Just a Happy Camper

by Jinx Schwartz

  “I invited them out here tonight, but they were on a tight schedule, and kept on for Guerro Negra. However, turns out Rad Brad is a fan of yours, Doctor Yee, and he said next time he’ll stop in.”

  After a Margarita boost, I moved our stuff into a trailer normally inhabited by bionerd students who clamor to work with the world-renowned Dr. Chino Yee during whale calving season. Now the whale moms and babes, as well as the interns, had migrated north.

  Once I unloaded, I settled back into my canvas chair by the fire and reveled in the desolate beauty of the lagoon and beach glowing under a nearly full moon. I even spotted a spout or two from a couple of straggler whales. While most were headed north, Chino told me some stay behind each year.

  “Why?”

  Chino shrugged. “Some are too young to breed, therefore they must have an inbred lack of incentive, ditto with old ones, I guess. In the Sea of Cortez there are over five hundred ‘locals’ that never leave.”

  Jan said, “We owe a great deal of gratitude to one of them.”

  “Lonesome!” Chino and I said at the same time. If it hadn’t been for this lonely whale falling in love with Raymond Johnson, I would never have hired a whale expert to study him, ergo, Jan wouldn’t have met and fallen in love with Chino.

  “I hope Lonesome finally found someone more suitable than my boat to hang out with. His love rubs were danged scary. Once we realized, thanks to you, Chino, that he wasn’t going to sink us in an amorous attempt to mate with forty-five feet of fiberglass, we kinda got attached to him.” I raised my drink, “To Lonesome!”

  After our toast, Chino grilled a three-foot grouper, head and all, over coals he’d raked to the side of the fire. While the fish cooked, we tackled the problem of Trouble.

  “Normally, Hetta, I would not nor should not condone any aspect of the illicit animal trade, but Trouble requires consideration outside the norm,” Chino said.

  I nodded. “You’ve been around Trouble enough to know what a special bird he is.”

  “Ack! Trouble is a special bird. Special, special, special—”

  Jan shut him up with a jerky strip. “Chill your feathers, Mr. T, we’re planning your future here.”

  “Where, exactly, do you have a mind to broach this border?” Chino asked.

  “That’s what I haven’t zeroed in on yet. Jan and I will come up with a place that will do the job.”

  “Yep, we have to study a map. We’ll find just the right spot, and the closer to here, the better. We have an expedition looming.”

  Chino interjected, “Yes, we do. I would strongly reject the idea of trying this with a perch potato. However, as we all know and lament, Trouble is capable of flying great distances. Tomorrow I’d like to put this whistle training you’ve done to a distance test. I think it would be worth your staying over an extra day for trial flights.”

  I was reluctant to lose a travel day, but agreed Chino was being logical, something I often have a problem with.

  After stuffing myself on the campfire-cooked feast of fish and veggies, followed by flan and El Presidente Brandy, I was seriously done for and headed for my bed.

  Jan, bless her heart, grabbed Po Thang, who had been dashing in and out of the water, diving for trinkets sparkling in the moonlit shallows. She gave him a bath and blow dry before delivering him to my trailer, where I was already asleep,

  He jumped onto the bed and worked his way next to me and put his head on my pillow. I roused long enough to cuddle him and say, “Oooooh, you smell so good,” before passing out again.

  Chapter Five

  Dawn.

  I used to hate it, unless I’d been partying all night and was still up and about. Back then we considered seeing a sunrise worth a merit badge.

  However, after boating for several years, I was more attuned to the natural rhythms of life at sea, and there is nothing better than waking to the soft lap of waves and birdcalls to greet you. And coffee. I smelled coffee.

  Trouble and Po Thang showed no interest in joining the living yet, so I threw on sweats and followed the scent of a heavy-duty Mexican roast brewing over the campfire. Chino was there, along with one of his few full-time employees.

  “¡Que Buena dia!” I told them.

  They agreed and Chino handed me a large mug of coffee laced with evaporated milk and a ton of raw sugar. Nothing like it.

  “So, men, what’s the drill for today?”

  “Flaco and I must fetch dinner in a few minutes, and after we return and eat breakfast, we’ll test Trouble. I wish to discern from what distances he hears your whistle, and how he responds.”

  “Great. What’s for dinner?”

  “What would you prefer?”

  “Lobster?”

  “Done and done. Off we are. Enjoy your morning libation.”

  I chuckled at the way he put it and watched as he and Flaco shoved a large panga out of the shallows and lithely jumped aboard. The moment the outboard roared to life, Po Thang streaked from the trailer, splashed through the shallows and followed the boat. Knowing full well he’d try to swim after them, Chino circled back, waited patiently while my dog took a whiz, then allowed him to jump into the boat.

  As the trio motored off in search of spiny lobster, Jan plopped into a chair next to me. “Enjoying that libation?” she asked, mimicking Chino’s accent.

  “You betcha. What’s for brekkies?”

  “In your case, you’re drinking it.”

  I took a large swallow of the high-calorie coffee. “I’ll work it off today dealing with Trouble’s training.”

  “I guess so. It’s a moot point anyhow. Chino has requested your migas, so you’re elected as morning chef today. He says you make them best.”

  “Really? That’s quite a compliment, what with your culinary skills.”

  “Just no accounting for taste.”

  I was about to give her some flak when my phone barked. “Top of the morning to you, Jenks.”

  “You sound mighty chipper for so early.”

  “I’m on my second cup of Café Chino. Jan and I are cozied up to a campfire while Chino, Flaco, and Po Thang brave the wild Pacific to snag us lobster for dinner.”

  “I think wild Pacific is an oxymoron.” He sighed. “I would give anything to be there right now.”

  “What’s up?” I asked, somewhat alarmed. He was characteristically an upbeat guy, and when he wasn’t, it usually meant he was about to reluctantly share bad news.

  “First, I’m so glad you’re with Chino and Jan. Unfortunately, the boatyard sent a new message.”

  “Oh, crap. Now what?” I heard a cash register in my head going, “Cha-ching!” and pictured the boatyard owner doing a happy dance while planning to send one of his kids to Princeton.

  “Nothing with the boat. Since I’m their contact while you’re gone, they wanted to tell me some guy was snooping around Raymond Johnson, asking questions about you. Young guy, so I was a little concerned, what with your recent busting up of that bird smuggling ring’s operation. Nacho warned us to be on the alert in case they want revenge.”

  “Nacho is a worry wart.”

  Jan’s head snapped up from her phone, where she was texting friends. “Nacho?” she mouthed.

  I nodded.

  “Besides, Jenks, would they be so obvious if they’d managed to ID me and then track me down. If they were looking to get even, wouldn’t they be sneakier?”

  “Kind of my thoughts, as well, but to be on the safe side, I’ll call Nacho and tell him about it, just in case. I did feel you needed to be on the alert. And Jan, as well.”

  “Thanks. What did the yard manager tell this dude?”

  “That you’d gone to Texas. He gave out more information than I’d like, but as you know, there are no secrets in Mexico.”

  “True dat. Was this guy who is nosing around a Mexican?”

  “No, they said he was a Gringo.”

  “Jeez, all we did was save some exotic birds.”

  “Don’t forget about
the girls. Those teenagers you and Jan rescued and sent home to their parents were worth a lot of money to the slavers.”

  “Are you trying to scare us?”

  “No, but keep a sharp eye out for strangers taking an interest in you, okay? And stay out of mischief.”

  “Will do. Love you.”

  “Love you too.”

  Jan waited, but barely, until I ended the call. “Now what?”

  I shrugged. “Some guy asking about me at the boatyard. Young Gringo. That’s it.”

  “And Jenks is worried…why?”

  “Because Nacho and his big mouth warned him those punks who almost killed Trouble and were kidnapping little girls from the mainland might be carrying a grudge. If they’d successfully sold the birds and girls, they’d be rolling in dough about now.”

  “I thought Nacho took care of them. Like permanently.”

  “Me too. Oh, well, I’ll be home in Texas in a few days, and won’t have anything to worry about. And the guy wasn’t asking about you.”

  “Thank goodness for that. I’ll share the info with Chino. His family’s coconut express has a good handle on gossip and happenings all over the Baja and beyond.”

  “Yep, that old joke applies; the best way to spread news is telegraph, telephone, and tell a Yee.”

  “So true. Okay, I hear a motor, so let’s get to whippin’ up some migas for our fearless hunter/gatherers.”

  By the time Chino and Flaco put several large lobsters on ice, and washed up, Jan and I were cooking. We fried corn tortilla strips, grated cheese, deveined and chopped jalapenos and tomatoes into small bits, diced onions and garlic, and frothed up a huge bowl of eggs. As head chef, I sautéed the onions, peppers, and garlic, then quickly scrambled the eggs half done, added the tortilla strips and cheese. The secret to perfect migas is not to cook the egg mixture completely; let the heat finish the job. And throw some crispy tortilla bits on top.

  ❋

  As I soon figured out, it was going to be a long and frustrating day for human and bird alike.

  We quickly learned the whistle didn’t work except at relatively short distances, about as far as a human could hear it. We started close, then lengthened the distance by sending Trouble out in the boat with Chino while I waited on the beach.

  At first, Trouble came every time, but was soon out of hearing distance. We took a break to discuss the problem over a cold beer.

  “You must both be right at the border for the whistle to work,” Chino concluded, as we studied a map of the California border, “but I have another idea that just might work. We’ll give it a go this afternoon. While there are many places with no fence, or a low fence, you will be unable to reach it by car. However, this,” he tapped the map, “is perfect.”

  I leaned in to see where he pointed. “Tijuana Beach! Of course. If Friendship Park, just across on the US side is open on Saturday and Sunday. I haven’t been there in years, but you used to be able to walk right up to the wall on both sides. But it’s gotta be crawling with Border Patrol.”

  “Yes, but they are most likely not interested in birds, what with the estuary teeming with them. They are looking for people trying to cross illegally.”

  I opened Google Earth, zoomed in on the border at Tijuana, and enlarged the park area. Chino leaned in and pointed. “Look closely to your right, at the parking area. Perhaps the road was flooded, or it was a week day when that shot was taken. On weekends, the park is a busy place. Families from both sides go there to visit.”

  “Still?”

  “The last I heard.”

  Jan, who had been looking over my shoulder said, “There are houses built right up to the fence in Tijuana. Let me check something out.”

  She turned on her iPad, and in no time hooted. “Good ole Airbnb! I think we have our spot. I’ll book it for two nights starting tomorrow, which is a Friday, then Saturday or Sunday we’ll be in bidness.”

  “Yay! Saturday, I hope. I’m supposed to be in Texas by Tuesday.”

  “You got it, Chica.” She scrolled a few minutes, “Found it! Here, we go, house with a Margarita roof, practically overlooking the border wall. Booking…now! We roll at first light.”

  ❋

  After a fab lobster dinner, we hit the sack early. Without too many road problems, we’d be in Tijuana before dark. I dug out my two-way radios, so Jan and I could communicate. Jeez where was Rad Brad when we really needed him?

  Jan rousted me out of bed at five, but my animals opted to stay cozy a bit longer. I wanted to pull the covers over my head as well, but Aunty Jan handed me a huge Café Chino as a bribe.

  As we prepared to leave, Flaco made lobster tacos for breakfast, while Chino loaded up a cooler full of seafood on ice for me. We knew we had a fridge and freezer at our rental in Tijuana, so I was going to take lobster, shrimp and fish filets home to my parents.

  “I can’t tell you guys how much I appreciate all your help. I know you’re in the middle of planning your kayak expedition, and didn’t need this diversion.”

  Jan grinned. “I like it. I get to take a road trip while Chino and Flaco do all the work. Right, sweetie?”

  He gave her a rueful smile. “It will be my pleasure. Flaco and I shall handle it.”

  “So, fill me in,” I said, after swallowing a tender piece of lobster. “Where do you begin your trek, how many kayaks, who is providing them?”

  Chino told me, “We are leading a large group from California. They are bringing the kayaks, tents and the like. I am expedition leader in the sense that I am the so-called expert on Sea of Cortez marine life. The campsite locations and provisions are Jan’s responsibility. With help, of course. We have hired ten people to assist us.”

  “Are you sure you don’t need an expedition parrot?”

  “Definitely not. Trouble and I have made our peace over time, thereby I would dislike having to drown the little blighter. We begin the trip on this side of the Sea, at the far north, and paddle all the way to La Paz, then ferry across to Topolobampo, paddle up to Kino Bay, then cross back to the Baja via the midriff islands.”

  “Wow, that is ambitious. Keep me in the loop, pun intended, when you can. Jan and I have to hit the road, so thanks again for everything, Chino.”

  “Drive carefully, and should you be apprehended smuggling that bird into the United States, please be so kind as not to mention my name, or call me direct.”

  Friends. Always there when you need them.

  Chapter Six

  “Clear!” I hollered into the radio after stomping my accelerator and passing a large, lumbering truck. Like all seasoned drivers in the Baja do, I remained in the passing lane with my left blinker on until Jan cleared the truck, then stayed out there to let other cars still behind the truck know that it’s safe to pass. By the time I spotted oncoming traffic and turned on my right blinker, Jan was on my bumper.

  Luckily, as is the norm, there were not many vehicles on Mex 1 for long stretches, but that changed drastically when we left what we call the “real” Baja, and entered the congested highway between San Quintin and Tijuana. Small towns abound, agricultural communities and the scads of people who come with them, make for a frustrating time for anyone in a hurry. I had long ago learned to just take a deep breath and live with it.

  Besides, we’d made good time that far and were ahead of schedule.

  Po Thang had opted to ride in Jan’s Jeep, so I’d let Trouble perch on my shoulder most of the trip. When we approached military stops, my parrot sang our way through, charming the soldiers and, thankfully, not insulting them.

  Po Thang, on the other hand, was not so amicable. He did not like anyone, especially men in uniform, getting near his vehicle, but Jan was prepared with cold Cokes and Hershey bars to pass out as an apology for my badly behaved canine.

  In San Quintin, we switched places; Jan took the bird-dog position up front.

  Even with a one-hour wait just south of Tijuana because of construction on the road, we arrived at the rental hous
e in ten hours, averaging forty-five miles an hour: not bad for the Baja. Of course there were stretches of highway where we were doing eighty, but please don’t tell the Mexican cops.

  Before unpacking we climbed to the rooftop patio of our rental—called a Margarita Deck in Baja—to see how well we’d picked our Airbnb.

  “Perfect,” Jan said, looking north at the fence and the park, a stone’s throw away on the US side. The beach below us was packed with people, but Friendship Park, on the other side of the wall, was practically empty. “Just like Chino said. I hope he was right about more people over there on weekends.”

  “Me too. Bird habitat or not, a parrot just might stand out if the officials are not busy elsewhere. Wonder if we could pay one of those guys,” I pointed to young men loitering around the fence, looking through at the United States, “to give it a try tomorrow. Create a distraction?”

  “Nah, we won’t need it. Besides, the new rules on illegal crossings are tighter now…they’d end up in jail. We’ll just have to, you should pardon the expression, wing it.”

  ❋

  The next morning I joined the long line of vehicles at the San Ysidro border crossing. I had to leave Po Thang with Jan, because we’d learned dogs were not allowed at Friendship Park, which I considered downright un-friendly. This would make it necessary for Jan to walk him across later, and then I’d head for Texas, and she for the whale camp.

  My stomach was aflutter as I pulled into the parking lot as soon as the park gate opened and I paid my admission fee. I drove around the lot, casing the joint, and thought about testing the walkie-talkie, but decided I might catch someone’s attention, so I called Jan on her cell.

  “All set?”

  “Not quite. Cars are coming into the lot now. I think we need to wait a while. Also, I’m worried about the distance from here. I thought I could park closer. Can you see me from there?”

  “Park away from others so I can spot you.”

  I moved the pickup, and Jan called.