Just Different Devils (6 page)

The destination for our mysterious rendezvous was the Caleta Partida anchorage. Reputed to be what's left of an extinct volcano crater sandwiched between the Islands of Espiritu Santo and Partida, this protected anchorage was a wise choice. The islands were once one, until the volcano blew, leaving us boaters one of the most secure moorages in the Sea of Cortez. It is also the only one in the islands north of La Paz that I really trust, because I'd ridden out southerly, westerly and northerly winds there safely.

My favored spot is near the entrance, snugged up next to a fish camp where no sailboat with more than a three-foot draft dares go. Anchored in only twelve feet of water, one is safe from everything but the rare strong easterly, and even then there would not be much fetch—nautical speak for not enough distance for the wind to whip up the water—and thereby no large wave action. It was an ideal spot to wait for Deep Pockets.

Jan was jazzed, as this part of the Sea was all new to her. I was more than happy to share it with her and play tour guide. I was, after all, the expert on board; I'd been there. And, of course, I never pass up a chance to be a know-it-all.

Since we stole away so early, we anchored at Balandra, just twelve nautical miles north of La Paz, for breakfast. This beautiful place, with its famous
El Hongo de Piedra
, or mushroom rock, along with turquoise water and sugary sand beaches, is a summertime favorite for the locals. I hadn't been there in awhile because getting blown out by Coromuels during their season is a good possibility.

"Okay, what's a Coromuel?" Jan wanted know.

"Depends on who you talk to. It's a south, southwest wind that blows in spring and summer. Cools La Paz down, but plays hell with the anchorages. Anyhow, I've heard tell that the name, Coromuel, is the Hispanicization of Cromwell. Some say he was a pirate who used the predictable wind to raid Manila Galleons. I doubt it, though, because as we know, those ships stopped at Cabo, not here." 

Jan pointed to the narrow-necked mushroom-shaped rock. "Jeez, how does it survive hurricanes?"

"It doesn't. Didn't. It collapsed under its own weight several years ago, and the nice folks from the Bercovich Boat Works—I pointed their yard out to you as we went by—and some typical Mexican ingenuity for fixing stuff by heavy lifting, drilling, and a lot of marine epoxy, managed to put Humpty Dumpty back together again. Don't you just love the way Mexicans can repair almost anything? In the States, we just throw things away and buy new ones, but the Mexicans fix 'em. We've learned a lot down here."

Jan took a sip of coffee and cocked an eyebrow. "Sure have. We've honed our deceitful ways to a new pinnacle. Progress of sorts, I guess."

"Whaddya mean?"

"Might I remind you, Miz Hetta, we've left a perfectly safe dock for a rendezvous with an unknown someone, all for the purpose of what could possibly be ill-gained lucre. And in doing so we are thereby jeopardizing relationships with two of the best men we ever met."

"Oh, come on, that
dinero
ain't ill-gotten. We're earning it fair and square, no matter where it originated."

"I'm more worried about the origina
tor
."

"Phooey. All we're doing is renting out the boat for a month. I mean, what can go wrong?"

I endured her guffawing with grace.

After breakfast we slowly motored north using only one engine at a time to save fuel. Skirting Isla Ispiritu Santo, we were entranced by a rising sun painting volcanic rocks and striated cliffs tones of light pink to dark red. Verdant cactus seemed to defy gravity, clinging to what were once molten rock bluffs resembling honeycomb toffee. Pelican's wet undersides reflected turquoise water, painting them light green.

I pointed to sandstone cliffs worn smooth by wind and water of the ages. "It still takes my breath away. With all my travels around the world, I've never seen anything to top the Sea of Cortez for sheer dramatic beauty."

"A lot more drama since you arrived, I'd bet."

"What's with you? Having second thoughts about being chief cook and bottle washer on our mystery cruise?"

"Nah, I can deal with whatever being the galley slave part brings. I guess I'm just a little antsy about this squid thing. Where have most of those incidents taken place?"

"Not around these parts. Or at least, I don't think so.
Carpe Diem
probably drifted down from up north on the tide after poor Freddie was killed. Best I can figure, and according to the coconut telegraph, the attack might have taken place somewhere between San Jose Island and Loreto. Which is close enough for me, thank you."

"When Chino told me about that attack in Loreto last year, he said he was not convinced the story was true, and still thinks it was some kind of hoax."

"I thought he went to investigate."

"He did. He went to find the squid and tried to figure out what really happened. He told me he never met anyone who actually saw the attack, and suspected the one picture was Photoshopped."

"But they caught the squid, right?"

"They caught
a
squid, but it took him and his team over a week to find one, and even then he says there is no evidence the poor thing had anything to do with the alleged attack."

"Why on earth would someone fabricate a story like that?"

Jan shook her head. "Dunno. Maybe we should Snopes it."

"I will, soon as we get anchored.  Sure is gonna be great having total communication on board for the next month."

"And security. If one of those oversized calamari slimes his way onto
Raymond Johnson's
decks, we'll know."

"Knowing and doing something about it are two different things. I sooo miss my guns."

She patted my hand. "Poor Hetta. So many bad guys, so little ammo."

We turned in early, anticipating our guest would arrive by lunchtime the next day. I checked my e-mail to see if we had an update from him, but no such luck.

Googling,
squid attack Loreto
, I came upon the actual article in something called the Weekly World News, with a banner claiming it to be, "The world's only reliable news." The article featured a photo of panga fishermen being thrown into turbulent water, allegedly into the maws of Red Devils. Snopes, however, called the whole thing a hoax.

Evidently someone out there has
way
too much time on their hands.

Like me. I LIKED the Weekly World News on Facebook.

We'd also e-mailed Jenks and Chino, a sticky wicket at best. We had not informed our men of this trip yet, feeling it is easier to ask for forgiveness than permission. Of course, in our case, that permission thing didn't exactly fly anyway, but for the moment we were off the hook because they would figure as long as we were able to e-mail and Skype, we were still at the dock. Oh, the tangled web.

With a full-blown satellite system on board, we could also fire up the security alarm system, a big plus when we did have to fess up to what we were up to. Well, Jan would be the one to confess because Chino had all kinds of contacts in La Paz. Or, even drop in himself. Jenks was so far away I could keep him in the dark for a month, but Chino was a totally different problem.

After a day of cruising, I thought I'd drop off immediately but, to paraphrase Shakespeare's King Henry, uneasy lies the head that wears the captain's hat, and there was much to consider. Weather, mystery men, not being straight with Jenks, and leaving port without a dinghy. Where we were, we could practically walk to shore if something went terribly wrong, and I also had a survival raft strapped to the top deck, but it still bothered me. Who? What? Where? When? and Why? played pinball in my wide-awake brain, resulting in a major headache.

Who
was coming?

What
were we going to be doing for the next month?

And
where
?

When
would this dude arrive?

And
why
didn't I just get married at twenty-one, and have a white picket fence, and a divorce, like so many of my friends?

Without any idea of when our Mr. Mysterious would arrive, we went about our daily routine under the assumption there would be one more for lunch or dinner. Jan always cooks for six anyway, because we adore leftovers—
if
we can fight Po Thang off long enough to get them into the freezer.

After breakfast and performing the myriad basic necessary chores when anchoring out, we decided to go snorkeling. The water was still seventy-eight and by late morning the air temp was balmy enough to go bobbing for lobsters in a hole I knew of not all that far from the boat.

Without a dinghy we'd have to swim for it, but it would give Po Thang a workout. Mexican law forbade us to take lobster, but I had a sneaky method that didn't require a spear gun, so we loaded up our dive bags with drinking water, an old mop handle, bait, beer, and pantyhose.

One of my least favorite things about lobster is they hang out in holes and keep bad company. Where lobster lurk, so do morays, as moray eels prize a lobster dinner as much as we do. Unfortunately, morays also consider these lobster lairs within their property lines and do not take kindly to poachers.

Finding a flat offshore rock to perch upon, I pulled out the pantyhose, shoved Po Thang away from the bait bag, stuffed some old stinky fish guts I'd thawed out into a leg, tied the ends, and attached them to the mop handle.

I swam to an underwater ledge, inspected it carefully for large toothy eels with bad attitudes, and located a promising crevice. Jamming the mop handle down into the crack, panty leg end first, I made sure it was secure, then paddled back out to the rock for a beer.

While we knew the odds of snagging a spiny lobster for dinner were not all that good, it gave us an excuse to sit on a warm sunny rock and sip a cool one. Po Thang, miffed at not getting to go after our baited mop handle, groused a little but then settled down for a nap.

From our vantage point at the entrance to the anchorage, we'd be able to spot new traffic coming or going, and could be back at the boat in twenty minutes if need be. Of course, we had no idea what time our guy would arrive, or how, but my guess was a panga bigger and newer than my old
Se Vende
if he planned to use those snazzy deep sea fishing rods he'd sent to
Raymond Johnson.
My boat is a cruiser, not a high speed fish killer.

We gave the lobster an hour and I went back for the mop handle. Giving it a tug, it felt like maybe I had a bug, so I called for Jan to come with a dive bag. While these guys do not have claws, their spines make them hard to handle, so it's easier to pull the stubborn little devils out of their happy homes when you have two people working at it. Her job was to bag the lobster and fend off Po Thang, who thinks anything that moves underwater is fair game.

The hole was about four feet down and we were only wearing snorkels and masks, making the aquatic creatures far better adapted to escape than us landlubbers are at chasing them. Mother Nature, however, didn't count on sharp spines getting tangled in pantyhose. Must be an evolutionary thing.

We had a tug of war on our hands, but after ten minutes of working in shifts, Jan jerked a foot-long lobster from it's lair and I bagged it, pantyhose and all.

Back on our rock we took a breather, put the lobster into a canvas bag instead of our net one. I'd learned the year before not to trail a net bag with lobster and bait behind me when a huge moray shadowed me back to the boat. Well, not
all
the way back because I shoved the whole danged shebang at the eel and swam for my life. Cowardice runs right strong in these veins.

Halfway back to
Raymond Johnson
I heard the unmistakable rumble of a fast moving boat. Jan, also immediately on the alert, herded Po Thang closer to shore and I followed. There have been way too many instances of swimmers run over in the Sea of Cortez; when these pangas are running fast, they aren't always on a plane, and the driver can't see anyone in front of them. And, because we were hugging shore for the most part, we didn't bring the "diver down" red and white float flag with  us.  Dumb and Dumber strike again.

Sure enough, a large fancy panga with a center cockpit and bimini shade roared by, streaking into the anchorage at a speed absolutely guaranteed to piss off every boater there.

"Get ready for a wake!" I yelled at Jan. She grabbed Po Thang's harness and hauled him away from the nearby rocks, while I paddled for dear life in the same direction. A three foot wake hit us smack in the face, but at least we weren't whacked into a rock. Spluttering curses, we swam for the boat, only to get buffeted again as the A-hole streaked back out to sea.

Masts rocked wildly, and even
Raymond Johnson,
as heavy and stable as she is
,
rolled in the mess created by the jerk. I never got a good look at the driver, but the panga was light blue, an unusual color, and if I saw it again, I'd recognize it, for sure.

Back on the boat—we had to tread water until the swim platform settled down enough so we could safely board—we used the outdoor shower for ourselves and Po Thang, then settled down with sandwiches on the flying bridge while listening in on radio conversations, a cruiser pastime. The chatter in the anchorage was light, mostly people complaining about things that fell over when the wake hit them. On a boat, if it
can
move, it
will
move, something I always try to remember.

We were playing a game of Baja Rummy when I heard another motor, and saw a panga streaking for the entrance.  "Oh, hell, here we go again. What's with these guys?"

"Jerks. Hey, at least this one is slowing down, and it isn't the idiot who came through before. This panga isn't blue."

As we watched, a white panga slowed and headed straight for us. "Looks like we might have company, Jan me girl," I said as I gathered the cards. I was losing, so the arrival of what I hoped was our guest was timely. Jan waggled the score sheet at me.  "We'll finish this later. No way are you gonna weasel out."

Rats. Oh, well, at least now maybe our man of mystery would be revealed.

Po Thang went on point, staring intently at the fancy white super panga headed our way. As a rule, he dislikes the high-end tenders and pangas, favoring rubber dinghies and old skiffs bearing what he perceived as other boaters and, thereby, dog-friendly. Mexicans, he has learned, are wary of him, and he plays that to the hilt, getting his macho in. Now he looked uncertain. He had a momentary tail wag of recognition, then tucked that tail and headed below. Great guard dog, that.

The glare on the boat's windscreen prevented us from identifying the driver, but from Po Thang's reaction, I was on the alert. I could tell there was only one person in the open panga, and that this was no regular fishing panga; this sucker was state of the art, at least twenty-five feet long, and was equipped with huge twin outboards on the transom. From their deep thrum, I told Jan I thought they were diesels.

"Diesel outboards? I've never seen one," she said.

"There's a reason for that. They cost a bundle. And he's got two. God only knows how fast that sucker can go. I sure hope it is ours...I want to drive it."

Jan and I moved to the swim platform, put out two large fenders and readied ourselves to catch his line. The driver, wearing a baseball cap and dark glasses, threw Jan the bow line and smartly maneuvered the panga alongside. I grabbed the aft rail and snugged him in.

"
Gracias
,
quierda
. Have you missed me?"

Jan and I chorused, "Nacho?"