Just Different Devils

by Jinx Schwartz

  While I pulled the collar with the line, keeping it just out of reach in front of him, much like the fabled carrot-and-stick trick, Jan stood on the swim step, egging him on with sweet talk.

  In a burst of speed, he outfoxed me, gained on the float, and threw his front paws over it. I pulled in the line, hand over hand, as fast as I could, and breathed a sigh of relief while Jan clapped and cheered.

  Twenty feet behind the boat, he yipped and suddenly dipped under the surface.

  Jan was in the water before I could even register what happened. She made a clean dive and popped up eight feet out, yelling, "Hetta, stay put! You may have to haul both of us back!"

  Feeling helpless, I quickly retrieved the sling, then, when Po Thang popped up I threw it at him so Jan could see it. He ignored it and swam in circles, as though searching for something beneath him. I tied off the ring and ran for the gun.

  By the time I got back on deck, Jan had Po Thang by his harness and her arm looped through the ring. "Pull, damn it! There's something in here with us!"

  Terrified, but certainly no more so than my best friend had to be, I hauled as fast as I could, fighting the drag of the water and the combined weight of Jan and a sopping wet dog. Terror, however, has a way of making one super strong and I had them to the platform in two minutes.

  Cleating off the ring, I clambered down the steps to the swim platform, where Jan was attempting to boost Po Thang's furry rump to safety. He wasn't cooperating, and kept trying to go back into the water. I grabbed his life jacket harness and clipped him to a leash I leave permanently affixed to the back rail just in case of some kind of fiasco like this one.

  "Come on Jan, you get out of the water. We'll haul the bugger up whether he wants to come or not. Then, when he's safe, I'm going to murder him!"

  It took both of us to drag his contrary butt onto the main deck, where I shortened the leash so he couldn't go anywhere. He struggled against his restraints, barked and yelped, looking back into the water.

  "Hetta, there is definitely something down there! Shoot it! I've got the dog."

  She didn't have to tell me twice.

  My hands were slick and shaky as I assumed a two-handed stance and searched for a target while trying to maintain my balance on the now pitching deck.

  "Jan, we don't have time for this, we gotta go before someone gets hurt."

  "Okay, wait, there!"

  By some miracle, considering the river of adrenaline coursing through my system, I didn't commit dolphin-cide when Bubbles broke the surface, vaulted skyward, and gave us a pirouette.

  "Dolphin repellant. We need dolphin repellant," Jan groused as we got underway.

  Po Thang whined and strained against his leash. Both he and Jan were still dripping salt water all over the bridge, so I had a major clean up on my hands when we got back to the anchorage.

  I was already running the watermaker at full capacity to ensure we had enough fresh water for the job, with enough left for a few days. According to the weather gurus, it would be at least five days before we could go back out again, and I don't like to make water in the anchorage, especially when there's a blow stirring all kinds of stuff up in the water.

  "When we get back in, let's call your Doctor Chino and ask him if there is such a thing. I have heard of shark repellant. Bubbles is becoming a real pain in the back fin."

  "Or, you know what? She might have saved Po Thang and me? We still don't know for sure she wasn't protecting us. Maybe there was a squid down there with a mind on Dawg Burger."

  "Or Jan Burger. What were you thinking, jumping into the water like that?"

  "Obviously, I wasn't. I just reacted. Won't happen again." She patted Po Thang's soggy head. "You hear that? Next time you're on your own."

  "For sure. The ever-unanswered question is, did he jump or did he fall?"

  "Uh, I think that's, 'did he jump or was he pushed'?"

  "Is Nacho dead or just missing?"

  "Or, is he et up? Or just a floater?"

  "Nice imagery, Miz Jan."

  The wind was increasing little by little, as were the swells, both giving us a great sleigh ride back to the anchorage. My two wet friends were shivering in their towel wraps, but I found the breeze refreshing, as it cooled my raging blood pressure. This cruising stuff ain't all Margaritas and mariachis.

  I put on a few turns, anxious to put the hook down and let my dog and best friend get a warm shower.

  Our favorite spot was still open, mainly because no one else likes the shallow water. I did move us a little to the east, into twenty five feet of water, to soften the yank on our ground tackle during the big gusts. I also let out extra scope as extra insurance we'd stay put. The bottom in this part of the anchorage was pretty good, but I'd dredged up a rock or two on previous outings, so I backed down with more gusto than usual. Only when I almost jerked us off our feet was I satisfied that we were firmly entrenched for the duration.

  I shampooed Po Thang while Jan went inside for a hot shower, then began the boat clean up to remove all the salt water. I knew that with the gusts throwing salt spray during the upcoming norther we'd be coated again, but at least, for now, we wouldn't be tracking salt into the interior.

  Keeping salt off a boat in salt water is like trying to keep Po Thang away from food. A lost cause, but I do my best.

  "I'm starving," Jan declared when she showed up to help me scrub the decks and wipe down the brightwork I'd de-salted.

  "How's about you make us something wonderful while I finish up here. I'm Jonesing for...well, good grief, look what the storm dragged in."

  Jan turned as Full Kilt Boogie sidled up alongside, gave us a wave, turned into the wind, and anchored nearby. "He's got some nerve! Hetta, just shoot him."

  "Whoa there. He doesn't know we saw Nacho's boat towing him out of the anchorage. Let's play stupid."

  "Right now I'd call that typecasting."

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Mac secured his boat, dinghied over and was greeted with a one wagging tail and two large doses of skepticism. Our plan was to let him do all the talking, maybe incriminating himself.

  "Ahoy, Raymond Johnson, permission to come aboard?"

  "Permission granted." Somehow that Scottish brogue had lost much of its charm, but I was determined not to give that away. Just yet, anyhow.

  Jan had just placed a large platter of ham sandwiches, pickles, and chips on the table. The Scot, like many single-handling dudes, has a knack for arriving when food is afoot.

  "Take a seat, Mac. Want a beer or three?" Jan said, for all the world like his new best friend, but I knew better. She'd been below sharpening a large carving knife.

  "Sure would," he sat down and Fickle Dug put his head in his lap. So much for dogs picking up on bad vibes; Jan and I were barely able to keep from jumping him and beating the crap out of his handsome face.

  He lifted his ice cold Tecate into the air. "A toast to lying, cheating, stealing and drinking! If you are going to lie, lie for a friend. If you're going to steal, steal a heart. If you're going to cheat, cheat death. And if you're going to drink, drink with me."

  We automatically lifted our glasses, then he looked around, "Say, what have you done with Nacho?"

  I'm sure my jaw dropped as far as Jan's. To cover my surprise, I took a glug of beer.

  Jan blurted, "What have we done with Nacho?"

  I kicked her under the table. "We thought maybe you knew."

  "Me? I haven't seen the lad since day before yesterday."

  "Here?"

  "Well, yes, and when he cut me loose. After we had lunch when you returned from La Paz, you Lassies left in your new dinghy, and I invited him over to my boat for a wee dram. I told him I wanted to go up to San Francisco Island for a few days, but there was no enough wind and I'm running low on petrol. He told me he was going out to fish for an hour or so, and would tow me a good part of the way, which he did. At the north end of this island, the wind freshened and I sailed up to San Francisco."
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br />   I tried to think back to what we knew for sure. We'd tracked Nacho's boat as it headed north, passed by Los Islotes and then turned out to sea, almost due east. Then, later on, the boat stopped at the bajo, and stayed there. The next morning we found the boat, abandoned, with that nasty piece of bloody tentacle on board.

  And now Mac was telling us Nacho towed him north, then cut him loose to sail to San Francisco Island? Was he lying through those gorgeous teeth? And why was he back so soon?

  "Why are you back so soon?" I demanded. No one had used the word, subtle, when writing me a character reference. Now that I thought about it, no one ever wrote me a character reference.

  He swept his arm toward the anchorage where, behind the boats, tiny white-topped wind waves were being whipped up by ever-strengthening gusts. "Was a wee crude in the nor'maist anchorage."

  "Huh?" Jan asked.

  "I've got this one," I said. "You said it's crowded in the north anchorage, right, Mac?"

  "Aye. D'ye speak Scots then, Hetta?" He said this with a crooked grin, as though we hadn't spent enough time together for him to know.

  "Just good at understanding accents. But do us a wee favor and lighten up on the brogue, bro?"

  "Aye." He eyed the bottle of wine on the sideboard, and Jan asked if he'd like some instead of beer. "Juist a wee...small bit would be appreciated. Am I sensing a problem here with Nacho?"

  "Aye," I said before I could catch myself. I am a natural born mimic and it was kicking in fast. "He's disappeared."

  "Where to?"

  "If we knew that he wouldn't be missing, would he then?" I swear, I said that with a slight brogue.

  "Sairy. Tell me what happened."

  Jan and I related the whole story, leaving out a few details involving a large handgun and a pantsing. Mac sat quietly sipping his wine and frowning. When we finished he said, "He said he was going to fish, maybe dive. I dinna kin where. This is very disturbing."

  "Yes, Mac, it is. As they say in the movies, you might have been the last to see him alive."

  "Help ma Boab! I hope not."

  I didn't know who or what Boab was, but Mac sounded and looked sincere enough.

  After Mac left, Jan and I went over everything he said, which, by the way, we had recorded. On playback, we agreed his story was believable.

  "If we were somewhere in the States, CSI would be all over that bajo. They'd have had divers down, and Mac would be a person of interest, for sure."

  "Well, yes, if we'd told either them, or Javier, about seeing Nacho tow Full Tilt Boogie out of the anchorage the day Nacho went missing. But you said not to."

  I threw up my palms. "This is Mexico. Witnesses, and that is what we'd be if we spilled the beans on Mac, are considered somehow guilty most of the time. And what if, like he says, Mac is entirely innocent. And me? I've already been seen at the scene where two dudes disappeared off their boats. I don't want them getting ideas and throwing me in the local lockup."

  "So, what now?"

  "I have an idea, but don't know what to do with it."

  "Oh, hell, Hetta. This never bodes well. What is it?"

  "Well, when I was on that first sailboat, I stepped in what looked like a mix of squid slime and blood. For some reason, I bagged those shoes, mainly because I was too lazy to wash them. And today I purposely stepped into the goop on Nacho's boat again. I now have DNA evidence from two crime scenes on two separate pairs. If this keeps up, I'm gonna be barefoot, but I have evidence. Of what, I'm not sure."

  "Fat lot of good that's gonna do us here. I'm not sure they even have labs for such things. Maybe in Mexico City, but with only one in ten crimes being reported and only one in a hundred solved, that means only one in one thousand crimes are punished, which means their DNA data banks are probably a mite on the slim side."

  "I was thinking about the squid."

  "Probably don't prosecute them either."

  We had a giggle, made some really silly jokes about squid crime rates, crimes against squid—fried calamari being at the top of the list—and the like. It felt good to laugh after the past two days.

  "Okay, really. What can we do?"

  "Call a doctor."

  Jan hung up after a lengthy chat with her amour, Doctor Brigido Comacho Yee, a.k.a. Chino.

  "He's still not real pleased about us being out here in a blow, but I think I smoothed it over some."

  "Not mentioning Nacho probably helped."

  "It's not that Chino doesn't like Nacho, he just doesn't know what Nacho does, and doesn't trust that."

  "Ha, he can join the club."

  "Anyhow, Chino says he keeps in close touch with some marine biologists he met at a conference he attended a few years back about the endangered hammerhead shark."

  "Endangered? Hammerheads? I thought I just saw a National Geographic thing about thousands of them in the Sea of Cortez."

  "They're being caught by the hundreds, their fins cut off, and then they get thrown back in to sink and die. All for a bowl of shark fin soup in China."

  "That's awful. You know I'm no shark fan, but someone needs to stop this."

  "Chino's working on it. Anyhow, back to what we were talking about. Evidently they can now take a small piece of fin in China and trace it back, using DNA, to where it was killed. It's a big step towards protecting the hammerheads."

  "Good for them. But, what about squid? If we have some of their DNA, can't Chino at least figure out if it comes from the same family? Like a couple of sisters gone berserk?"

  "What the hell would that matter?"

  "I don't know exactly. I guess it would at least tell us if this is a sociopathic family of angry squid on a rampage. Kinda like Ma Barker and the gang."

  "Where do you get this stuff, Hetta?"

  "From Chino. He's the one who speculated the squid might be hunting in packs, killing everything in sight, didn't he?"

  "No, that was some of his colleagues, but he admitted it was a possibility. Ever the scientist, he won't commit without facts. Why does the pack thing even matter?"

  "I'd just feel better knowing whether it's only a few renegades, or if every giant squid in the Sea of Cortez is hell bent on killing me."

  "You are so weird. You know who Werner Herzog is?"

  "No, is he weird, too?"

  "Some might think so. He's a German film maker I studied in a class I took that gave me credits for watching movies."

  "I took contract bridge once. So, what is it that brings old Werner to mind?"

  "He said, "What would an ocean be without a monster lurking in the dark? It would be like sleep without dreams.' "

  "Dreams? This is turning into a freakin' nightmare!"

  A gust rocked the boat and Jan looked out at the whitecaps behind us. "Nightmare or not, we can't do squat for a few days, cuz we are plumb stuck. Let's batten down the hatches and get out the DVDs and popcorn."

  Chapter Twenty-six

  The first norther of the year turned out to be what I call a righteous norther; one that blows a steady twenty-five to forty knots—gusting sometimes to fifty—day and night for three days straight. There are no clouds, just bright blue skies during the day, with dazzling star-studded nights.

  During blows I take the nighttime anchor watch because I can't sleep anyway. I sit in the main cabin, where I can repeatedly peer out the large windows to check our position in relation to other boat's anchor lights. Raymond Johnson is equipped with all sorts of alarms should we drag anchor, but I've never been able to put my complete faith in them, even though Jenks, the pilot, says to trust your instruments. Some might say I have trust issues?

  And those dazzling stars I talked about? They slide wildly by as the boat swings like a yo-yo on a string, until we reach the end of a fast sixty-degree arc, the double anchor chain snubber line groans, and the boat, stopped suddenly, shakes like Po Thang worrying a bone. Then, after a few seconds of lull, with small waves lapping innocently against the hull, we do the same thing all over again in the other di
rection.

  When Jenks is on board during one of these wind events, as the weather people like to call them, he sleeps like a log. Po Thang sleeps like a dog. Jan just sleeps. I surf the web when I have it, or read, as a distraction, but my concentration lags as vertigo grows. After the first long night of this norther, I finally fell asleep at dawn, only to have Po Thang wake me an hour later for his morning pee, which, for some reason I'm required to witness.

  No amount of cajoling, threatening, or bribing gets Po Thang out on the front deck to use his pad during a storm. He has, however, devised his own method using the swim platform and some extraordinary balancing tricks, even though he gets pretty wet in the process as the boat slides sideways through the small fetch.

  Once Jan got up to take the watch, I was able to tuck myself in for some good restful ZZZs. As you can imagine, after a day or two, I get a lit-tle cranky.

  Everyone else in the anchorage was hunkered down in their boats, their boredom only occasionally broken by listening in on radio conversations between other boats, and bulletins announcing wind velocity, like, "Holy crap! That gust pegged my anemometer at thirty-eight knots!"

  The ham nets were lively, with cruisers all over the Sea trying to one-up each other with wind speeds, wave heights, and the like. Being in the southern part of the Sea, we were not getting the worst of it. One boat up north, whose owner sounded like he might have broken into the emergency rum stores, claimed a sixty-mile-an-hour gust almost laid him over. Hey, I've been there.

  And then there were the smugger-than-thou cruisers on the Mexican Rivera reporting eighty degrees, clear skies and warm water. After that report I checked our water temp and saw it had dropped overnight from seventy-seven to sixty-nine. Puerto Vallarta was starting to sound better and better until the same boater said a crocodile just swam by with an unfortunate dog clamped in its jaws.

  It's always something.

  As these storms often do, it died suddenly, but it takes a couple of days for the seas to abate. We'd had no news of Nacho, even though we'd asked Javier to let us know what he heard. In fact, he never even answered our e-mails. Mayhaps he was still a touch annoyed with we dainty damsels?