Troubled Sea Read online

  Now the cistern was a community water supply and the cement block structure served just fine as a dog house/chicken coop/goat corral.

  Lourdes absently threw a tortilla to the dog, crossed herself, gazed wistfully towards The Virgins, and then at the rutted lane leading to the boys’ fish camp thirty miles away. If her sons were not home by tomorrow, she would walk to the camp and check on them. If people think me foolish, let them.

  Chapter 6

  When men come to like sea life they are not fit to live on land.—Samuel Johnson

  Freshly showered and shampooed, her pixie cut blown dry, and a dab of lipstick applied, Hetta took a sip of her drink. “One of these days,” she grumbled, “these damned dominoes are going overboard.” Adding numbers to an already outrageous IOU, she increased her four-day losing streak to several million pesos.

  Cocktail hour and dinner, their timetables changeable as governed by the seasons, were a social ritual scheduled to coincide in winter with the early twilight. Two drinks on deck—rum and coke with lime for Hetta, bourbon on the rocks for Jenks—where they either played dominoes or just drank in the scenery and wildlife until the sun set.

  They ate dinner after dark, then Hetta washed dishes, Jenks dried, and they read or settled in to watch a movie from their huge DVD collection.

  Even when in port, Hetta and Jenks, content with each other’s company, rarely fraternized in the watering holes and tourist eateries that had proved the bane of many a boater in Mexico. They could neither afford it, nor were they interested.

  Hetta’s chagrin with tonight’s domino game escalated to the point where she refused to play another minute. Jenks watched her warily as she began snatching up cubes.

  “Uh, you’re not gonna toss those dominoes overboard like you did in Mazatlan, are you?”

  “It was only the double trey. And I've matured. I’m gonna throw you overboard instead. It was a pain playing all those weeks without that three. You? You'll dry out.”

  Settling back into her deck chair she gazed at the distant mountains. With their darkening valleys and purple highlighted peaks, they resembled tissue paper cutouts glued to the colorful sky. She sighed. “I never tire of the beauty. I know I tell people that it’s like boating on the moon here, but I love it. Some might call it too desolate, but not moi. Even when the mean ole wind howls for days.”

  “Beats the howling commuters, traffic, and jobs we have to go back to.”

  “Maybe I’ll throw you overboard on general principle. How dare you mention the unmentionable in the presence of a Southern Belle,” Hetta drawled, pronouncing southern suth-er-un. She kept her voice light and teasing in hopes of avoiding a prickly subject.

  “You know we have to talk about it soon, Hetta. Our days of leisure are numbered.” Jenks was aware he was treading on dangerous ground.

  Hetta looked away, an avoidance technique Jenks knew well. He waited.

  Taking a deep breath, she brushed off her annoyance and pleaded, “Let’s talk about it later. Much later. I promise to give up my daily allotment of caviar as a concession to the dwindling budget, okay?”

  “Hetta, it’s the main course we’ll have to forgo. And soon,” Jenks persisted. Then he smiled and added, “But, in the name of a dead norther to celebrate, no talk of impending starvation tonight.” Rewarded with a dazzling smile from his wife, Jenks was glad he chose not to push the touchy, but looming subject of their return to the real world.

  “Deal. Let them eat cake. And speaking of, are you ready for a big old juicy steak?”

  Jenks nodded.

  “And, after dinner, we’ll test the running lights and radar for tomorrow night’s crossing, okay?” asked Hetta, the self-appointed safety officer on HiJenks. She mentally checked off her GETTING UNDERWAY list and added, “Oh, and since we’re doing a night crossing, don’t you think that tomorrow we should take off the outboard and stow Jenkzy on the swim platform?”

  “Aye, aye, Admiral,” Jenks barked and saluted, “if you say so.” He followed Hetta into the cabin to fetch steaks for the grill.

  Sitting out on deck, basking in starlight and the afterglow of their dinner wine, Hetta murmured, “Until we came down here I thought a Milky Way was something I ate when no one was looking.”

  Jenks chuckled and they sat quietly until the dull hum of a generator intruded on their tranquil evening. Hetta scowled towards the beach, trying to identify the culprit. Most of the homes on the beach were dark, except, she noted, Bud’s place. “I see someone is giving Bud’s new fifteen KW genset a good workout. Looks like every light in the house is on.” Turning seaward she added, “But it sure is dark out there.”

  Jenks recognized the disquiet in Hetta’s tone and knew she was worrying about the crossing. He pulled her close.

  “Everything’ll be just fine, Hetta. We’ll leave whenever you're ready and turn back if it’s too rough. And you know there’s hardly any other boat traffic between here and San Carlos. What can go wrong when we have a new radar, two GPS’s, and an able-bodied sea wench aboard?”

  “Thanks, Skipper, for not saying ample-bodied sea wench.” Hetta kissed Jenks on the nose and felt better. But later, as she lay awake staring at stars through the screened hatch above their bed, she couldn't help dreading the next night’s crossing to San Carlos.

  Fish splashed around the boat and a ghostly coyote chorus echoed off the moonscape above the beach. Hetta scooted closer to Jenks, unable to dismiss her uneasiness. By this time tomorrow night they would be cocooned inside HiJenks, ploughing along at seven knots, unable to see a damned thing outside.

  Chapter 7

  There are many advantages to sea-voyaging, but security is not one of them. Sadi

  Log of HiJenks, November 9

  Punta Caracol

  1500 hrs

  Wind: 3 knots NW Sky: Clear

  Seas: Flat (I hope) Barometer: Steady

  We leave in an hour for San Carlos. Looks like a good night for it, but wish there was more moon. Found a GPS on the beach yesterday. Jenks is thrilled, but I worry for whoever lost it. Are they lost? H.

  Before raising anchor, Hetta raised the flags.

  As required by international maritime law, she planted a large American flag into its holder on the transom, then checked that the twelve by eighteen-inch red, white and green Republic of Mexico courtesy flag still reigned at the top of the mast. With a Cheshire cat smile, she fastened their owner’s flag, a Republic of Texas Naval Ensign, to a burgee holder on the bowsprit.

  Hetta, a Texas history buff, spotted a photograph of the R.O.T. flag in a National Geographic Magazine several years before. Flown by the little-known Texian—as they called themselves in those days—Navy from 1836 until Texas became a state ten years later, the flag was so historically obscure that a search through dozens of Texas flag stores failed to yield one for HiJenks. Hetta had several dozen made and gave them to those she deemed worthy of joining her navy.

  Her interest in the Texian Navy did not end with the flag.

  When visiting Texas she combed libraries and dusty archives for more information, and found ships’ logs and drawings of the small but mighty fleet the Mexicans dubbed Los Diablos Tejanos: The Texian Devils.

  The flag emulated that of the United States with one big difference; instead of multiple stars in a blue field, a single large white Lone Star gleamed. The flag’s copycat design was no accident, as subterfuge was foremost in the minds of the Republic’s leaders. Many a Mexican vessel fell victim, assuming they were dealing with the Stars and Stripes of a friendly nation until it was too late. It was this bit of wickedness that delighted Hetta. She thought it fortunate for HiJenks and her selected fleet that the modern Mexican Navy seemed to know nothing of the flag’s significance.

  With all flags aflutter, Hetta yelled, “¿Listo?” using the Spanish word for ready.

  “Listo,” Jenks echoed.

  Hetta started the engines, then climbed to the bridge where she could see Jenks’s hand signals as h
e raised the anchor with an electric windlass.

  It was only four o’clock, but leaving early was a concession to Hetta’s disinclination towards night crossings. Even though a late afternoon departure would get them to their anchorage on the other side of the Sea of Cortez before dawn, Hetta preferred leaving before dark. By the time night descended, she would be settled into the routine and rhythm of a long voyage. The system worked well for them, especially when they were headed for a familiar anchorage.

  “Let’s do it,” Hetta called, loud enough to be heard over the engines.

  Jenks looked up, nodded, then leaned over the bow and pointed straight ahead. Hetta followed his hand signals, steering the boat with the engines left and right in response to Jenks’s gestures. When he clenched his fist and lowered his arm, she put both engines into neutral.

  “Clear,” he yelled, giving her a thumbs up. The anchor was out of the water. While Jenks secured it to the bowsprit with the windlass brake, Hetta slowly maneuvered the boat out of the anchorage, and gently pushed the throttles forward until both digital tachometers read 1350 rpm, their normal cruising speed. At that rate, they would travel at about seven knots for the next ten hours, subject to help or hindrance from tides and wind.

  Rounding the point, she set her course for thirty-one degrees, a heading she knew would take them to Catch-22, and then clicked on the autopilot. Catch-22 Beach, six miles north of San Carlos, was a long half-moon shaped stretch of white sand where the movie of the same name was filmed years before. The Jenkins used that easily accessible and familiar anchorage when arriving before dawn.

  “Under way’s the only way,” Jenks announced, deftly climbing the bridge steps, a drink in each hand. He handed one to Hetta and sat next to her. “There’s nothing between us and Catch-22 but seventy miles of open water. And,” he fished their GPS from his pocket, “according to our little gadget, we will arrive within a few yards of our destination in about ten hours and...two minutes.”

  “Does that smart alecky device say I’m on the right course?”

  “Yep, zero-three-one. Right on.”

  “Ha!” Hetta barked, satisfied they could get where they were going without high-tech wizardry.

  Their crossing routine was tried and true. One cocktail, dinner, and then Hetta took the first watch until she tired, usually around midnight. She'd then sleep, or try to, until Jenks neared Catch-22 and called her up for anchoring. This watch system worked better for them than the rigid six-on, six-off schedule used by many cruising couples.

  Hetta clinked Jenks’s glass and toasted, “To another successful day, or night, in the Sea. I still wish we had a moon tonight, but, hell, one can’t have everything, can one? At least it’s smooth. What’s our speed?”

  Jenks checked the GPS. “A roaring six point four knots, matey. We must be bucking the tide because, like you said, it’s smooth as glass. Powerboat weather.”

  They exchanged a smile at their little private joke. Most of their friends had sailboats and the Jenkins took a lot of good-natured guff for owning one of the few cruising “stinkpots” in the fleet. There were many powerboats in the Sea of Cortez, but most languished in their slips, awaiting absentee owners who visited occasionally to decimate the fish population. Hetta and Jenks were convinced that the Sea, where it either blew stink or was dead calm, was powerboat territory. Many of their wind-assisted friends had reluctantly reached the same conclusion, even if it was a long way between fueling stations.

  Sipping their drinks, Hetta and Jenks chatted and scanned for dolphins, whales, rays, or any other interesting animal life.

  “Think we should put out a fishing line?” Jenks asked.

  “Oh, why not? There might be one stupid dorado that hasn’t finned south for the season.”

  “But let’s not forget to reel in when I go below to sleep. No repeats, Hetta, of the forty pound fiasco.”

  Hetta stuck her tongue out at him. During one particularly smooth, moonlit crossing she had broken their rules and gone out on deck when her screaming reel announced a “fish on.”

  She kneaded her shoulder. “I can still feel that battle. You looked pretty funny rushing out on deck half-naked to find out what all the racket was about and caught me pouring tequila in the flopping monster’s gills to calm him down.” They laughed, clinked glasses again and reminisced while they finished their drinks.

  With a feathered lure bounding along a hundred feet behind the boat, the Jenkins demolished a roasted chicken dinner Hetta prepared before they left the anchorage in case it was too rough to cook. Seasoned cruisers, they smugly considered themselves ready for almost anything.

  Except for what came next.

  Chapter 8

  Let the fearful be allowed to hope. —Lucan

  Pedro thankfully slept most of his second day enshrouded in his excruciating cocoon. Thirst and pain plagued his every waking minute, so sleep was a blessing. Also in the blessing’s column: youth, a hardy constitution, warm salt water that sealed his wounds, and glassy seas. On the negative side, he could not last indefinitely without water or food, any movement was agony, and it was, he knew, only a matter of time until he was smelled out by sharks.

  Roused by a slight breeze as the sun lowered once again behind the Three Virgins, the boy saw he was in almost the same position as the day before. The ebbing tide had taken him south during the day, the incoming flow returned him. That he was still in a part of the Sea known to him, and his family, revived hope. Surely, he thought, my brother, or someone from the camp will...Pedro cocked his head. The dried salt caking his ears muffled sound, but he was sure he heard a motor. From somewhere in front of the panga. His line of sight blocked, he strained to listen. Jesús, Jose y Maria, it sounds like a boat! And it is getting closer!

  Chapter 9

  Underway's the only way.—Jenks Jenkins

  With the dinner dishes washed, dried and stowed, Hetta grabbed her binoculars and went outside for one last look around before nightfall. Panning the horizon she growled, “Crap!”

  “What?” Jenks asked, sticking his head out the open cabin door.

  “Fly in the buttermilk. Fog.”

  “Warm day, no wind, fog happens. Even this time of the year,” Jenks said, squinting into the fading light. He took the binoculars from Hetta, trained them on the dark bank ahead and said, “Yep, it’s fog, all right. Don’t worry about it, Honey, the radar’ll cut right through it. And in a few minutes it’ll be so dark we won’t be able to see squat anyhow. Not that there’s anything to see, since there's probably not another boat between here and San Carlos.”

  “Why am I not comforted by that thought? Damnit all to Hell. The last time this happened, the fog bank stretched all the way to Catch-22.” Not only that, their radar went out and they’d come close to hitting an offshore rock. Hetta was nearly hysterical by the time they emerged from the dense fog and found their anchorage. “I was not in the happy boater ranks that day.”

  “Now there’s a gross understatement.”

  His wit earned him a playful swat on the rear from Hetta. He grinned. “But now we have not one, but two GPS’s, and new radar, so no sweat.” Hetta did not look reassured, so he added, “Unless you want to turn back?”

  “No, I’ll be okay. It’s just a matter of...hey, is that a panga?” Hetta asked, pointing ahead. “Jesus, the only two boats in the entire friggin’ central Sea of Cortez and he has to be smack dab in front of us. I don’t think he’s moving either. Probably fishing.”

  “He can see and hear us. If he doesn’t move we’ll just go around him.”

  They climbed to the bridge, switching the autopilot controls to that station. As they bore down on the panga, it didn't move, so Jenks switched from automatic to steer manually, changing course slightly. Nearer still he said, “I don’t see anyone aboard.” The bow of the panga was pointing directly toward them.

  “Me neither. I can see what looks like some of those damned green nylon fishing nets I hate hanging over the side, a
nd a gas jug, but that’s it. He can’t be diving out here. The water must be four hundred feet deep. So where is he?” Hetta asked, peering through the binoculars.

  “Maybe he’s curled up asleep under a tarp or something and we just can’t spot him. Whatever, I guess we’d better take a closer look in case he needs help,” Jenks said, slowing the boat and gliding forward, bow-to-bow with the panga. The light was fading, but they could still see into the smaller boat.

  Jenks pointed to the raised prop shaft. “Looks like it might have been beached and got washed out during the blow. There’s some nets caught on the prop, let’s maneuver around so we can maybe get a name of the boat. I guess we could tow it in to San Carlos. I bet whoever this baby got away from is real unhappy. That outboard had to cost...oh, shit...look at that,” Jenks said, staring at the plastic packages floating in the center compartment. “Screw this, we’re outta here.”

  He put the engines into reverse, backing quickly away. Once clear he turned the wheel sharply to starboard, put both engines in gear and thrust the throttles forward. The propellers bit in and they were soon at cruising speed.

  Hetta, staring back, thought she heard a noise and saw something move, but couldn’t quite make it out in the increasing gloom.

  Pedro heard voices above the unmistakable rumble of diesel engines. Gringos. He forced a shout from his parched throat, but his thickened tongue turned it into more of a gurgle. Never mind, they will see me soon enough. The first thing they will do is cut me loose from these damned lines and give me water. Once free of the net, he'd show the Gringos how to remove the hooks. It will hurt like the devil, of course, but once the barb is pushed through the flesh to the other side and cut off, the hook will slide right...No! Madre de Dios, they are leaving? A scream fought its way from him, but went unheard.