"Lemme think." She gazed into space, tapped her cheek a few times and gave me what I knew to be a deceptively sweet smile. "Yes."
Jan has an admirably positive outlook toward problem solving; one could only hope no boat boys would be seriously maimed.
Nacho, freshly showered and dressed in clean shorts and a bush shirt, was cutting limes when Jan and I arrived in the galley later that day. A tantalizing waft of coconut-and-lime scented air drifted our way. Either Nacho had on a new aftershave, or he was mixing some delectable cocktails.
"Ooooh, what's your concoction of the night, bartender?" Jan asked.
"Cocos Locos." We watched as he mixed coconut cream, lime juice, spiced rum, simple sugar syrup—which Jan made in large batches using raw sugar and water, boiled down to a thick syrup—and added club soda.
"Yumsters."
Giving the mix a stir, he asked Jan, "What are we having for dinner tonight? The snapper I caught?"
Jan snorted, subtlety not being one of her major attributes. "Even though we really appreciate that fish you caught today, I thought we'd have something besides fish for a change. I made a meatloaf, and macaroni and cheese."
By his wide grin, I surmised our Nacho was a comfort food aficionado. And that both Jan's derision and the sarcasm dripping from her "caught" remark went right over his head. He finished his mixing, loaded the pitcher onto a tray with some cheese and crackers I'd thrown together and we all adjourned to the aft deck, Po Thang leading the way.
After we'd had two drinks each, Nacho asked if we wanted more, a rhetorical question on my boat. As he stood, Jan gave me a wink, then yelled, "Hey! Did you see that?" pointing behind the boat.
Nacho, who was in the process of standing, spun around to check out what Jan had seen. "No, what?"
"Something jumped out of the water! I think it landed in your panga!" Jan rushed down the steps to the back deck, and Nacho, pitcher still in hand, followed.
As planned, I moved near the cabin door.
Jan is both agile and strong, but the way she managed to knock him over the rail and into the water was something to behold. It involved a stumble, a leg wrap, a push, a pull, and a splash. Just to make it look really good, she fell into the drink with him. And, never one to be left out of a good time, Po Thang dove in on top of them.
"Oh, gosh, is everyone all right?" I yelled as Nacho came up spluttering trilingual obscenities in English, Spanish, and Spanglish. Someone's mother, as well as several saints' ears, must have been on fire.
Jan, treading water well out of Nacho's threatening reach, laughed and yelled, "We're okay, Hetta. Come on in, the water's fine."
"I'll pass. I'll be right back with towels."
Racing into the main cabin, and Nacho's quarters, I found his backpack and quickly located and removed a pouch we saw the blue panga dude give him. Inside was a thumb drive, so I raced to my computer, quickly downloaded the contents into my computer, and had everything back where it belonged just as I heard them pulling themselves up the swim ladder, onto the dive platform.
Grabbing a stack of towels, I hotfooted it back on deck to find all three of them on the swim platform, dripping dry. Jan and Nacho were laughing, a good sign that he wasn't going to kill her. Po Thang waited until I got within range to give a mighty shake, making sure I got drenched, as well.
After we all showered and were in clean, dry clothes again, I found another pitcher to replace the one lost overboard, and Nacho threw together another batch of Cocos Locos.
Returning to the back deck where our eventful Happy Hour adventure began, Jan took a gulp of her drink and said, "So good. Nacho, sorry about that unscheduled dip. I can be so clumsy sometimes. But you gotta admit it was kinda fun."
He grinned. "Yes, but please, let us not make it a habit. I forgive you, but only because you made macaroni and cheese."
"My pleasure. Hetta'll go down and get that pitcher off the bottom tomorrow morning before you take off, right Hetta?" She gave me a meaningful look, the meaning of which escaped me.
"Hey," I protested, "why do I have to—"
Her head tilt, raised eyebrow, and wide eyes reminded me of part two and three of our plot.
"Oh. Sure. No problemo. What time are you going fishing tomorrow, Nacho?"
"Actually, I must make a run into La Paz for fuel and a few other things. I thought to go tomorrow. I will fish on the way in, and back."
"Cool," Jan said. "We need to get more fresh veggies, booze and a bunch of other stuff. What time shall we leave?"
"Well, uh, I didn't…" he shrugged in defeat. "Nine okay with you?"
"Sure thing. Hetta, you comin' with us?"
"Nope. Po Thang and I'll have a spa day. Maybe I'll do our nails."
Po Thang looked up at the mention of his name and gave me a tail thump.
Little did he know he might be in for a Harlot Red pedi.
Chapter Eighteen
It took two dives to retrieve my Waterford Crystal pitcher which, while totally impractical on a boat, is still my favorite. It was resting on the sand in twelve feet of water, and was none the worse for wear after being dropped by Nacho on his unscheduled dunking the evening before.
More importantly, as part deux of our hatched scheme, I also got a gander at the bottom of Nacho's boat while I was down there, and underwater shots of some equipment that was definitely not like anything attached to my boat's hull. I'd been on a dive boat most of the previous summer, and from what I could tell Nacho's boat was equipped with sonar and underwater cameras.
Jan and I ran and re-ran the contents of the thumb drive I lifted—and hacked—from Nacho's backpack the night before, but were left more baffled than ever.
Not that being in a state of confusion is all that unusual in my case, but even with all our snooping, we were no closer to discovering what Nacho was up to on those daily forays of grid-running. One thing for sure, it was not fishing.
The minute Jan and Nacho shoved off for La Paz, I turned on a wonderful toy we'd gotten the year before from Rosario, our sometime partner in crime, hacker nonpareil, and techie-snooping genius: a tiny GPS tracking receiver we found in our bag of tricks. I picked up an immediate readout from the other end of the GPS device, the one in Jan's jacket pocket, but would soon find a home in some well-concealed compartment on Nacho's boat before they returned.
We'd decided to plant the GPS sending unit in case Deputy Dawg wore out his welcome on Nacho's daily trips. The new gadget had a twenty-five-mile range and I checked it repeatedly until I lost the signal in less than an hour. So much for Nacho fishing on the way into town; not many fish are going to hit a hook being dragged at thirty-five miles an hour.
Once I lost the signal, I moved my laptop to the sundeck table, planning on enjoying the solitude while rechecking that thumb drive's contents I'd downloaded the night before, just in case we'd suffered a Coco Loco induced attention deficit attack. After running through it again, I saw we hadn't missed a thing, but by the coordinates we knew it was a combined Google Earth printout, and an aerial video of the same area of the site where Nacho had been running that search of his.
Jan and I guessed he was using his own underwater cameras, GPS coordinated, along with Google Earth and video to find something. But what?
Jan called me on my satellite phone mid-afternoon. "Having a good time without me?"
"Actually, yes. I have newly red hair, and Po Thang and I both have Harlot Red nails. He's not too happy about it, but I think the nails complement his coat. How was your run into La Paz besides fast?"
"Smooth as a baby's butt. We made it pronto."
"I figured as much. I lost the GPS signal pretty soon after you guys took off, but all systems are a go. Have you planted your end yet?"
"Not yet. My end is planted on a barstool at the Dock Café right now. Nacho just left for parts unknown in town, and I'm still trying to decide where on his boat is the best place to put the tracking device."
"Hide it well, Sherlock. What time you
getting back? Want me to put something in the oven for dinner?"
"That's why I'm callin'. When we got into the marina this morning they had a message for you. Your new pangita can be delivered tomorrow if you want us to wait for it."
"Super. You've made my day. First, I'll get an entire evening of peace and quiet, and we'll have wheels of our own when Nacho takes off every day. Where are y'all gonna stay tonight?"
"Nacho says he has a friend in town he'll stay with. When I spring my Jeep from the parking garage, I'll get my emergency overnight bag I always keep in it, then check into that little hotel right by the marina. I'll shop for groceries later today, so let me know if you think of anything else we need. The hotel has a fridge and freezer to stash everything in until we pack up to come back to the boat tomorrow. The panga factory guy says they'll deliver your dinghy around ten, and then we'll head back, but we gotta take time to refuel."
"Call me on the radio when you get within range and I'll check our tracking."
"Roger that. Have you figured out what you want to name your new dink? I can pick up some vinyl stick-on letters at the chandlery."
"Not really. I'll miss the old Se Vende. Maybe I'll keep the name. I'm glad I went ahead and bought that new fifteen horse Evinrude before we left, but I've only got two five gallon jerry jugs of gas. How about picking up another jug and fill it while you guys are at the fuel dock."
"You've got it, Chica. Hasta mañana."
"Hasta."
After I hung up with Jan, I contemplated what to do with the rest of my glorious folks-free day. Without a dinghy, I was pretty stuck on the boat, and with my newly tinted locks, I wasn't tempted to take a color-stripping salt water dunk. I knew I could call Karen and Kevin, who were still in the anchorage, and beg a ride, but didn't relish giving up my day alone.
As will happen when faced with a major decision, I took a nap.
When I woke, I was momentarily disoriented. It was dark, and I was on a sundeck lounge chair, wrapped in my bikini print blankie. Po Thang's low growl accompanied the distinctive ka-chunk sound of anchor chain links clanking out of a windlass chock.
"Hush, Thang. It's just a sailboat dropping anchor."
I unwrapped myself and went to the flying bridge. The sailboat's running lights were still on, as was his anchor light. Po Thang, on point, rumbled unhappily at this interloper who had the nerve to anchor near his boat. Matter of fact, I let out a little growl myself when I realized the boat was much closer to us than I like, and in an area a little too shallow for the average sailboater's comfort zone.
"Must be a charter," I told Po Thang. "Let's just hope the wind doesn't come up and he drags down on us."
I realized my own boat was completely dark and flipped on the deck lights, lest the new arrival hadn't seen us. However, when I looked up at my own anchor light, a solar powered job, it glowed brightly. Okay, so they saw us and anchored too close anyway. Charter for sure.
Not willing to re-anchor to get away from this annoying boat, I went into the galley to find us dinner. I opened the fridge and spotted the snapper filets from Nacho's "catch" the day before. "Some catch, huh? He caught it when that blue panga dude handed it to him. But, hey never look a gift fish in the mouth. How would you like your fish prepared this evening, sir? Sautéed wiz zee buerre d'ail? Or perhaps béarnaise sauce?"
Po Thang didn't seem to care, so rather than go to the trouble of making béarnaise, I smooshed garlic cloves with the flat of a large knife, added the garlic to butter and olive oil in my great-grandmother's iron skillet, and put it over low heat to gunch—culinary technical term—before turning up the heat and adding the fish. I popped some of the leftover mac and cheese into the microwave, which reminded me to check my battery levels after dinner, what with the microwave being the arch enemy of batteries. I rarely ran it unless the generator was running, but I felt like living dangerously.
By some miracle I found half a bottle of Pouilly-Fume in the fridge, right next to the container of mac and cheese. The odds of these two things surviving intact overnight on Raymond Johnson made me wish I'd bought a lottery ticket.
I gave Po Thang some dried dog food with sautéed snapper mixed in, but he gave me a glower that said he knew I was eating mac and cheese, and not sharing.
"Okay, here's the deal," I told him, "finish the dried stuff and, even though I know better, I promise to save you a large spoonful of mac and cheese for dessert. I wonder if there is such a thing as doggie Beano? I'll have to ask your Uncle Craig."
He stared at my plate.
"Eat. Your. Dinner."
Glare with woof.
"I mean it."
Whiney growl.
I turned away and protected my food with my arms. "I'm not looking at you," I singsonged.
Yip.
"You're driving me nuts here. Oh, what the hell, stop your grousing." I spooned mac and cheese into his bowl. Dog discipline is not my strong suit. Good thing I never had children.
Finally left to eat my meal in peace before it got cold, I shoveled down the mac and cheese first. Out of sight, out of doggy mind, right?
I finished my dinner, making sure, just for spite, that there was not even a tiny piece of anything left, and put my plate down for him to clean.
Pushing into my seatback, I took a sip of the perfectly chilled crisp white wine, then sat up straight, my head swiveling toward a sound. Was that bagpipe music? Coming from the sailboat anchored right next to me?
Great Scot!
Chapter Nineteen
The bagpipes gave a last gasp, as only bagpipes can, and about two minutes later I heard Sean Connery's voice on my VHF radio. "Raymond Johnson, Raymond Johnson, Full Kilt Boogie."
"Po Thang," I told my dog, "I really should not answer this, right?," even as I reached for the mic.
His tail wagged in agreement. Either that, or he thought I said "You want an entire T-bone steak?"
"Full Kilt Boogie, this is Raymond Johnson, switch to 88." I chose eighty-eight because most boaters don't have that channel on autotune. Why have everyone in the anchorage reading my mail?
I switched from channel sixteen to eighty-eight and waited. A minute later, Sean called and I answered. "Hetta here. That you next to me?" Like I didn't know.
"Aye. We keep bumping up against each other, so I thought it time we actually met."
Or bumped up against each other for real? Bad Hetta!
"Uh, sure. Want to come over for coffee in the morning?"
"I thought to bring you a bottle of wine tonight."
Oh, well, I tried. Right?
I had time to brush on blush and pouf my hair before his dinghy bumped—that word again!—against my swim platform, and Po Thang banged up against the locked doggie door trying to get out of the cabin.
Releasing the hound, I followed to find a hunk of Scot—unfortunately, no kilt, just shorts and a tee shirt—already on my back deck, petting the formerly furious dog, who was chewing on an oversized dog treat. My dog has a keen affinity for palm greasing. Kinda like me.
Accepting my own kind of treat—a bottle of wine—from his large hand, I stuck out my own paw. "Hetta Coffey."
He bowed and kissed my hand, which sent an electric shock through my body. Looking up into my eyes with his green ones, he said, "Artherrrr MacKenzie Gra-ham. Mac to my friends." Putting his other hand over mine, he held on until Po Thang, thinking there might be another treat involved, nosed our hands apart.
Rattled, I stammered, "Uh, welcome aboard?"
"It is my pleasure. Nice dug."
"Huh?"
He patted Po Thang's head. "Yer dug."
Po Thang gave him a lick. Fickly dug, in my book.
"Wine!" I yipped.
"Aye."
It seemed we were inventing a new language here.
A glass of good burgundy goes a long way toward breaking down language barriers. I thanked him for his help with the rescue of Bubbles two weeks before, he praised my bravery for tackling the job by myself.
A mutual admiration society.
Although I'd told myself I wouldn't have a second glass of wine, I did.
We talked about where we came from (Stornoway, Isle of Lewis/Austin, Kingdom of Texas) why we were in the Sea (stop on the way to the South Pacific and around the world/I wish I knew), careers (Corporate Sales/Engineering consultant), and the like.
The bottle was soon empty, and I made a grownup decision not to open another. Then, as wine will do, it changed my mind. I stood to get another bottle when my Satfone rang.
Does Jenks have a sixth sense about such things? Here I was, on the brink of getting drunk with a hunk, when up pops Jenks on Skype. I told him to stand by, went out to tell Mac I had to take the call, and he got the hint and left.
"Sorry about that. A neighbor stopped by and I was just saying goodnight."
"You still at Partida?"
"Yep. The water is still a swimmable temperature, and no northers yet this year. Matter of fact, I went for a swim this morning. And guess what? The new dinghy is ready. Jan's picking it up tomorrow morning." The minute I said this, I feared I'd opened a can of worms.
"Jan's in La Paz?"
"Uh, yes. Our charter folk," I thought this sounded better than charter dude, "had to go in for fuel for the fishing boat, so she caught a ride. We're running through our fresh fruit and veggies. One thing we have plenty of is fresh fish."
"Wish I was there. I'm getting real tired of hotel food. So you've got the boat to yourself, huh? I know you don't like people on the boat that much. Maybe this charter will cure you of wanting to do any more of them. Are the guests nice?"
"We're getting along just fine." I was a little wine-fogged, and was trying desperately to remember what I'd told him so far about the "folk" we had on board. A good liar, I am a less than stellar remember-er. I always remember what others have to say, but me? I sometimes mess up. Maybe someday I'll just start telling the truth?
A pig flew by.
Just Different Devils Page 10
