“What’s huge? Other than your bee-hind.”
“I’m ignoring you,” I singsonged. “This,” I pounded my finger on the drawing, “is huge.”
“What do you think it is?”
“Well, it ain’t no cattle dip, that’s for sure.”
I took the drawings, ten in all, and spread them all over the floor. Five had legends denoting they were for the desalination plant, two were renderings of a loading dock and conveyor system for salt, another two were elevations of an overview of the whole operation with notes regarding electrical requirements, daily output of salt, and fresh water. All bore the Tanuki logo.
“Wow, this sucker can pump out fifteen hundred liters per second of fresh water. That’s…” I grabbed my handy calculator, “eight million gallons a day. I don’t know what the power situation is down here, but my guess is nothing in existence can handle this. That Tanuki guy said the ships are on the way with piping materials and the desal plant. So, how are they planning to power this baby? Gerbils?”
“I trust that was a rhetorical question.”
“It was.” I rolled up the Tanuki drawings and spread out the other three rough sketches, each one a different view of the “pen.” Best I could tell, the structure was built in telescoping sections, designed to collapse on itself. All the notes were in Kanji. “Crap, I can’t read Kanji.”
“Shoot.”
“That’s an understatement, Miz Jan.”
“No, chute. Hetta, that’s a chute.”
A little light went off in my head. “A whale chute!”
Chapter 34
“Why would you want to pen up a whale? Take it to a zoo? Kinda like Willie?”
I shrugged. “More like Willie on a Bun. Willie sushi. Willie dogs. Will—”
“I get your drift, Hetta. Ya know, Fabio mentioned Japanese ships that process the fish on the spot. Kill, cook, and can. One stop shopping. Willie in a can for those who don’t have time to go harpooning.”
“You missed your calling writing TV jingles.” I picked up the drawing again. “I guess the only good news is, if in fact this is a whale trap of some kind, Lonesome would no way fit. Matter of fact, he probably couldn’t fit into it even when he was a bab...oh, no!”
“What?”
“Remember when Chino gave us our whale lesson? About why the whales come down here every year?”
“To have babies.”
“And how big are baby whales?”
“When they’re born? Pretty big, but not that big. You don’t think—”
“Oh, I do think. Chino is going to have a cow when he sees this. If we’re right, these people are planning to can baby whale meat.”
“You aren’t serious.”
“Why not? We eat lamb. And small whales would be easier to handle, quicker to process. And I read somewhere there’s a mercury problem in whale meat. Maybe baby whales are safer to eat.”
“Ugh. I need wine. You?”
I bobbed my head. “Oh, jes. Double ugh, I need something to settle my stomach. Get out a bottle of that good stuff the prince gave us.”
While separately contemplating our quickly diminishing options, we sipped our wine. And I do mean sipped, for Baron Phillip De Rothschild Mouton-cadet, 1976, is not a vintage one quaffs.
Jan finally mused, “And to think, I could have sailed into the sunset with a prince, instead of being trapped like a rat. With you.”
I tried to think of a suitable retort to that insult, but failed and sighed. “I’m truly sorry I got you into this mess. Tell you what, tomorrow morning we’ll go into Lopez Mateos in broad daylight and you can be in a cab and on the road before anyone has a chance to react. Then I’ll ditch the disguise and sit in the town square with that damned astrolabe in my lap until someone lets Lujàn know where I am. I give him the astrolabe, he destroys our only evidence of a galleon, and thereby a historical and archeological dig. The salt and water project goes forward, and he’ll let me leave with my boat.”
“Not if he suspects you have those drawings, he won’t. Dammit, why didn’t you just leave them alone?”
“Not my nature. Anyhow, he might not even know they’re missing.”
“You willing to bet your life on it?”
“You got any better ideas?”
She shook her head, sipped more wine, then stood and got a map. “We’re not very far from La Paz, you know…about a hundred miles on a bus. With all the gringos there, we would blend in. Better yet, we could go on to Cabo where no one would give us a second look. Then, we catch a plane home.”
“And how about Raymond Johnson?”
“Hetta, it’s a boat. Report it stolen when we get home. Alive.” She was right. Raymond Johnson is just a boat. But my home. I love the boat like a pet dog. Irrational, I know, but then no one ever accused me of being rational.
Jan, who continued studying the map, scooted next to me and pointed. “What’s this?”
I grabbed my glasses. “What?”
“This. Northwest of Lopez Mateos.”
“Says Boca de Soledad.” I got out our charts and spread them on the dining table, then trained my tiny halogen flashlight on the area. “It looks like an entrance. Or, maybe for us, an exit. But why didn’t Fabio use it when we came down here? Looks like a shortcut to me.”
We soon learned why. After going through every navigational guide we had on Boca de Soledad we learned that, yes, it was a viable entrance to Mag Bay, but one seldom used by large vessels.
According to one crew member’s account of a harrowing grounding when his captain got drunk in Lopez Mateos and decided to run the bar at Boca, only drunks and fools would even consider using this exit.
“Well, heck, we’re overqualified. And no one would be looking for us up there.”
Jan looked dubious, but since she hadn’t started stamping her foot and calling me names, I took that as assent. I punched in the coordinates for Boca de Soledad: Lonely Entrance? Hmmm. Is it lonely because only a screwball would use it?
She read my mind. “This could be, Hetta, one of the most demented, irresponsible and absurdly stupid things you’ve ever tried.”
“Exactly why no one would ever expect us to try, would they? It’s perfect.”
“What’s even scarier is that I’m starting to agree with your logic. But, even if we get to Boca de Soledad without one of Lujàn’s goons catching us,” she tapped the article in Sea Magazine, “we’ll probably sink this boat trying to get out.”
“That guy did it.”
“That guy was in a smaller boat and he had a panga guiding him out. Even then he wrecked a prop.”
“Come outside for a minute.”
We walked out on deck. “Listen.”
Jan cocked her head. “I don’t hear anything.”
“That’s right, you don’t. And do you know why?”
“I’ve gone deaf?”
I smiled. At least she could still joke. “No, because there is no wind. Even this far in we’ve been able to hear surf and feel the surge when it’s been ugly outside. It’s dead calm.”
“Could you possibly refrain from using the D word?”
“According to everything we’ve read, Boca de Soledad can be navigated at high tide and in calm weather conditions if you have a draft of under five feet.”
“And ours is?”
“A mere four.”
“We’ve got twelve inches of clearance? Well, gosh, why didn’t you just say so.”
“Ah, good. Sarcasm. Just what we need.”
“What we need, Hetta, is rescued.”
“I know that, and you know that, but I don’t think anyone is coming. Let’s face it, it’s been days since we left our distress message with Martinez and the Trob. Do you see the marines? And now the two Mexican knights who might have saved we damsels are under arrest, or something like it. We are on our own and have to save ourselves.”
“You’re right. You got us in this mess, and by golly, you’re gonna get us out. Even if it kill
s me.”
I let that slide. “At first light, we’ll take the panga, scoot out to the entrada again, and check the sea conditions outside of the bay. If the wave height is good, we come back here, fire up the engines and, damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead. Now, you read the coordinates for the channel to the Boca, and I’ll load them into the GPS. Then we’ll get drunk.”
“Nope, we need clear heads tomorrow. And since it will probably be our last day on earth, I prefer to remember it.”
Her statement reminded me of something Brooke Shields once said: “Smoking kills. If you’re killed, you’ve lost a very important part of your life.” Profound.
When you need fog, do you think you can get it? Nope. We got perfect weather. Not a cloud, no wind, no hint of mist. Heck of a day to die. Seems to me dying is more appropriate on gloomy days.
Just before dawn we blew almost all of the last of our gasoline by making a run to the entrada in Se Vende. Giving Tanuki Maru a wide berth, we went out into the blue Pacific and for once it lived up to its name: Pacific. Conditions were ideal for our dash for freedom.
Back at Raymond Johnson, we worked up a schedule. Our tide charts for Mag Bay weren’t always that great, but the best I could figure, high tide would be about seven p.m., but the sun was setting by four thirty, and last light fizzled at five thirty or so. Problema.
“Jan, I think we should aim to cross that bar at Boca de Soledad at five o’clock this afternoon. We’ve got it figured it will take us three hours to get there at five knots, but I’m not sure we can go that fast, considering there are no channel markers. We’re gonna have to really watch it unless we get lucky and find a panguero who will lead us.”
“But it’s not high tide at five.”
“True, but from the looks of it we can make it out.”
“With six inches to spare?”
“More like three feet, if these old documents are any good. One problem, though, is that every hurricane changes the location of the bar, and the depth. We’re gonna be flying blind.”
“Maybe we should wait a day?”
I shook my head. “Won’t do us any good. High tide gets later by the day.”
“Bummer.”
“Jan, it would be better, I think, for you not to go with me. You can take Se Vende, go to Lopez Mateos, grab a bus to La Paz and call in the cavalry. I’ll run the bar and head for Cabo.”
“I liked it better when you ran for the bar. And nope, I’m going with you. You’ll need me on the bow to look for crap in the water.”
“You sure?”
“Positive. Now, what do we have to do to get ready?”
“I plan to color my hair, shave my legs and give myself a facial. I refuse to leave a frumpy corpse.”
We used almost all of our fresh water supply to rinse our newly tinted locks, figuring we’d make water on the way to Boca. My watermaker churned out twenty-five gallons an hour, so once we had power we’d be golden. Also, when I fired up the engines and generator, we could make calls, let everyone know where to send donations in lieu of flowers.
“ASPCA. How about you?” I mused as we compiled the list of people we’d notify of our impending demises.
“Salvation Army, I guess. They seem to do good stuff. What time is it?”
I glanced at my watch.
“We can untie all these lines from the mangroves soon. Once we’re free, I’ll pull Raymond Johnson clear of the mangroves with Se Vende.”
“You gonna start up before we get in the channel? I could send e-mails and stuff while you get us out.”
“Naw, I’ll need you on deck. But I think, because we’re gonna start up, I’ll switch to the engine batteries for just a few minutes so we can get all that out of the way. Once we leave here, we’ve gotta be ready to boogie.”
“Let’s do it.”
I’d been nervously checking the battery situation on the engines every day, and was gratified to see they still had a full charge. “We be in bidness,” I cheered. I rushed to the computer and brought up the Internet. “A hundred and twenty messages? If I get one SPAM, I swear I’ll track the culprit down and kill him dead. Tell you what, you go through the e-mails, delete anything that isn’t from someone we know while I check for Satfone and cell messages.”
Thirty minutes later, we’d called our parents, crossed our fingers and told them what a wonderful time we were having, and that we were leaving for Cabo. Some fibs are forgivable, in my book. For the Trob and Martinez, though, we once again left, save us, please! messages, even though they didn’t seem to be getting our cries for help. I considered dialing 9-1-1, just to see what would happen, but figured I’d just get voice mail. Besides, what would I say? And we didn’t bother calling Jenks. He was half way around the world, what could he do?
We did have eight voice mail messages, so I hoped maybe, just maybe, someone out there knew the fine kettle of fish we were in. Holding my breath, I began to play them back. The first three were from Martinez, who was at his house in San Quintin and wanted to know where we were. Sigh. So much for him, he obviously wasn’t getting our SOSs.
Tanuki wanted to know where we were, as well. “Like I’d tell them,” I muttered.
Jenks’s voice raised my spirits, but he just said he’d call back. Martinez again.
Ishikawa again.
Jenks! “Hi, this is Jenks again. Haven’t heard from you. Listen, I’m on my cell and my batteries are low, but we really need to talk. I wanted to let you know I’ve met someone and I’m…” The robot intoned, “You have no further messages.”
I didn’t need any more messages. I got his, loud and clear. Great, not only was I going to die, I was going to do so with a broken heart. I should have collapsed in a heap and sobbed wildly, but instead I made a vow to survive this mess just so I could kill Jenks. He met someone? Probably some twenty-five- year old buffed and gorgeous marine deployed to save the free world from Prince Faoud’s relatives. Or one of those exotic Middle Eastern women in silky veils, with smoky black eyes.
“Hetta, you’re obsessing. Jumping to conclusions. Jenks said he met someone. It could be the Queen of England, for all you know. How can you be so secure in business and insecure with men. Hell, Lars hasn’t even called me. What kind of message is that? Do you see me freaking out over it?”
“I know what ‘I’ve met someone means’ and you know what? At least he’s man enough to tell me instead of sneaking off like Hudson Williams did. Anyhow, I do not have time to deal with that rat right now. Let’s go to Cabo.”
It took us a while to unwind and remove the spider’s web of bird-poop-covered lines securing us to the mangroves, and throw off all the foliage camouflaging the boat. Our new and best feathered friends that had been using Raymond Johnson for a nesting ground lethargically shuffled out of our way, hopping from one perch to another as we destroyed their adopted birdhouse. In just a few days they’d become so used to us that some had to be pushed away to remove the branches. One great blue heron was particularly combative so I left the branch he now called home. I figured once we fired up the engines he’d take a powder.
Making certain the rudders and engine shifters on Raymond Johnson were both in neutral, I tied a line from the bow to a rusty cleat on Se Vende, and then slowly towed the big boat toward the channel. I was relieved to find there wasn’t much of a current, something we were concerned about; losing control of both boats in a strong running tide could spell disaster.
“Hetta, we’re clear. Hurry up and come back,” Jan called in a quavering voice. I think she pictured herself being swept out to sea alone, in a boat she didn’t know how to operate. I had some of the same concerns. What if Raymond Johnson wouldn’t start? I didn’t think I could maneuver the boat back into the mangroves again with Se Vende, and we no longer had an anchor or, for that matter, any anchor chain. Before I could rig lines to my spare anchor, we’d be floating at the mercy of the tide, which would run six or seven knots later in the day. With our luck, we’d be carried right into Sa
n Carlos, and the slimy little hands of Dickless.
I climbed back on board, held my breath and turned the key on the starboard engine. She roared to life, causing Jan to cheer and me to exhale. Then the port engine fired. “Houston, we have liftoff!”
I started the generator and flipped on the watermaker. All systems sprang to life. We donned our walkie-talkie earphone sets and Jan turned to man the bow. I grabbed her arm, gave her a hug, and smiled what I hoped was a confident smile. “On your way down, turn on the ice maker. When we get out of here, I want something on the rocks.” Besides us.
Jan went below, climbed out on the bowsprit and gave me a thumbs up. Without charts, we would be literally feeling our way to Boca de Soledad, and Jan would be our first line of defense. A quick time check told me we had just three hours until dark fell, and with it, any chance we’d have of clearing the bar intact. I slid both engines into gear.
We’d been underway a half hour when, glancing back to make sure Se Vende was trailing along behind, and my stomach clenched. A panga was closing on us at warp speed.
“Jan,” I said into my mike as calmly as I could, “we have company. If they’re friendly, look cute. If they aren’t, get inside, pull out the flare gun. Okay?”
She gave me a nod, then looked back just as the panga roared alongside. Two leering fishermen, delighted to see a couple of gringa broads on a yacht, gave us a big wave and veered off towards Lopez Mateos. Rats, after I realized they were just rubbernecking, I hoped they were headed for Boca and we could follow. Why is it that men just never do what you want them to?
Chapter 35
We wound our way towards Boca de Soledad with Jan on the bow looking for hazards, and me jockeying the throttles and engines so we only had one prop turning at a time in case we hit an underwater whatever. So far though, the channel remained a fairly steady twenty feet deep. I had the depth sounder alarm set to ten.
It was a beautiful afternoon, with no wind, no clouds. Had we not been running for our lives, it would have been a great cruise.
Just Add Salt (Hetta Coffey Mystery Series (Book 2)) Page 24
