Roots of Indifferences

by Terri Ragsdale

  "No!" was Fred's firm replying. Instinctively, he knew his life was also in danger. He knew he was next. He was afraid of these three men and knew that if he traveled with them, somewhere he too would be killed when they found the opportunity. "Leave me here. I will stay here and deal with my fate. I will try to escape back across the border."

  "Have it your way," said the younger escape, seemingly proud of what they had done. "We are free now, and nobody is going to take us alive."

  The other two quickly returned from dumping the driver's body. "Gracias, Compadre! It's been nice knowing you!" said the older man. "You are going to have a hard time explaining to the prison guards what happened if they catch you. But, of course, you will never live to tell the tale, since they will shoot you first!" He shouted to the others, "Vámonos, ándale!"

  "I'll take my chances," said Fred, still shaken by the grisly murder. He grieved for the guard and felt guilty for not being able to save his life.

  Within minutes, the three murderers jumped in the van, turned it around, and drove off without the headlights on. Fred felt empty and betrayed. In his naiveté, he never dreamed that this would happen. He was lost at the end of the isthmus in the middle of the night and would have to fend for himself.

  He studied what he could see in the brightness of the full moon. He looked around to the northern end, where he had seen the shadows of small boats and several small rafts tied up at the docks. He began walking in that direction, hoping to find a boat he could take. He walked and walked, stumbling over rocks, through thorn bushes and marsh, and finally reached the dock area. He could smell the ocean and heard the sounds of the rippling surf. Staying hidden in the tall marsh scrubs, he studied the dock for any movement. With the brilliance of the moon, he could make out a small boat with fishing gear, two oars, and some kind of supplies on board. He looked around again, watching for any activity. He stood for a few minutes with his feet getting wet from the marshy ground and then approached the boat by way of the dock. He untied the rope from the dock, crawled into the boat, and lifted the small anchor.

  It was high tide, and the boat began to drift, making it possible to get into the channel that entered an enormous gulf of water. There was enough brightness of the moon that he was able to see the shadows of the island. He began using the oars on each side, aiming the boat toward the sea. The tide was going out, and the boat floated out into the wide ocean, into the dark abyss. He did not know where he was going, but he knew that he was free. He could see the waves hitting against the boat, rocking it, but he kept on rowing. He rowed until his arms ached, but he kept on going, trying to keep his eyes open and concentrating on controlling the boat. He had to free himself from the horrible injustices and get away from the dreadful prison. Although a sense of guilt had overtaken him, he knew he was innocent, and somehow the truth would eventually be told.

  Fred did not remember when he fell asleep; perhaps it was due to the constant rocking of the boat, the murderous incident of the driver, the adrenalin rush during his flight, or just plain exhaustion. He woke up in the brightness of the morning sun and was immediately besieged by the incredible nightmare in which he found himself. He was not sure where his mysterious cruise was heading, or the consequences that it would bring. He was free, but not entirely free, for he was surrounded by water.

  While sitting in the boat in the bright morning light, he inspected the small craft. On top, there was a long pole and a small tarp for protection from the brutal rays of the sun that would come later in the day. His delicate hands were red and raw, and his striped cotton shirt was torn on the right side. He realized that somewhere in the middle of the night he had lost his watch and would not be able to tell time. What did it matter now? His pants had been torn and ripped by the thorn bushes. He removed his shoes and socks that were still wet from the night before and realized his feet were red and swollen from the long walk down to the dock.

  There was a calm stillness in the ocean as the small crested waves rocked the boat. He presumed he was heading southeast, into the Tropic of Cancer. There was no land in sight, the only water that completely surrounded him, and he felt engulfed by the immense energy of the ocean. He knew he was out in deep water. The sun was now at mid-heaven, showing through a cloudy mist of fog. His stomach began to churn. In the bottom of the stolen boat were several aluminum buckets, one with some kind of stinky material used for bait, and one that had water, or what looked like water. It had probably been sitting around for a couple of days, but he did not care. His throat was getting dry, his mouth parched, yearning for cool water. He began drinking some of the stale liquid and made an ugly face at the taste. He found several dried corn tortillas in a closed tin container and ate two. He had never eaten anything more delicious in his whole life. He wanted to cry in his desperate, lonely condition, but he was grateful he was free.

  On the second day, he woke to the sounds of blowing, hissing, playful porpoises dancing in the dark, blue-green water. They had surrounded the small boat and followed him while he rowed until the afternoon light. They entertained him for many hours, jumping, rolling, and dipping into the sea, making things appear normal and natural. He recognized the intelligence of the gracious mammals that were so joyously happy. Why would anyone want to kill these beautiful animals? He thought. He watched them for hours until they disappeared into the deep water. He ate two more of the tortillas and drank some of the water and realized he was running low. When he needed to, he stood up and urinated into the sea. If he was going to stay on the boat, he needed to find fresh water to drink. In these conditions, he would become dehydrated very fast without even realizing it, and sometimes the body did not give warning until it was too late. Fred also knew that he was sailing straight south because the sun had been on his left side most of the day until it began going down on his right.

  The sun looked like a gigantic red ball of fire in the western sky, dipping slowly through a diffusion of blood-hued atmosphere, and then it was twilight. Soon he was, once again, subjected to a dark void. He could hear and feel the waves smash against the keel, as a strong gale coming from the east rocked the boat. He could hear the flapping of the overhead tarp hitting the side of the boat. Occasionally he would hear the foghorns sounding in the faraway distance and the loud horns of big vessels headed for the ports of Brownsville or Houston. Fred felt the wind becoming stronger and could smell rain. He needed to make sure the buckets were turned upright in order to preserve the precious rainwater. As the wind began to blow harder, the temperature dropped, and Fred could feel it in his bones. His torn shirt was too thin and the worn out jacket he'd found in the boat was too small, but he wrapped it around him anyway. He held onto the oars more tightly, as the boat was rocked and tossed around. By the time the storm subsided, he was so exhausted that he finally closed his eyes and slept a while.

  A drizzling rain and strong trade wind woke him up the next day. He could not remember how many days he had been afloat, but he was beginning to get weak, He lived with constant hunger pains as his empty stomach complained. He would have enough water if the buckets would hold the downpour, but he needed to find some kind of nourishment. All around him was the unending sea, and he knew the sea contained minerals and food and was a treasure in itself. He remembered the bait and some of the fishing lines. If he had enough courage to smell the rotten meat and adjust the hooks, maybe he would be able to snag something. He had to do it if he was going to survive. He had only one dried tortilla left, and it would have to last until he found some other kind of nourishment.

  In the oncoming rain, he turned his head as far away from the bait bucket as he could, took in a deep breath, and held it, not wanting to inhale the fetid smell. He reached into the stinky mess and placed a piece of it on a hook. He dropped it into the water and waited. While holding onto the line, he washed his hands in the ocean current and noticed green kelp floating on top of the water. He knew that kelp was rich in minerals and contained nutrients that contributed to life in
the ocean. He began picking it up and eating it. At first, it was hard to consume the slimy, salty substance, but his hunger had become vicious and difficult to bear. He ate like a glutton. He realized that kelp normally grew close to land, but he still had not seen any sign of dry land. He figured he was somewhere off the coast of Mexico.

  Within an hour, he dropped the line in deeper, as far as it would go. He wrapped it around the pole, letting the bait drag many fathoms below.

  In his long wait, he watched the flying fish that were in abundance in the ocean waters, and the terns birds that flew and dipped themselves into the waves so gracefully. Downhearted and sick in his mind, he began wondering about his father, Carlos, Victoria, and Catalina, and what had transpired since his escape. Perhaps his life would end here, in this tiny boat, lost at sea. If this ended with his death, nobody would know the real truth of what had happened in his escape.

  He spiraled downward into a melancholy mood, and his dark thoughts tormented him. He viewed the water as far as his eyes could see and noticed how the sea and sky touched in a great union, but yet were so far apart. He understood how sailors became disoriented and lost and were never heard from again. Dear Lord, he asked out loud: "Is this what your intentions are, for me to die out here in the ocean? Is this what I have come to, never really having an experienced life? I wanted to do so much. I wanted to help the poor and disadvantaged people, and I still feel I have not been able to accomplish my full potential." Dispirited and demoralized, Fred had tears in his eyes and used his dirty, wet shirt to wipe his nose. He was desolate, lonely and hungry, floating on the sea of desperation. If his family could see him now, they would surely die.

  No sooner had he said that out loud, when he felt a jerk on the line trailing in the water. He quickly pulled it up, his excitement building, cutting his hand with the wire and oozed blood. With the drizzled rain the blood washed and disappeared into the ocean waves. The catch was a five-pound tuna, which in Fred's voracious hunger; he began eating it alive, even as it kept flopping out of his hands. His teeth cut into the fresh white flesh, and he gorged himself, not stopping until he had satisfied his massive hunger. He threw the remains into the sea and drank some of the rainwater. Funny, he thought, what humans will do if they are thirsty and hungry enough. He never thought he would sink to this level of survival.

  He decided he should try and catch another fish for his next meal and baited the hook again and dropped it down as far as it would go. His thoughts now centered only on his next meal and it became a game, a curious challenge, taking up most of his time. And he had all the time in the world.

  Several hours later and in the midst of rain, Fred began noticing movement in the water around the boat. His worst fears were confirmed: Sharks! Several purple-gray fins circled the boat and were getting too close for comfort. One of them slid underneath and touched the boat, rocking it. Up to now, Fred had not felt any fear, but now the hair on the back of his neck stood up and he was apprehensive. His eyes and thoughts concentrated on the circling sharks, and he paid close attention to what they were doing. Then, the fishing line snagged and moved, and he began reeling it in, anticipating a large fish on the hook. Immediately, there was a great confusion of movement among the sharks as they began attacking his catch. Desperate to save his next meal from the predators, Fred grabbed one of the wooden oars and began beating the sharks. "Go and get your own!" he shouted. "There are plenty of fish out in the Gulf! I'm hungry, and this one is mine!"

  By the time the sharks gave up and swam away, Fred, weak and exhausted, pulled in what was left of his fish. It was the skeletal remains of what was once a medium-sized fish, perhaps a young marlin with its long, blue beak and fins. There was some meat still hanging in torn pieces, and he used a tin can edge to cut slices and began spreading the flesh on the top of the buckets to dry. He would have enough for the next meal. He had collected rainwater to drink and had also some kelp to use as greens, although it was so salty, it made him thirsty.

  Several days went by, and the rain kept coming down harder, and the trade winds grew. Fred had eaten the last of the fish. He figured he had been afloat for over a week, and he knew that he would eventually hit land somewhere, or at least come close to it.

  As another night fell and another gloomy, pewter-gray day came with the rains pouring down more severely, there was not a dry place in the small boat. The winds blew hard and the waves were become bigger and higher, pushing the boat ever southward. Fred was soaked to the bone. The afternoon turned dark, and the dark purple clouds indicated they were heavy with rain. Fred found himself in the middle of a tropical storm. The gale winds blew ever more forcefully, rocking the small vessel from side to side. Oversized waves attacked the boat, and it was all that Fred could do to hold onto the sides. Flashes of lightning loomed across the sky in a terrifying display of electrical energy. The winds increased, creating immense, destructive waves, rocking and pummeling the boat and Fred like a toy. The Gulf rose to terrible heights, pushing water into the boat. Fred tried using one of the buckets to scoop up the seawater, but it poured in quicker then he could bail. Terrified, he thought the sea was going to take him after all. He could do nothing but hang on and pray.

  In the dark misty atmosphere, Fred had not noticed that he was coming close to the outskirts of an island. The swells elevated as they approached the coast and crashed against the rocky shore. The heightened waves reached up to forty feet into the air and suddenly flung the small boat into the rocks, sending Fred into the ocean, fighting for his life. He tried to swim, but it was fruitless against the strength of the waves. He tried to remember to hold his breath and fill his lungs full of air each time the sea would spit him up. He did that several times, as the Gulf swallowed him time and time again. The ocean was too powerful, and in his weak condition, he began giving up. Somewhere in between his gulps for air and his struggles to swim, he said to himself, you win Mr. Gulf—I give my life to you. His head hit an object, and he lost consciousness and began sinking slowly toward the bottom of the sea.

  CHAPTER 38

  For the next two weeks, Fred was not able to ascertain where he was. All he remembered was confusion and people talking in Spanish. He remembered a kindly old man and woman feeding him some kind of delicious soup and periodically talking to him. He would come to realize, weeks later, the soup was sea turtle soup.

  "Ay!" she would say. "You are so light-complexioned and so big and tall. You need to eat more soup so that you will get well, and maybe we can all know the mystery of where you came from."

  As the weeks passed, he became strong enough to sit up on the grass cot where he had been sleeping. He was wrapped in banana leaves, since crawling crabs had bitten him while he was lying on the sandy beach and had left large sores all over his body, especially his arms and legs. Papaya juice had been used as a salve, taking away the sting and the redness from the sores.

  One day, several older men from the main village up the road came into the hut and began asking questions.

  "This couple found you washed up on the beach. All of us on this island want to know who you are and what brought you to our land. We have all been curious, since our Savior, El Señor de Tampico-Alto, was also found on our shores, the same way we found you."

  The old man was referring to a crucifix that was found in the same spot over two hundred and fifty years before. They had built a church for the icon and added the name of "El Señor" to the small village. Perhaps that was the only point of interest in the area. The natives, being superstitious, recalled the tribal legend of the Aztecs, about the tall, blond-haired, blue-eyed god named Quetzalcóatl, meaning "feathered serpent" that departed into the sea, promising he would return. However, the Indians confused the promise, and when Cortez showed up on the shores of Veracruz years later, he has considered a descendant of the same great god returning, a mistake which later led to the destruction of the Aztec Empire.

  In the same way, the tall, fair, and handsome Fred Juelson, to the puzzled
and superstitious natives, was considered some kind of an omen, but they did not know whether for good or evil.

  "I am from the United States—Texas," answered Fred weakly.

  "What brought you to our land? What is your name?" asked the prying old man.

  Fred hesitated, remembering what his father had advised him—to tell the truth, no matter what. But he restrained himself; he was taking a chance in divulging the truth of his life. He was free now and he didn’t want them to know that he had escaped from prison. He discreetly decided to change his name and not take any more chances. These people were unaware that his name was on the front headlines of every paper in the country.

  Remembering the doctor from Reynosa who had been killed several years ago, he replied calmly, "My name is Dr. Cantu," but he felt guilty for lying, even though it was his only chance of survival. "Dr. Federico Cantu."

  "Did you say, doctor?" All in the group smiled with humility and joy. "Our prayers have been answered by El Señor de Tampico-Alto! We have been praying for a doctor for many years. Father Gonzales will not believe this! What a miracle!" Three of the old men took off their hats and got on their knees and crossed themselves, thinking Fred had come like the savior in the living flesh.

  "There is one doctor who comes once or twice a year to our village, but we have not seen him for many months," said the only young man that had come with the elders. "Father Gonzales will be thrilled to see you!"

  "What's the doctor's name and where does he come from?"

  "He's a young doctor in his thirties, we believe. His name is Dr. Terán, and I think his first name is Antonio. Yes, I think it is Dr. Antonio Terán. He lives in the city of Tampico across the Rio Panuco river to the northwest. He was studying the vegetation that the people here use to heal the sick."