Just Add Salt (2) (8 page)

Chapter 9

We were ready to roll.

We had a captain, our boat was practically a floating chandlery of spare parts and she bristled with state-of-the-art navigational aids and communications systems. Our plan was to leave the yacht club dock in late afternoon, cruise out to Treasure Island and anchor for the night before leaving for Monterey on the outgoing tide. Fabio checked conditions at the Gate for our ideal departure time. The last thing we needed were twenty-foot incoming seas warring with an ebb tide over the bar, and us caught in the seething middle.

Around three o’clock the afternoon before our scheduled departure, Fabio, who was staying with his cousin, arrived to get the boat secured for leaving the dock. I’d already gotten rid of a lot of clutter, which I left in the dock box. Jan was making her third trip to her place to get clothes. God forbid we should be unfashionable on the high seas.

“Miss Café,” Fabio called from outside, “why have you put the anchor into the water?”

Oh no, not again. Heart tripping, I rushed to the bow and found my anchor chain once again dangling into the estuary. I shrugged at Fabio, feigning unfelt nonchalance. “Uh, I’ll bring it up.”

And I did, but with much trepidation. Little by little I tapped the foot control until I could see something white below the water. Great. Taking a gulp of air, I stomped the switch and closed my eyes until I heard Fabio say, “What is this?”

A white plastic box was attached to the anchor. Better than a white body, I guess, but ominous nonetheless. Fabio left the boat, grappled the chain and pulled the box onto the dock while I held my breath. Before I could warn him, Fabio stripped off the tape, opened the package and laughed. “It is for you, Miss Café.” He held up a sign that read,
Hasta La Bye-Bye!

At that moment, the yacht club windows flew open and a chorus yelled, “Surprise!”

Jan and I, still sporting huge sombreros and resplendent black mustaches we’d found in the box marked
Hasta La Bye-Bye!
, left while the party was still in full swing. I don’t think they even noticed the guests of honor were missing.

It was a themed party, the theme being “Raiders of Mexico,” in honor of our upcoming invasion. Someone had done their historical homework: Conquistador, pirate, and padre costumes abounded. Ernesto and Fabio, decked out fittingly as an illegal and a border patrol agent, won first prize.

Unfortunately, Garrison showed up.

Garrison had lived on my boat both before—and even after—I bought the vessel out from under him. Using a degree of subterfuge and deception I would normally admire if it were not aimed at me, he’d managed to convince me I should turn over the care and feeding of my vessel to, who else? Him, of course. Anyhow, I finally found him out, gave him the heave ho and, in retribution for lying to and stealing from me, dumped his car into the estuary. Of course, he could never prove it was me, but from his nasty attitude at the party, it was obvious he carried a grudge. I ignored his annoying self and enjoyed the party.

Fabio, since he was our designated driver, left the party early after politely refusing any beverage containing alcohol, Jan and I, the designated drinkers, were still far from sober when the engines roared to life at two, only a couple of hours after we’d passed out. We came to and stumbled up help him get underway, but Fabio sent us back to our bunks. The party at the yacht club was still going, so he had plenty of help, albeit some of it a little shaky, untying the lines.

I woke up again a couple of hours later when I felt the boat, which had been moving smoothly along the bay, began to plow into rolling swells. Even on a calm day, the Pacific lets you know you’re in her territory.

“Hey, Fabio,” I said, joining him on the flying bridge, “got any coffee left in that thermos?”

He nodded and I grabbed a travel cup from a drawer. Jenks, bless his heart, had taught me all about keeping stuff handy, like caffeine and cups. Jan dragged herself up to join us, expecting to enjoy the city and bridge lights, but she was sorely disappointed. Dense fog plagued us as we crossed the bay and then under the Golden Gate Bridge.

Tension mounted by the minute as the three of us stared at the radar screen and listened for warning blasts from large vessels capable of turning us into so much flotsam. Stationary foghorns on hazards to navigation, beguiling when one is tucked in one’s bunk in safe harbor, wracked our nerves. I was having second thoughts about continuing south that day, but once we were a good way offshore the gloom lightened, radar targets lessened and were farther away. We relaxed somewhat, but Jan and I kept a vigilant eye and ear peeled while Fabio went down for a well-deserved nap. The good news? Flat, slow seas with nary a whitecap.

On autopilot, which was interfaced with the GPS to make adjustments according to waypoints we’d preprogrammed into the system, and using all that modern technology had to offer,
Raymond Johnson
could literally get to the Monterey Harbor entrance without us. Or on the rocks, if we’d miscalculated.

Captain Fabio needed his rest. It was going to be a fairly long run to Monterey, so we decided on six hour watches, just to get into the habit for when we left San Diego on a straight shot for Turtle Bay.

Jan was just commenting on the smooth ride, and which fish house we’d hit on the Monterey Pier, when the radio rudely interrupted.

“Vessel underway, heading one-seven-oh degrees, this is Coast Guard Cutter
Morganthau
. Please reduce speed and prepare for boarding.”

Startled, we looked at each other, then scanned the hazy horizon for another boat. Seeing nothing, I looked at my compass, pegged on 165. Close enough. I reached for the mike, only to have Jan slap my hand.

“Don’t answer it, Hetta, we have an illegal alien onboard.”

Again, the radio barked. “Vessel underway, heading one-seven-oh degrees. This is Coast Guard Cutter
Morganthau
. Please reduce speed, keep your course and prepare for boarding.”

Crap. Over Jan’s protests, I grabbed the radio mike. “Uh,
Morganthau
, this is the motor vessel
Raymond Johnson
.”

“Switch and answer channel twenty-two,
Raymond Johnson
.”

“Roger,” I snapped jauntily, feeling very nautical. I let go of the transmit button and said to Jan, “Can you see anything? Where in the hell are they? Get ready to throw Fabio overboard.”

Jan had the binoculars and scanned the fog. “I can’t see ‘em.”

“
Raymond Johnson
, this is Coast Guard Cutter
Morganthau
on twenty-two.”

“Look behind us, Jan.”

“Nothing there.”

“
Morganthau
, this is
Raymond Johnson
.”

“
Raymond Johnson
, reduce speed, keep way on and prepare for a safety inspection.”

“Oh, we already had one of those. I got a sticker.”

“
Raymond Johnson
, I repeat, reduce your speed and prepare for a safety inspection.”

“Oh, okay.” I turned off the autopilot and brought the throttles back slowly until we reached engine speed. We waited, discussing what we were going to do about Fabio, while scanning with binoculars and radar, listening for engines. Nothing.

“
Raymond Johnson
, reduce your speed immediately and prepare for boarding,” the radio insisted. No more “safety inspection.” Now it was “boarding.” And no more Polite Young Man voice, either.

“We have reduced our speed.”

“Ma’am, unless you comply immediately, we will use force.”

“Listen, you yahoo, I am barely underway here.”

Silence. Then, “
Raymond Johnson
, what are your coordinates?”

I looked at the GPS and read them off, showing off my navigational expertise. “Thirty-seven degrees, thirty-seven minutes north, one hundred twenty-two degrees, thirty-one minutes west.”

“Standby, please.” After a minute or two of radio crackle, he came back. “
Raymond Johnson
, you are two hundred miles south of us, heading one-six-five, not one-seven-oh. Sorry for the inconvenience. And ma’am? I suggest you have the captain answer the radio next time. Have a good day.”

I glared at the radio. “What a male chauvinist pig,” I huffed. “How does he know I’m not the captain?”

Jan smirked. “Gee, I guess his first clue was that you don’t friggin’ know where you were headed.”

Fabio surfaced about that time. “Why are we slowed? What has happen?”

“Nothing. Let’s take her back up to eight knots and I’ll make lunch.” I tromped to the kitchen, my ego smarting from my incredibly dumb gaffe. We were barely out the Gate and I’d already proven myself nautically challenged.

I plopped a Tombstone pizza in the oven, hoped the brand name wasn’t an omen of things to come, and grabbed a chart. Marking our present position according to the GPS, I then, using our speed and course, estimated where we would be in an hour. I’d learned dead reckoning in Coast Guard class and from now on, bells and whistles or no, I’d by golly know where we were.

Fabio, since he was up anyway, took over the helm while Jan and I moved to the aft deck to enjoy some suddenly glorious weather. Gulls wheeled overhead, hoping for a handout or a direct hit on one of us. As we passed Half Moon Bay I regretted we were on a fast track to Mexico. Jenks and I had spent many happy hours anchored at Pillar Point. We’d also weathered a nasty storm there one night, the night he told me I’d handled a tough situation so well that I was now a certified sea wench. Recently, he’d probably amended that to just plain certifiable. Sigh.

“I heard that sigh. You miss him, don’t ya?”

Jan had my number, so I didn’t even try denying it. “Yes, I do.”

“You know,” she began, using that tone she used when she was about to tell me something for my own good, one she stole from my mother, “you and Jenks are just going over a bump. It’s not like he’s never coming back or anything. You’ll see. Everything’ll be fine. Hey, let’s call the guys on that fancy Satfone of yours.”

“We’ll wake them up.”

“Good.”

“The sat time sets Tanuki back about a jillion yen a minute.”

“So, since they’re paying, what do we care? You’re just being a big chicken. What do you think? Jenks is gonna reach out and bite you?”

“Oh, all right. We need to check for messages anyhow. You do it, you haven’t used the system yet.”

“Cool.” She turned on the Satfone. “Says here we got one message, but no caller ID. Maybe it’s the guys.” She listened and the smile left her face, replaced by a puzzled look.

“What is it?”

“Some weird message. Says we should stay away from Mag Bay.”

Oh, crap. “Or we’ll pay?”

“Exactly. How did you know that?”

I shrugged, trying to look totally calm while my stomach knotted up. “Not the first time I got that message. Remember, I called and accused you of putting someone up to it. Just some whacko. Don’t worry about it.”

“You just got this Satfone. Where did you hear this message before?”

“Uh, back at the dock. On my land line.”

“And when, dear friend, were you planning on sharing this little threat with me?”

“I sorta did. Now seems like a good time?”

“A tad late. Let me get this straight. We are going to Mag Bay, where you landed a shady contract, and someone is warning us not to go or we’ll be sorry?”

I shrugged. “That about sums it up. One do wonder how the caller got my new number, so let’s narrow our candidates. Who has this number? Me, you, Jenks, Lars, the Trob and Allison. After the first crank call, I asked Wontrobski who knew I was taking on the project. He said no one at Baxter Brothers, other than himself. Sooo, we got us a whale hugger at Tanuki,
sí
?”

“Hetta, the Japanese eat whales. They do not hug them.”

“There are environmentalist fruitcakes in every country and I think we got us one. Let me put the Trob on this.”

“Good idea. Now, let’s call…do you smell smoke?”

Chapter 10

Taking a deep sniff, I shrieked, “Oh, crap, the pizza!”

I reached the galley just as the smoke alarm went off and the oven timer started dinging. Confused, I jerked the oven open to find a perfectly cooked pizza and no smoke. Then the boat’s engines went dead and we suddenly settled, dropping into our own wake. As we swayed wildly in our backwash, the pizza escaped the open oven and hit the floor, very near where ominous smoke seeped out around the seams of the engine room hatch under the galley steps

I was kneeling in tomato sauce, attempting to move the steps out of the way so I could check the engine room when Captain Fabulous charged into the saloon and practically tackled me. As I struggled to get loose, he yelled over the screech of the smoke alarm, “No! We cannot open the door.”

“We have to see what’s going on in there.”

“Not until we have out the fire.”

“How do we do that?”

“Come with me.”

With a death grip on my tomato sauce slathered wrist, he dragged me along behind him. As we passed Jan, who stood in the center of the room in what looked like a trance, I grabbed her. We all went to the bridge looking like a bunch of kindergarten kids holding hands on a field trip. Or a Chucky Cheese birthday party.

Fabio rattled on non-stop, mostly in Spanglish, letting us know he was in charge and we were not going to sink. On the bridge he pointed to a blinking red light marked HALON SYSTEM. “This light must go out, then we may look into the engine room. No before. Very dangerous. This remove all
aire
.”

“
Aire
?”

“Choke the
aire
from fire.”

“Oxygen. That’s right, Jenks installed the system before he left. Now what? Shouldn’t we call a MAYDAY or something?”

“No, we wait. We are no in danger, I think.”

Just as he said it, the alarm quit screeching, but my ears rang anyhow. “
Mira
, the fire, she is dead. Now I go see. Please to wait here.”

“My boat, Fabio. I go.”

“If you insist,
señora
.
Señorita
Yan, will you please to keep watch?”

“Hey, how come Jan’s
señorita
and I’m
señora
?”

“You are not marry?”

“No. I told you I have a boyfriend.”

He shrugged. I would later learn that Mexicans are totally nonplussed by gringas, and most think we are all loose women who could easily have a husband and a boyfriend. In my case, they were right on two out of three.

Fabio eased open the engine room door a crack. A little smoke curled out, but it was the lingering kind. He paused again, letting more oxygen in, waiting to see if there was a flare-up. Finally satisfied, he turned to me.

“I will need
oscillator
.”

“Uh, do I have one?”

“
Sí,
I have seen in
cocina
.”

My Tex-Mex Spanish was good enough to know whatever it was he wanted was in the galley. He spun his hands and made a buzzing sound. I got it. I grabbed the clip-on fan next to the stove and minutes later we’d dispersed enough smoke so Fabio could safely enter the engine room. While I watched, one trembling finger poised above my cell’s autodial button for 9-1-1, he searched for the source of our smoke. After ten minutes he shook his head.

“What?” I asked.

“I do not find it.
Nada
.”

“It can’t be
nada
. All that smoke.”

“
Señorita
Café, I see nothing.”

“Hey, you two,” Jan called. “We’re wallowing in the waves and I’m getting seasick up here. Can’t you do something with this boat?”

“Can we start an engine, Fabio? So we quit rolling in this swell? I’m experiencing a touch of
mal de mer
myself.”

“¿
Porqué no
? I will stay here, you please to start the engines?”

Both engines fired immediately, no smoke reappeared, and ten minutes later we were humming along nicely, on the way to Monterey. Hey, that sounds like a good song title.

Fabio, however, didn’t look like singing. “We should return to you port,” he told me.

“Why?”

“The smoke.”

“Fabio, we’re almost into Monterey. If you’re worried that we have a mechanical problem, we can call Ernesto and have him drive down here.”

“No!”

“No? Why not?”

“I am
capitán
, I fix you
yate
.”

Oh, brother. God forbid I should ruffle Fabio’s macho feathers.

Nothing exciting happened the rest of the way into Monterey, unless you count sea critters. Jan and I were charmed by the furry little otters that wrapped themselves in kelp floats and lazed in the sun while chomping on shell fish. By the time we tied up at the Monterey Yacht Club for the night, our day’s adventures with the US Coast Guard and mysterious engine smoke were left in our wake. After chomping a few tons of seafood ourselves, and washing it down with a couple of liters of chilled thirty-dollar California Pinot Gris, compliments of Tanuki, we hit the sack early in anticipation of a dawn departure.

As I was dropping off, I made a mental note for the next day to call Trob regarding crank calls, Martinez’s son for the retired cop’s phone number in Mexico, and Jenks and Lars to…make ‘em jealous? It’s a gift being a true sea wench.

A very scary voice, one from which I thought I had escaped, shocked me into consciousness. I peered out my porthole into predawn gloom and tried to recall where I was. I remembered: Monterey Yacht Club.

Jan’s side of the bed was empty. We’d decided to bunk together in my quarters, give Captain Fabio the forward cabin rather than have him camped out on the main saloon couch. Once we started the run south of San Diego, anyone who wasn’t on watch could grab whatever empty bunk they found. Nautical term: hot bedding it. This brought some rather fanciful thoughts to my head regarding Fabio. I stretched and imagined…there was that annoying voice again. No, it couldn’t be.

I stumbled up the steps, drawn, like a moth to flame, by the chirp of dreaded Pamela: “And two, three, four. And breathe.”

A bright pink, five-foot plastic band hit me in the face.

“Come on, Hetta, move it,” Jan ordered, and turned up the volume on the television.

“Beam me up, Scotty.”

“You’re dating yourself, dearie.”

“I watched the reruns. What in the hell are you doing?”

Jan shut off the DVD player. “Pammy recorded a workout for us to take along as a bon voyage gift, and to thank you for lending her your Volkswagen while we’re gone.”

“I should have let her walk, since she’s so good at it.”

“You’re just being testy. Her car is broken and you didn’t want to leave your car in the parking lot at the yacht club anyhow.”

True. I had long since sold my shiny red Beemer to the Trob, but even though my old VW station wagon was more suitable to salty-aired parking lots, I didn’t think leaving it abandoned for months was a good idea. Especially in Oakland.

Jan reached over to crank up the sound again. “I think it was really sweet of Pam to devise a workout routine just for us. Grab that resistance band. It’ll give you well defined muscles.”

“How’s this for resistance?” I raised my hand and shot her a well-defined digit.

Thirty minutes later my face was as pink as that damnable band. Gotta give it to ole Pamerooni, not a single muscle was spared her DVD of Doom. Stumbling to the galley, I put a kettle on for French press. I was chugging an ice-cold Perrier, waiting for my café pressé to brew, when Fabio, who had wisely stayed in his quarters during our muscle fest, emerged. Obviously fresh from a shower, his black hair glistened and his bronzed face shown from a close shave. He smelled of Old Spice. I’m a sucker for Old Spice.

“
Buenos dias, señoritas
. A beautiful day, no? Are we
listo
to go?”

I frowned at the fog outside “I’m listo to go back to bed.”

He smiled a charming smile and turned on the VHF radio for the latest marine forecast. Fog or no, sea conditions were perfect for our run to Port San Luis.

A cuppa Joe and a shower lifted some of my dismay at learning that Jan intended to keep us in shape during our trip. I have ever so much more fun getting out of shape than staying in it. What are vacations for, anyhow?