorrow, boogie for Santa Rosalia before the blow.”
Just Add Trouble Page 8