Baja Get Away

by Jinx Schwartz

  Posing as a couple head over heels in lust, one of us could hardly sleep on the beach without it being noticed. We were surrounded by tents, vans, and trailers, as some Taco Tuesday attendees had no intention of driving Mex One’s dark, narrow, and winding roads after so much revelry.

  A north wind had picked up, sending waves crashing on the beach, and the temperature plummeting. At this time of year, one could expect anything from warm and balmy to downright cold, and nature was unleashing what would probably be the last norther of the year.

  I’d put a plastic container of fresh water near the slider to rinse sand off our feet. As Jeff gingerly dipped his toes, he said, “Cold, but a great idea. I hate sand between my toes and sheets.”

  “That’s two of us. You go ahead and get comfy, I’m going to the head, hopefully for the last time tonight.”

  He laughed and handed me the flashlight. “Men have an advantage there. I’ll just water the beach from here while you’re gone. You want the slider side?”

  “Doesn’t matter. I want just to get warm.” I was already in sweats and a windbreaker by now, but that wind cut deep.

  “Want me to warm you up?” he said, with that gorgeous lopsided grin of his. A picture of a young, albeit temporarily black-haired, Robert Redford crossed my mind, and an unanticipated warmth surged through me. Cool your jets, Miss Becky!

  I whirled and stomped off, muttering to myself, “You already did, dammit.” Once inside the baño, I lingered there until someone knocked and I had to relinquish my refuge.

  It was the time of the moon’s phase when it rose late, so once I left the dim glow of the bathroom’s solar lights, it was pitch black. I stopped, despite the howling wind, admired the brilliant stars, a Milky Way that appeared touchable, and identified Orion pointing south. The Baja’s lack of ambient light makes for some of the best stargazing I’d ever experienced, and with the cloudless, moonless sky, this night was spectacular.

  A sand-blasting gust reminded me to get a move on and I took a step forward without turning on my flashlight. Bumping into something, I let out a screech and dropped my light. A whine and a hairy body let me know one of the Buenaventura dogs was leaning against my leg.

  “Oh, sorry, puppy. You startled me.” I squatted to pick up the flashlight and was rewarded with a nose lick. Aiming the light at him, I teased, “Hey, we don’t know each other that well, and you didn’t even buy me dinner. Besides, no telling what you last licked.”

  My new friend leaned harder against me, almost knocking me over. This was no small dog, but he was warm, so I enjoyed the company. However, the relative warmth of the van beckoned, so I gave him a last ear scratch and told him to go home.

  Jeff, bless his heart, had turned the van around while I was gone, and now the slider side faced away from the wind. He’d also moved the foot wash and left the door slightly open.

  Inside, I heard soft snores

  Sighing with relief, I rinsed my feet in frigid fresh water, tugged on the chenille socks I’d left on the front seat, and slid under the covers. I jammed a pillow between us, turned on my side away from Jeff, and slipped into a deep sleep.

  Sometime during the night, I awoke to slurping sounds and realized my new fur-faced buddy was drinking our foot water, and that Jeff was spooning me with my pitiful pillow barrier still between us.

  Drifting back off, I felt cuddled, safe, and guarded for the first time since getting dumped by Barry.

  Or maybe for the first time in over five years.

  Who am I kidding? Even back then I was living a lie, and didn’t even know it.

  Jeez, no wonder I have trust issues.

  Chapter Nine

  “Hey, Sleepy Head Red,” Jeff crooned as he slid the van’s door open and leaned in.

  I fought my way from a tangle of sheets, blankets and pillows to find him holding out a cup of coffee. “Cream and sugar, right?”

  “You are my hero.” At some point he’d had to climb over me to exit the van, and I didn’t even know when. “Wow, did I sleep, or what?”

  “Wow can you snore, or what?”

  “I do not snore!”

  “Hmmm, then it must have been Basura. Huh, big guy?” He reached down and scratched the wiry blonde head of a very large dog of indeterminate lineage. “Was that you raising the roof off the van, boy? You might want to have someone look into that.”

  I grumped and took a hit of coffee. My throat was a mite dry and irritated. “Yep, musta been him.”

  The huge hound groaned softly and wagged his long tail, affably taking the blame.

  “Basura? Really? Who would name a dog Garbage, for cryin’ out loud?”

  Hearing his name, the humongous canine bludgeoned Jeff a couple of times with his tail before leaning in for another head scratch.

  “That’s where they found him, Becky. Someone dumped him into a garbage bin, and the nice folks at the restaurant here have fed him ever since. Seems the locals know if they leave their unwanted dogs at Buenaventura, they’ll find them a home.”

  “But not Basura?”

  “No one wants such a large, ugly mutt.”

  I held out my hand and Basura nuzzled it, then ducked his head so I could scratch his wiry ears. “Awww, you are not ugly! You’re…handsome-ish. And anyone who does not want you is stoo-ped,” I cooed. “We’ll take you.”

  “What? Are you nuts? This dude has to weigh at least eighty pounds! With that wiry coat and size, I’m thinking there’s an Irish wolf hound in his background. They can be fierce.”

  “Oh, please. Does he look like a killer? I suspect there’s a golden retriever fence jumper in his background to offset any ferocity. Perfect. All he needs is a bath and a new name. Scruffy fits him, don’t you think? I can see he’s been fixed. How about his rabies vaccinations?”

  “How the hell would I know? Ask Olivia. I’m not even sure she’s willing to let him go.” The last statement was made with a dash of false optimism.

  “I’ll bet a dollar to a peso he’s been to PAWs.”

  “PAWs? What’s that?”

  “PAWs animal clinic. If I remember correctly, it’s an acronym for Patrons of Animal Welfare. It’s between here and Mulegé, and they have volunteers who neuter and spay local animals and strays, give them shots, and the like. I did a stint as a pooper scooper and walker there when I first arrived in the Baja.”

  “You’ve certainly gotten around down here. You never said why you came to the Baja, and then stayed so long.”

  “Are they serving breakfast yet? Scruffy and I are starved.” I patted my thigh. “Let us go in search of serious food, and find out if Olivia is willing to let me be your furr-ever mommy.”

  After only a few steps, I realized the hot sun and lack of breeze had heated the beach, and my sweats were way too warm. Pivoting, I stripped down to my shorts and tee from the night before. Scruffy stuck to me like glue.

  And if Jeff noted the abrupt subject change when he asked me why I’d been in Baja for so long, he didn’t pursue it.

  Scruffy dogged us to the restaurant and then dutifully waited outside the open door when we entered. Olivia was there, and she told me Basura was the only dog of the four strays under her care that minded well. “He’s very smart.”

  “I love him. Can we adopt him?”

  “It looks like he has adopted you. Where will you take him?”

  Crap, we’d told everyone we were headed south. “Eventually, back to Texas.”

  “Okay then. We’ll miss him, but there will be plenty more.”

  “Do you have any papers on him, in case they ask at the US border?”

  She nodded and left us to enjoy our mounds of fabulous huevos rancheros, refried beans, and tortillas. I’d ordered a hamburger patty to go for Scruffy.

  “Here,” Olivia said, handing me a few sheets of paper when she returned. I saw Basura’s rabies shot was current, but she suggested I stop by PAWs to see what we’d need in order to take him into the States.

  “We will, a
nd thanks. He’s a great dog, and we’ll give him a good home, I promise.”

  That last part might not be so certain, since I doubted they allowed pets in Club Fed, but I’d sure as hell make sure he had a good home somewhere!

  Olivia looked at Scruffy and made a sad face. Sighing, she said, “I will miss him, but he needs a real home. Thank you, Hetta. You know, you are the second ‘Hetta’ we have met this year. The other one also had red hair, and she has a boat. If you are in La Paz, you should look her up.”

  The Baja peninsula, almost 800 miles long and over 55,000 square miles in size, can be a very, very small place.

  “Oh, what a tangled web we weave, when first we practice to deceive!” (Sir Walter Scott, 1808).

  ***

  We deflated the air mattress and packed it away to make room for Scruffy in the back seat, loaded up my new buddy, and said our goodbyes to all the people who came out to wish us well. Scruffy was still damp from a good soapy bath, and smelled like, well, a large wet dog. He curled up in the back and promptly fell asleep as though he’d been riding around in cars all his life.

  “Hetta, please, please, put your window down. Your dog stinks,” Jeff said with a smile.

  “He does not. He just smells like wet dog. Next time I’ll give him a cream rinse. And, you can call me Becky when we’re alone, thank you.”

  “I think I’ll stick with Red, so I don’t get confused. Jeez, we gotta stay away from gringos the rest of this trip. Way too much…togetherness down here.”

  “I warned you. Did you get any hint of the Barry thing last night?”

  He squirmed in his seat and I pounced. “You did, didn’t you?”

  Tipping his head, he said, “I honestly thought it better you didn’t know, but yes, I did. A boater told me he’d heard on his Ham radio that a gringo was murdered in Cabo, and they were looking for his American girlfriend.”

  I was drinking water from a plastic bottle and almost choked. Dabbing my face and tee shirt, I caught my breath. “Oh, hell. Did he hear a name or have a description of me?”

  “No, thank goodness. We owe Hetta a big one for that ID she lent you. It might save our asses. But I’m thinking we’d better stick to back roads, just in case.”

  “Jeff, there are no paved back roads. One thing we can do, though, is cut off Mex One onto Mex five to San Felipe. I hear the first twenty-two miles are awful, but then it’s paved to the border at Mexicali. I’ll have to check it out. I heard the last hurricane did a job on it.”

  “How many military road blocks?”

  “I have no idea. I’ve never been that route. There are sure to be some, but now we have a beater, a dawg, your hair is black, and I have a fake ID. I think we’ll pass muster.”

  “Probably. After all, Hetta’s a redhead, and you gringas all look alike.”

  “Very funny.”

  “What’s after that nasty piece of road under construction if we take Mex 5?”

  I dug out a map of the Baja. “We’d end up back at the upper end of the Sea of Cortez. I’ve never been up there, but San Felipe is a popular spot for gringos and I know a couple of RVers who swear Gonzaga Bay is great.”

  “After we get Scruffy checked out at PAWs, let’s find a restaurant with Wi-Fi and see what lies ahead. We’ll want an out of the way place to spend the night tonight. You pick the route. Think we’ll get to the border tomorrow? I, for one, will be relieved to be home free.”

  Maybe we’d be home, but I might not be so free. But I’d rather take my chances with the American authorities than the deeply flawed Mexican legal bureaucracy any old day.

  Chapter Ten

  After a visit to PAWs to consult with the fine folks there about taking a “stray” back to the US, we headed for Santa Rosalia to buy dog food and treats, and pick up Chinese for ourselves and Scruffy. Since he was probably sleeping in the van with us until we reached the border, his part would not be spicy nor pungent.

  We ate while parked on Santa Rosalia’s malecón—a stone-built esplanade high above the waterfront—because we were sticking to our vow to avoid gringos as much as possible, at least in the southern half of Baja California. Once we crossed into Baja Norte, the chance of running into someone who might ID me were much slimmer.

  I’d wanted to stop in Mulegé long enough to show Jeff the lovely little oasis town, but chances were too great of encountering some of the same folks we’d seen at Taco Tuesday the night before at Playa Buenaventura. The less gringos the better.

  Walking Scruffy along the malecón, it was obvious he wasn’t leash trained, but he was so affable he let me lead him rather than him pulling me, which he was certainly capable of doing. He’d be a quick study once I had time to spend with him, teaching him the ropes. If I wasn’t locked up somewhere. In that case, he would have to be trained by Jeff, my sister, or my parents. Not that any of them knew that yet.

  The water below was still roughed up from the north wind the night before, but I also detected a seasonal change in the air. I experienced a moment of melancholy, remembering spring days in Texas.

  Tears blurred the waves crashing on the black sand beach—not volcanic like in Hawaii, but black granulated slag from the town’s historic copper smelting days—as I suddenly realized this might be my last look at the Sea of Cortez, maybe forever. I’d grown to love it, and the Baja, and didn’t want to leave, but life happens, and it was time.

  I wiped my cheeks and said, “Scruffy, if we’re lucky, we’ll be in Texas for bluebonnet season this year. I’ll bet you’re gonna love all that green stuff, huh? After all, you’re part Irish.”

  “Guau.”

  “That’s what I thought. Maybe I’ll get you a doggie DNA test one of these days.” As we walked, I gauged the reaction of most Mexicans we met and was satisfied that, despite the dog’s sweet nature and tail wagging, he sent a few scurrying across the road. “Perfecto, big boy. Now if I can only teach you to actually bark or growl in English.”

  “Guau-guau.”

  ***

  When we returned to the van, Jeff was happily hunched over his laptop. “We have a strong cell signal!”

  I hooked Scruffy to the door handle, put his water bowl next to him, and climbed inside. He curled up on the sidewalk and dozed off.

  “I doubt we’ll get much service from here on out if we don’t want to check into a hotel.” I dug out my iPad and logged onto his Jetpack. “I’ll look for someplace safe to camp tonight. We have several hours of daylight left.”

  By one, we were back on the road, climbing a winding, treacherous part of Mex One named Cuesta del Infierno by the Mexicans (Hell Ridge) and Hell Hill by gringos.

  “Whoa, Red,” Jeff said, as he got a gander at what lay ahead, “I’d sure hate to break down on this road. How’s the temperature gauge holding?”

  “Assuming it’s working at all, which is probably a stretch, we look good to go. I’ll stay behind that big truck ahead of us. He’s doing about twenty, so I figure we can’t get into much trouble at that speed. I sure as hell don’t want to try and pass him with this junker.”

  “At this rate, it will take us days to get to the border. Did you figure out where we can camp tonight if we need to?”

  “I’m thinking San Ignacio. There are lots of tourists there this time of year because of the whale watching tours at the lagoon. We can try to get a room, but I doubt it will happen.”

  “What about Scruffy?”

  “If I remember correctly, the hotel I stay in, La Huerta, allows pets. If not, he can sleep in the car. It’s still cool enough. Oh, how I would dearly love a hot shower and my own bed.”

  “I’m crushed. You don’t like sleeping with me?”

  “We didn’t—”

  I didn’t get to finish that sentence. There was a loud bang and a rear tire on the truck we were shadowing blew to smithereens, a piece of rubber actually bouncing off our windshield. The eighteen-wheeler pitched precariously toward a straight drop-off with nary a guardrail to prevent him taking a d
ive.

  The driver somehow stopped before going over the side, but then started rolling backwards.

  Quickly jamming the van into reverse, I hadn’t moved far when, to my horror, a Mexican Federal Police black and white travelling at a high rate of speed—siren chirping and lights flashing—rounded a curve and loomed in my rearview mirror.

  I screamed, my first thought being the federale was after me, but that was the least of our immediate problems. We had nowhere to go and stood a good chance of either being knocked over the cliff or squashed like a cucaracha between the two vehicles. Or both.

  The cop, suddenly realizing we were not only stopped, but reversing, swerved left to miss us, then slammed his brakes on and slid sideways, clipping our bumper and ending up across the oncoming lane.

  I fought the wheel to avoid taking a header onto the jagged rocks way, way, below, just as another truck descending the grade semi-jackknifed and broadsided the cop car, pushing him toward us again.

  “Oh, hell, can this get any worse? Get ready to jump,” I yelled. “Take Scruffy with you!”

  At the sound of me screaming his new name, the dog lost his normal nonchalance and launched himself into the front, then into my lap. No longer able to see a damned thing, I hollered for Jeff to pull Scruffy out of my way, jammed my foot on the brake, and closed my eyes.

  But there was no expected impact. When I dared peek, a cloud of dust enveloped us, the cop’s passenger door was inches from me, and we were all stopped, including the truck with the blown tire.

  For a full minute I sat frozen, hyperventilating, and with a white-knuckled chokehold on the steering wheel, waiting for a final shoe to drop. My foot was still jammed on the brake; that leg was numb, as was my face. A glance in the rearview mirror was especially scary. I closely resembled the self-portrait of Edvard Munch in his famous painting, The Scream.

  Jeff reached under Scruffy, yanked on the emergency brake, pushed Scruffy’s rump out of the way, and planted a serious kiss on me. My whole body woke up as I relaxed into a tangle of dog, man and woman parts.