by Derek Hansen
He decided to put on a video. Just the thought of putting on a video brought the first faint smile of the day to his face. The boys loved videos. Captain Pete reckoned they could hear the whir of the take-up mechanism from a kilometre away. Sometimes the lure of the video proved even stronger than a come-on from the sweet-faced chicas who worked in the hotels around the marinas. If anything could get the boys back it was the video. The captain wished he’d thought to put it on earlier. He was about to go inside when he heard the quay security door open. He looked up, fully expecting to see the boys, and saw armed sailors instead. He groaned and ducked quickly inside his cabin, hoping he hadn’t been noticed.
It wasn’t unusual for naval officers to inspect and search boats on marinas, though it had never happened to him before. They searched for drugs, but also for places quantities of drugs could be hidden: secret storage areas behind false panelling, between bulkheads and in the gaps between the inner and outer skins. The penalty for having a boat capable of concealing drugs was almost as great as being caught in possession of drugs. Captain Pete thought of all the supplies he had on board and the prospect of opening every box and container, and hoped that the naval detail would pass him by.
His spirits, already low, sank further when he heard the firm knock on his cabin door. He cursed XR and Chuy and thought of ways to punish them as he slowly made his way aft to greet his visitors. No videos, not for a month. That, he decided, would be a fitting punishment, one which would hurt the boys and which no power on earth could prevent him from enforcing.
‘Buenos dias, senor,’ said the lieutenant.‘Americano?’
‘Australian,’ said Captain Pete. ‘American resident. Please, come in out of the heat.’Why not invite them in, thought the captain, why not be courteous? They were going to board him anyway. The lieutenant introduced himself but made no mention of the three ratings accompanying him.
‘You have a very beautiful boat,’ said the lieutenant, taking in the detail of the timber panelling and trim, the carpet and furnishings.‘Like a hacienda, like a beautiful house. American?’
‘Kiwi,’ said Captain Pete.‘It’s a New Zealand boat.’
‘Very beautiful. It is so good in here, so cool. So hot outside.’
‘Can I offer you refreshments?’ said Captain Pete. ‘Coke?’ He regretted saying ‘coke’ the instant the word left his lips.
‘Not Coke,’ said the lieutenant.
‘Beer?’
‘I see you have some tequila. Very fine tequila.’
‘With ice?’ Captain Pete took his bottle of fifty-year-old Grandfather tequila down from the rack, half-filled two tumblers with ice and poured a ten-dollar shot into each. He wasn’t sure whether the lieutenant was a connoisseur of tequila or simply an opportunist but either way he couldn’t afford not to be generous.
‘Salud!’ said the lieutenant.
‘Salud!’
Captain Pete watched as the lieutenant first sniffed his glass before reverently taking a sip. Seeing the lieutenant afford his tequila the respect it was due made the captain feel better. At least it was appreciated.
‘You are leaving La Paz this morning?’
‘Yes. For Puerto Vallarta then south to Ixtapa and Zihuatenejo. Provided my crew sober up long enough to remember and put down their chicas.’
The lieutenant liked that and translated for his underlings. They all smiled. They understood chicas and the necessity of occasionally going AWOL. They liked the fact that the gringo understood, too, though technically Captain Pete was Australian and therefore not a gringo.
‘Please, now my men will search your boat. It is our duty.’
Captain Pete noticed that the tequila had vanished from the lieutenant’s glass. When had that happened? He topped it up immediately.
‘This is very fine tequila,’ said the lieutenant. ‘Will you accompany me while I look around your boat?’
‘Sure.’
The lieutenant ordered his men out of the stateroom so he could appreciate it at his leisure. He did the same in the guestrooms. His men could not get out of the lieutenant’s way fast enough.
‘You are a rich man,’ said the lieutenant.
‘Rich enough, I guess.’
‘One time we found the walls of a boat like this boat jammed full of twenty-dollar bills, American twenty-dollar bills, counterfeit American twenty-dollar bills. They were printed here in Mexico. Did you get rich carrying counterfeit American twenty-dollar bills?’
‘I wouldn’t know what counterfeit bills looked like.’
‘They look just like real bills.’
Of course they did. The captain made a mental note not to try any further levity.
‘Do you carry drugs?’ asked the lieutenant.
‘Drugs? No,’ said Captain Pete. ‘Not now, not in the past and not in the future. They get in the way of fishing.’
‘Fishing.’The lieutenant opened the rod locker and looked over the businesslike array of rods, turned to his men and ordered them back onto the quay. He put his empty glass down delicately on the dining table. ‘Thank you for your hospitality and good luck with the fishing.’
Captain Pete saw the officer to the door and out onto the quay. When he finally returned to the cabin and closed the door behind him he became aware that his shirt was soaked with sweat that had nothing to do with the heat of the sun. He’d got off lightly and knew it. If the lieutenant had been so inclined he could have forced him to unload the boat and let them strip it bare. He knew of boats that had been impounded on suspicion of being used in drug-running or simply because the officer in charge was having a bad day. He poured himself another ten-dollar shot of tequila to settle himself down, knowing full well he’d pay for it later once the boys got back and they put to sea.
‘I hope you’ve got a good excuse.’
It was eleven o’clock and the captain’s relief at having the boys back, safe though worse for wear, had tempered his anger. Whatever they’d been doing they’d obviously had all the pleasure they could handle. They looked exhausted.
‘It’s not our fault, patrón,’ said XR. He could barely keep his bloodshot eyes open.
‘Then whose fault is it?’
‘The cow, patrón. It is the fault of the cow.’
Captain Pete knew better than to believe a word XR said but was irresistibly drawn to hear him out. XR’s excuses often lacked credibility but never originality.
‘I take it the cow was the chica’s mother?’
‘No, the cow was a cow. I decided to drive down to Cabo to see my wife and so Chuy could see his girlfriend.’
‘I thought Chuy’s girlfriend lived in La Paz?’
‘Not that girlfriend, patrón. The sister of my cousin’s boyfriend.’ He held his hands in front of his chest as if supporting huge breasts.‘That girlfriend.’
‘Of course.’
‘On the way back a cow walk out in front of my car. It is a miracle, patrón, a miracle I did not hit it. It is a miracle I am not standing here dead.’
XR only had two speeds and surviving a drive with him was the real miracle.
‘So you didn’t hit the cow.’
‘No, patrón.’
‘So not hitting the cow made you late?’
‘Yes, patrón. Because we did not hit the cow, we ended up in the desert. Sand up to our axles, patrón.’
‘I see.’
‘We had to wait for the campesino to bring his truck and pull us out. The truck did not want to start. On days like this, patrón, it is a known fact that old trucks do not want to start.’
‘Okay, okay,’ said Captain Pete. He’d heard enough. ‘We leave in half an hour. You and Chuy take a shower. You reek of booze and cheap perfume, the same cheap perfume Chuy’s La Paz girlfriend wears. It doesn’t go well with bullshit.’
‘Si, patrón. Though I am sad you don’t believe me. I tell you the truth.’
‘Mexican truth.’
‘Si, patrón. Mexican truth.’ XR started laughing
.
Captain Pete decided to take down the temporary shade while the boys showered. In an hour they would clear Isla del Espiritu Santo and the Bay of La Paz. The boys would apologise and repay his forgiveness with a hundred small kindnesses. That was the Mexican way. Then everything that had happened that morning would be forgotten.
Captain Pete took the helm once Espiritu Santo had dropped astern so the boys could finally get some sleep. Dots on his radar revealed the presence of large vessels and occasionally he glimpsed the threatening grey silhouettes of the Armada on the horizon. The important thing, he knew, was to do nothing that might arouse interest and set a course gun-barrel straight for Mazatlan. From Mazatlan they could troll down the line of the drop-off to Puerto Vallarta. In the sluggish sea, with four thousand litres of fuel and one thousand litres of water aboard, For Pete’s Sake cruised easily at twenty knots. Twenty knots was comfortable, economical and fast enough without attracting attention.
Having ascertained there was no traffic on an intersecting course, he let the boat run on autopilot and went down to the galley to make himself a turkey burger. As an afterthought he left out four buns and four pieces of turkey to thaw. If past patterns were anything to go by, the boys would sleep for two hours, awake ravenous and eat, sleep for another two hours, eat, and so on until they’d recovered. He took Carl Hiaasen’s latest novel back up onto the bridge with him. He needed a good laugh.
Captain Pete was a third of the way through his book and doing one of his periodic checks for pangas and whales when XR spoke.
‘Look, patrón, ahead to the left.’
Captain Pete looked where XR was pointing. All he saw was a slight disturbance on the surface, the sort caused by bait fish.
‘Packages, patrón.’
‘Packages?’ Captain Pete focused his binoculars on the disturbance and sure enough saw something that looked like the tips of packages. It never ceased to amaze him how Mexicans could be fast asleep one second, then wake the instant before something happened. Sometimes it was the moment before a whale broached in their path, or a marlin jumped, but whatever it was, their instinct or sixth sense made sure they rarely missed it.
‘Slow down, patrón, I think we should take a look.’
‘Okay. Where’s Chuy?’
‘He’s gone downstairs to get the gaff ready.’
The captain shook his head. The boys’ instincts were obviously unaffected either by excesses of tequila or sleep deprivation.
‘I think a panga has sunk, patrón,’ said XR worriedly. ‘Maybe it tried to outrun the storm, hit a big wave and sank.’
‘What are you saying?’
‘Marijuana, patrón. I think those packages are marijuana.’
‘If it’s marijuana we’re not stopping.’
‘But, patrón. Maybe the pangero is clinging onto the packages.’
‘Okay. Tell Chuy we’re stopping but we’re not stopping to pick anything up.’
The bales were now clearly visible less than fifty metres off the port bow. Captain Pete had never seen bales of marijuana before but they looked exactly as he’d imagined they would look.
‘But, patrón, it might also be cash.’
‘Cash?’ The captain recalled his conversation with the lieutenant.
‘Someone has to bring back the cash. We assume the panga was heading west with drugs but who’s to say it wasn’t heading back east with cash?’
Or west with counterfeit greenbacks.
Captain Pete throttled back. In the conditions, drawing alongside the bales was a piece of cake.
‘Any sign of the pangero?’
‘No, patrón. There is no one clinging to the packages.’
Captain Pete slipped the engines out of gear. Though quietly anxious to see what the bales contained, he walked slowly aft with XR, pretending to show no more than a passing interest. By the time they’d joined Chuy at the stern, the deckie had already cut through the canvas and plastic liner of the nearest bale and had brought a couple of plastic-wrapped packages on board.
‘Chuy! What are you doing?’ XR reached down to Chuy’s feet and grabbed the packages.
Chuy looked baffled. He thought he was only doing his job.
‘Drogas! We never bring drogas aboard!’ XR held both packages at arm’s length over the side.
‘I look inside,’ protested Chuy.‘You say maybe dollar.’
‘Let him look,’ said Captain Pete.
Chuy took one of the packages and split it open with his knife.
‘Marijuana,’ said Captain Pete. ‘Okay, ditch it and let’s get out of here.’
Chuy threw both packages over the side.
‘Look how much, patrón, do you know how much this is worth?’
‘Yeah, the rest of my life in a Mexican gaol. Yours, too, XR. Now let’s get moving.’
‘I’m not arguing with you, patrón. Maybe this is a trap, maybe the Armada is watching us on their radar.’
‘Tell Chuy to wash his hands. I don’t want him patting any sniffer dogs.’
The sun was less than a hand’s width from the horizon when Captain Pete returned to the bridge and engaged gear. He checked the radar image on his video plotter. The naval vessels were still at the outer range of his radar and none appeared to have changed course to intercept them. He breathed a sigh of relief. The bales of marijuana had slipped behind. God only knew what the boys got up to in port but he knew they had enough sense not to bring any marijuana on board, ever. Captain Pete found his thoughts drifting eastwards towards the unseen shore. Somewhere over there, a desperate family was in mourning for a lost pangero, or a mother was grieving the loss of a wayward son. That was worth remembering too.
The following morning Chuy retied traces, sharpened hooks and cleaned out the tackle drawers. The boys were eager to begin fishing along the line of the drop-off but Captain Pete was just as eager to press on south. Somewhere behind them, XR’s Ford was on the ferry from La Paz to Mazatlan where the father of XR’s cousin’s boyfriend would take delivery and drive it down to Barra de Navidad. Another of XR’s extended family and retinue of friends had been teed up to drive it down from Barra to the marina at Ixtapa. There was always someone who wanted to be where they needed the car. How XR knew who wanted to be where and who to contact was a total mystery to the captain. He just accepted that was the way things worked in Mexico and left the arrangements to XR. Captain Pete needed the car in Ixtapa so he could pick up his wife, Peggy, who was flying in for some fishing but mostly to spend some time with him. Captain Pete was fortunate that Peggy liked Mexico and was also a keen fisherman.
They spent the night in Puerto Vallarta where they refuelled and took on water, then fished all the way down to Barra de Navidad for one blue marlin and a wahoo. More bait fish showed up on the fish finder the further south they went and, just as importantly, fewer ships of the Armada de Mexico appeared on their radar. Captain Pete had not been able to put the marijuana out of his mind even though he knew he had nothing to fear.
They spent the night at Barra de Navidad before leaving at first light for the four-hundred-kilometre last leg of their journey. They took their time and fished, knowing they weren’t due to take up a berth in the marina at Ixtapa until the following day. They caught three yellowfin tuna, including one that ran over one hundred kilos and held them up for more than two hours. Captain Pete didn’t mind. He was in his element. Nothing cleared the mind faster than an extended arm wrestle with a raging yellowfin. When they finally cruised up the channel into the marina they were surprised to find it full to capacity. When Captain Pete and XR reported to the marina office they were even more surprised to discover their pen had been given to someone else.
‘You were expected four days ago, senor,’ said the manager. ‘What was I supposed to do?’
‘But, my man, I rang to say we were delayed by the storm,’ said Captain Pete. ‘I called from La Paz to tell you. I rang again from Puerto Vallarta.’
‘You did not speak to me, se
nor,’ said the manager.
‘No, I spoke to a senorita — what was her name? Mina or Mimi.’
‘Maybe you speak to Mirla.’
‘That’s it, Mirla.’
‘You should have spoken to me, senor.’
‘You weren’t around so I spoke to Mirla. She said she’d tell you and that everything was okay.’
‘But everything is not okay, senor. Mirla had no right to tell you everything is okay when you can see for yourself that everything is not okay.’
‘But she took my reservation.’
‘But you have no reservation.’
‘But I made a reservation.’
‘But you have no reservation.’
‘XR, maybe I’m not making myself clear. Could you please explain to the manager in Spanish that I made a reservation with Mirla.’
‘He knows that, patrón, but there is no reservation. Maybe you should have spoken to the manager, then we would have a reservation.’
The captain sighed. This was a road he’d been down many times before. Patience and tolerance, patience and tolerance.
‘Could you please ask when we can have a reservation?’
‘You can have a reservation in three days’ time, senor.’
‘See? No problem, patrón,’ said XR.‘We have a reservation in three days’ time. How long do we stay?’
‘Six weeks,’ said Captain Pete. ‘But there is a problem. Where do we spend the next three days?’
‘You can’t stay here,’ said the manager. ‘You have no reservation.’
‘I think we’ve established that.’
‘You want a mooring,’ said the manager.
‘That’ll do it,’ said Captain Pete.‘I’ll have a mooring.’
‘Unfortunately I have no mooring to give you,’ said the manager.‘If I had a mooring I would most certainly give it to you.’
‘I appreciate that,’ said the captain without any obvious trace of sarcasm.
