Just a Happy Camper Page 2

  I sat, frozen in my chair for a few moments, as a seldom felt weight of doing everything by myself descended like a stultifying black cloud. Po Thang was staring at me with a worried look on his face, and when he put his chin on my leg, I blew a deep sigh. My very own therapy dawg.

  Living alone for so long before I met Jenks, there were times when, upon spotting even such a simple act as a guy loading groceries into a car for his partner, I’d suffer an unbearable moment of aloneness. This hadn’t happened for some time, so why now? After all, Jenks was ordering parts and ramrodding the boat work, and I had a job to go to in Texas. Did I harbor a creeping fear of losing Jenks, and therefore being totally on my own again?

  And then I thought of all the wonderful things in my life and how lucky I was to live it. I think I channeled my grandmother saying, “Get over it, Chica.”

  Of course, she would never say it that way, but the message was the same.

  I rubbed Po Thang’s silky ears. “If I start feeling sorry for myself again, just slap me.”

  Po Thang cocked his head.

  “Okay, paw me.”

  ❋

  Suddenly spurred to action by slapping myself, I set out to tackle a TO DO list.

  I fetched a dog biscuit, another piece of Oberto jerky, and a yellow legal pad. After giving my buddies a treat, I then went out on deck to ponder, and put everything into perspective by whittling my to-do’s down to a prioritized list.

  Trouble raised hell when Po Thang and I headed for the afterdeck, so I put on his harness and clipped it to my tee shirt, since he tends to get into dustups with both humans and other birds alike when left to his own druthers. Po Thang galloped past me up the wide, wooden, spiral staircase leading up to the sundeck, and commandeered one of the lounge chairs.

  The weather was well-nigh perfect, so I opened the enclosures to let in a light breeze, then sat down at the table to compile lists for the daunting task of preparing the boat for a stay on the hard while I was gone, and then getting myself and my entourage to Texas within the Trob’s timeframe.

  “Okay, team, let’s start at the beginning.”

  Po Thang opened one eye, then closed it again. Trouble didn’t bother taking his head from under his wing. Gawd, just having another human being to talk to would be grand. But, I had to admit, when one has animals about, one doesn’t sound quite so much like a loony old lady who talks to herself.

  “Well then, how about we figure out what today is?” I asked, loony-ly.

  Since my team continued to ignore me, I checked my phone to get the date and day. We boaters lose total track of time. Sighing, I clipped Trouble to my chair, went below and printed out blank April and May calendars, then returned to fill in the squares.

  I worked backward from the date the Trob wanted me in Texas.

  Flying wasn’t an option, as I had animals—one of whom was not welcome in the US of A—so I had to drive. It would be at least two grueling days to the border, and then on to Texas. Knowing the Baja, I gave the trip to the border an extra day. Anyone who banks on keeping on schedule when motoring on the Baja has to be smoking funny cigarettes. It does happen, but I figured I had a 50/50 chance.

  I penciled in an optimistic three days to the border, then three more to Texas. That gave us several days to get out of La Paz. Doable, but then there was the problem of Trouble.

  “How the heck am I going to get you across the border, baby bird?”

  He was instantly awake. “Ack. Trouble is a pretty bird. Pretty, pretty, pretty pret—”

  “Hush!” I tapped his beak lightly with my pen, which he tried to grab. “Yes, you are. However, the authorities up north don’t see it that way. They think you’re a dirty bird.”

  “Ack! Trouble Dirty. Dirty, dirty, dirty—”

  I took him from my shoulder, flipped him onto his back on the side table, and pointed my index finger at him with my thumb held high. “Bang! Bang!”

  He melted, feet straight up facing the ceiling, eyes closed. I took the opportunity to check out his feet bottoms for any sign of problems, found none, and said, “Stay as you are.”

  I went back to work on my list, and after a few minutes he opened his eyes. “Nope, you’re still dead.”

  He grouched but stayed put and was soon snoring. I picked him up, turned him over onto my shoulder, where he snuggled up and went back to sleep.

  As my useless team snoozed, my list grew, and tasks spilled over the borders of my calendar blocks. Most of them involved elbow grease, which I could hire out. Jenks is fond of saying there ain’t much wrong with a boat that money won’t fix.

  Needing a break, I opened a Coca Light from the bridge fridge, and called Jan about the one problem I couldn’t fob off on anyone in La Paz: Trouble.

  “Hola, Hetta. What’s up?”

  “Trouble.”

  “So, what’s new? With you, something’s always out of whack.”

  I couldn’t argue that point, so I ignored her jab. “Trouble of the feathered kind. You’re leaving on your kayak trek, I gotta go to Texas, so what do I do with him?”

  “Take him back to the bird sanctuary?”

  “I just can’t do it. I would constantly worry about him after that last fiasco up there.”

  “Hetta, we vanquished those dastardly bird-stealin’ smugglers who raided the Rancho Los Pajaros. Humberto and his wife are back in charge, and the local cops are keeping an eye out for any more bad guys.”

  I sighed. “Yes, I guess so. Knowing the caretakers are back is great, but no matter how well they treat and watch him, you know what an escape artist Trouble is. And now that my bird knows Raymond Johnson is in La Paz, what if he takes off again, and comes looking for me?”

  “Well, it’s for sure that the bird must be half homing pigeon, the way he shows up.”

  “Fer sure. He’s barely recovered from his ordeal of being kidnapped, covered in cooking oil, stuffed into a water bottle and then thrown away like a piece of trash when those lowlife smugglers realized he wasn’t worth squat.”

  My parrot let out a derisive squawk.

  “Sorry, Trouble. Nothing personal.”

  Jan laughed. “You think he understood you?”

  “I doubt it, but sometimes I wonder. Anyhow, I don’t have the heart to take him back to Rancho Los Pajaros. Maybe one of these days, but not when I can’t keep an eye on him.”

  “You’re preaching to the choir here, Hetta, but what are you going to do with him?”

  “I’ve been thinking.”

  “Uh-oh.”

  “Smarty britches. Look, we successfully got him across the US border once before, ya know.”

  “Oh, yes, I certainly do know. I also recall we were arrested for exotic animal smuggling, and Trouble was damned near euthanized by Arizona Fish and Game. Just how do you call that a success?”

  “We’re free and he’s alive?”

  Jan huffed. “You have the most amazing way of justifying outcomes and reinventing history, Chica. Okay, I’ll surely regret asking, but just whatcha got in mind? And also keep in that diabolical brain of yours that you are not dragging me into whatever harebrained scheme you’ve cooked up.”

  “You won’t get into any trouble this time.”

  “Did you hear what I just said?”

  “Of course I did. No problem. I’ll drive up to your place, drop off Trouble, and you can take him somewhere near the border. I’ll call you with the location once I get into the States, and he flies over to meet me. Bada Bing Bada Boom! You don’t even have to leave Mexico, so you’ll be totally legal. He ain’t no exotic bird anyhow, for crying out loud.”

  Trouble grumbled, and I smiled. I honestly do think he understands way more than we think he does.

  Jan was silent for a few moments, which I took as a good sign. “I’m going to kick myself for even asking, but where would I let him loose?”

  “Dunno yet. It’s a long border. I’m thinking somewhere along the California or Arizona line.”

  �
�And how do you know he’ll come to you?”

  “Piece of cake. I’ve been whistle-training him ever since he could fly again, just in case he gets loose. I hate to clip his wings. It makes him so defenseless. He now associates the whistle signal with jerky. I’ve been taking him out into the desert to exercise his wings and he’ll fly away like he’s prone to do. But after almost dying, he tires easily, so he’ll perch in a tree or somewhere to rest. I watch him with the binoculars and when he looks like he’s about ready to take off again, I whistle for him. If he returns to me immediately, I blow the whistle again and give him a jerky reward. Didn’t take long. He’s a smart little guy.”

  “Impressive. I’ll have to tell Chino. So, what’s the catch?”

  “Whaddaya mean, catch?”

  “There’s always a catch with you.”

  “Not this time. We just have to get within whistle-hearing distance of each other.”

  “This idea of yours sounds way too reasonable, so there has to be something wrong. Tell you what, you come on up here and we’ll do some trial runs, okay? With Chino in charge. Him, I trust.”

  “I’d say my feelings were hurt, but that would make you way too happy. We’ll be there within three days. I gotta put this tub in the boatyard and we’re on our way. Thanks oodles.”

  “I haven’t committed yet.”

  “You will.”

  Chapter Four

  The day before leaving La Paz, we moved into my friend Rhonda’s condo near the marina. She hadn’t yet returned from a final trip home to sell her deceased mother’s house and clear out of Ohio forever. I’d had the use of her place while she was gone, and it came in handy when we had visitors.

  As soon as I settled Po Thang and Trouble into the condo, I moved Raymond Johnson to Bercovich’s Boat Works, the yard where I was scheduled to haul out at high tide. Then came the nail-biting trauma of having my boat lifted from the water, then moved, dangling in the air, by a giant travel lift on rails. Once in the work yard, or dry marina, more angst as she’s settled onto wooden chocks that must be placed perfectly to avoid damage. Worker-bees were stationed at the chocks and moved them in accordance with orders yelled out by a yard boss. When he was satisfied everything was in place, they dropped her. In truth they don’t drop the boat, more like gently settle her in, but I always worry they will. I’m only finally able to take a full breath when Raymond Johnson is safely settled into her new home on dirt; something neither of us are fond of.

  Before I let the workers off the hook, so to speak, I made absolutely certain Raymond Johnson was level. More than one boat has “sunk” in drydock when heavy rainwater worked its way into the bilges, and if the pumps aren’t at proper elevation, the engine room can flood.

  A couple of fellow cruisers arrived to watch my haul-out and hold my hand while the workers plunked my boat on land. We secured all the canvas covers, banged wooden plugs into thru-hulls to keep varmints out, and tested the power from my solar panels to the house and engine batteries so I wouldn’t come back to a boat that wouldn’t start.

  Shore power is always iffy in the yard so, like always, I’d already cleaned out and shut down my fridge and freezer. Filling one-gallon freezer bags with water, I nestled them over each interior drain, like the sinks and showers, to prevent unwanted visitors of the many-legged sort from making themselves comfy in my boat. As an extra precaution, I placed treats like ant bait, rat poison, and cockroach cocktails throughout the cabins and engine room, and posted notes everywhere I did so, reminding me to gather it all up before my own animals were allowed back on board.

  The helpful boaters gave me a ride back to the condo, where I collapsed in front of the television with a glass of wine and a bag of fish tacos I’d picked up downstairs. Getting myself, my critters, and the boat ready for haul-out, and packing for an extended stay Stateside, had consumed every waking moment for a day, and I was plumb wore out. After we ate, we all fell asleep on Rhonda’s cushy couch.

  After a great night’s sleep Po Thang, Trouble, and I took off for Jan and Chino’s whale camp. We left the condo just before first light, set for the grueling four hundred miles up Mex 1, then forty more to San Ignacio Lagoon on a crappy dirt road. Which, at the end of the day, is not at all a friendly way to finish an already fatiguing day, but nowhere nearly as dangerous as driving Mex 1 after dark.

  I normally break the trip up with an overnight stop, but I was on a tight schedule and we only had about ten and a half hours of daylight, so we started off in the dark while still within the familiar environs of La Paz, and could arrive at Chino and Jan’s camp by sunset. I knew from experience, because I’d been on the Pacific Ocean side of the Baja often, I would have a wee bit more light than what the charts said, but it was going to be one seriously long day.

  Note to self: Charge the Trob up the ying-yang for this little trek.

  Po Thang happily commandeered the passenger seat, and Trouble and his cage took up the small rear jump seat area in my Ford Ranger extended cab truck. Due to pee and stretch stops, along with crawling along behind the occasional twenty-mile-an-hour trucks, I always figure on twelve hours to the turnoff to Chino’s whale camp at the lagoon, and at least another hour on the washboard and sand road to their trailer enclave.

  I made it in ten, but Po Thang’s hair was standing on end.

  Rolling to a stop at Jan and Chino’s trailer, I peeled my clawed hands from the steering wheel and opened my door. Po Thang scuttled over the top of me and raced toward Jan, who came out to see who had arrived.

  “Hetta, for cryin’ out loud. You install wings on that truck of yours?”

  I lifted my left leg from the pickup truck, then reached for my right, which had lost all feeling. Pulling myself to standing with the aid of my door, I wobbled and then took a careful step forward. Jan grabbed my arm and guided me to the firepit, where Chino was building a fire to take the chill off the coming Pacific Coast twilight.

  “Booze” I said. “I must have booze.”

  By the time I reached the firepit, Chino jammed a Margarita into my still semi-numb paw before going to liberate Trouble, who was raising all Billy Hell at being left in the truck. As Chino carried his cage to the fire, Trouble spotted Jan and burst into a somewhat screechy version of “The Eyes of Texas.”

  We thought to put him inside the guest trailer, worried he’d get a chill, but he wasn’t having any of it. I hobbled to the truck, found his harness, sat him on my shoulder inside my sweatshirt, and pulled up my hood. Jan gave him a jerky treat, which he shredded, dropping pieces down my back and neck.

  Po Thang, after touring the premises and anointing everything in sight, returned to cuddle up against Chino, who had a nice fire going.

  “I say, Hetta, you made near record time today. I should admonish you for reckless motoring.” I smiled at Chino’s accent, as I am fascinated when hearing this handsome Mexican man speaking with a clipped British accent. And I never tire of the irony of Chino, a Mexican raised in a fish camp, having the last name, Yee.

  He’s a direct descendant of two survivors of a shipwrecked Spanish Galleon that sailed from the Philippines in the late 1500’s, one named Comacho and the other, Yee. Any Asian facial features had long ago disappeared, but he was still a Yee, thus the Mexican moniker, Chino. When he was a kid, he was hired to drive his dad’s fishing panga for some British marine biologists doing a whale migration study at Magdalena Bay.

  They were stunned to find that Chino is an autodidact, self-taught in English, French, and German, and had not only read every book available to him on whales, he knew as much, actually more, than the scientists did because he’d lived with the whales all his life.

  He was soon whisked away to the UK, where he went to posh public schools, then on to Imperial College, near Hyde Park in the heart of London, which focuses on science, engineering, and medicine.

  After graduating with an education equal to that of a British royal, he returned to Mexico and was back to running whale tours in Mag Bay w
hen UC Davis Vet school got wind of him. In spite of a ton of letters after his name, he prefers being in the Baja, once again communing with whales.

  “Oh, yeah,” I told Chino, “I certainly set a new record for my drives up here. I got lucky. It was one of those days when the stars align and throw you a secret weapon.”

  “Like a Sikorsky?” Jan asked, referring to a very large helicopter that lifts and transports heavy loads.

  They waited to hear the secret to my fast road trip while topped off my Margarita. “Rad Brad.”

  “Okay, I’ll bite. Rad Brad is your secret weapon?”

  “He can be. I stopped for gas in Ciudad Constitucion this morning and my friend Brad was there with two buddies, headed north. They’d been scouting out something for next year’s Baja 1000, that off-road race, and had their pickups loaded with off-road motorcycles or whatever those are.”

  “Motocross bikes,” Chino said, looking a little dreamy. “Well, not really. The 1000 racers use dirt bikes, much more beefy and faster than the European motor cross vehicles. When I was a boy, I had aspirations to become the Mexican champion. However, my father could only afford a battered old bicycle. I remain a fan of motorcycle racing and have followed your friend’s championship career, both here and abroad. How is it you know him?”

  “Jenks and I met his father, Harry, when he gave us some dorado filets while we were anchored at Punta Chivato. We asked him on board for drinks and he invited us to a party after the Baja 1000. His dad was big in promoting races, and so is Brad. Anyhow, Rad Brad, when I met up with him and his friends this morning, handed me a two-way radio and told me to stick to his bumper after I said I was trying to reach Ignacio Lagoon before dark. He led the caravan and radioed back when we could pass. I didn’t think I could keep up, but luckily they were heavily loaded, so I managed. Et voila! Here we are!”

  “I would love to meet the family. They are legendary in the Baja,” Chino said.