Just Different Devils

by Jinx Schwartz

  "Dang, Hetta, I'm plumb wore out and we ain't even halfway to Cabo."

  "Tell me about it. Let's grab breakfast and coffee in Todo Santos to revive ourselves. I think, this early in the morning, we can get through town without being spotted."

  "Ha! One can hope. Last time through we were lured by the Shopping Goddess, led astray by colorful gauze and bangles, which led to a need to show off our new attire to the bar staff and patrons at the Hotel California. Too bad we're probably unwelcome there, like, forever."

  "Betcha the bartender still loves us. Don't you just wonder, though, whether that admirer of yours was a real bullfighter?"

  "My admirer? It wasn't me he was waving his big old, uh, cape at."

  "That's only because, Miz Jan, you were way too engaged in stomping all Billy hell out of a tabletop. Not a bad flamenco, I have to admit."

  "Ah, to be young again."

  "That was three months ago, Chica."

  "Yabbut, we are reformed women."

  We shared a yuk, and threw the hotel a kiss as we rolled by.

  We didn't get back to the boat until almost four, and it looked as though Santa had arrived early this year. The decks were piled with cardboard boxes and canvas bags. And, atop my mast, was a contraption that looked somewhat like my old satellite system, only sleeker and smaller.

  Dick and Po Thang were watching Animal Planet and eating popcorn when we arrived. I do not have television service on my boat, nor popcorn.

  Po Thang seemed somewhat glad to see us, but other than a half-hearted tail thump, he was reluctant to leave his bowl of popcorn to greet us properly. Flighty, my fur child.

  I waved my arms around. "What the hell happened here? Po Thang get on the Internet and order out Amazon?"

  Dick turned off The Dog Whisperer and shrugged. "Guys just started coming up to the boat and unloading stuff, then these techie types showed. They gave me a work order, with your name on it, to install the Satellite system. Sure wish you'd' a let me know about that."

  "Sure wish I'd a known about that. Do you have a copy of the paperwork?"

  He went to the dining table, riffled through a stack of paper that wasn't there when I left that morning, and handed me a sheaf of crumpled sheets and brochures for both a satellite marine television, and Internet and telephone system. A purchase order made out to, and approved by one Hetta Coffey, Captain, was stapled to a brochure, along with an invoice for more than ten thousand bucks. I almost fainted until I noticed a small stamp: PAID IN FULL.

  Once able to breathe again, I slumped down onto the settee, and Po Thang wiggled his way between me and that coveted bowl of popcorn. "You think I'd eat any of that after you've had your slobbery snout in there?" I asked him. He smelled like Redenbacher Carmel Corn. My favorite.

  "Well, maybe," I teased, as I reached for Po Thang's bowl, "I could find one little slobberless piece?" My dog shoved my hand away with his nose and planted his head over the bowl.

  Dick laughed. "I'll make more," he volunteered, heading for the galley.

  "I suppose this abundance of popcorn is accounted for on one of," I waved the stack of receipts at him, "these?"

  "Yep. Came with all these other boxes. Two full cases of Orville, just about every flavor they make! If I had a microwave on Casual Water, I'd ask for a few to take home."

  Jan and I gave each other a high five. "There is a God!"

  By midnight we had all of our Costco treasures stowed, and had even managed to get into some of the more promising boxes piled on my decks. Actually, we suspended the stowing duties when we spotted a Bacardi label and discovered it was a full case of Ron Zacapa Centenario 23. To ensure it was delivered safely, we opened it to inspect for breakage. Finding none, we broke out a bottle to test for taste. One cannot be too cautious, ya know.

  At fifty bucks a liter, this was no rum to mix with Coke.

  So we didn't.

  Toasting our benefactor—whom we now dubbed VDP for Very Deep Pockets—for his good taste in rum, popcorn, boats, technical devices and, after a few shots of his Guatemalan nectar, his superb taste in women. Namely, us.

  To our credit, we only had a few small glasses each of this stellar stuff while playing our Guess the Guest game. What we knew so far was: he had a fat wallet, he drank good rum, loved popcorn, wanted to leave the dock and go somewhere, and, judging from the expensive fishing poles, gold plated reels, and one electric reel that also showed up that day, he wanted to fish. And for big game, because that power driven job—which I'd heard is illegal in Mexico—was capable of landing a small whale.

  I checked for e-mail just before going off to Ron Zacapa-induced night-night and learned we were to depart La Paz in two days, and that Daddy Big Bucks would rendezvous with us at Caleta Partida, a little over twenty miles to the north. Also, had I not already done so, I was to leave Se Vende, my old panga, behind, as "her services would not be required for the duration of the voyage."

  Striking what I considered an aristocratic pose, I read that last line to Jan with the accent and bearing of someone straight out of Downton Abbey, our new favorite television series.

  Jan hooted. "Ya think he's a Brit?"

  "Maybe. I mean, who even uses prose like that these days?" I printed out all the e-mails so we could peruse them later for clues, then hit the sheets, as we had much to do during the next couple of days.

  The next day was a blur of activity, which started very early with making last minute lists over huge mugs of Nescafe Classico. With so much to do, I put the cruiser's net on the ship's speakers so we could catch the weather forecast and the latest news. We'd listened to the Sonrisa Net weather on ham radio earlier, so we knew we were in for a few days of benign weather, but then Santa Ana winds were expected in California, and they were usually a sure sign of some nasty northers to follow in the Sea of Cortez.

  Jan and I cheered when a cruiser relayed a report that he'd heard from a guy who knew a guy in the Mexican navy who told him that Freddie Clark was most likely killed by one of those Red Devils, and the Net Control operator lost total control of the net as hysteria rose.

  I did a fist pump on hearing that report. I know, we shouldn't have been so happy at the bad news, or the fear it caused, but at least now I wouldn't be accused of being the blabberer and thereby land on the Port Captain's bad-girl list. The last thing I needed was for him to impound Raymond Johnson before my cash cow arrived.

  Just to be safe, however, I didn't tell the marina office we were leaving until right at closing time on Saturday, and we sneaked out at first light on Sunday morning, thereby ensuring the Capitania del Puerto didn't get wind of our slipping out of port until at least Monday morning.

  As required by law, I called the Capitania to report our departure as we left La Paz Bay, but nobody answered.

  Maybe if I'd been on the correct channel and turned up the power? Oh, well.

  Chapter Ten

  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 originator."

  "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?

  Chapter Eleven

  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 sw
am 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.