Just Different Devils (3 page)

Puppy love?

With a dolphin?

Maybe there was something in the air vents on
Raymond Johnson
?

The next afternoon, after another hour's romp with his new friend—whom I named Bubbles—I decided a little parental counseling was in order.

As I shampooed and dried him off, I offered him a few words of wisdom. "Po Thang, let me give you some advice about love from someone who has been very bad at it, and therefore aware of the pitfalls. I admit to a crappy track record in affairs of the heart, so I've learned a doggone thing or two. I just want you to know that I am not a speciesist, as my mother would probably attest to after meeting a couple of my boyfriends, but  the hard truth is, Bubbles is a dolphin. You, on the other hand, are a dawg. Bubbles lives in the water. And not that you don't want to, because you are, after all, a water hound, but the fact is, she's there
all
the time. You are not. Who knows what she does when you're not around? Who she hangs with? Trust me, these inter-species relationships rarely work out. Except for, say, Charles Manson and that creature who married him in prison."

Po Thang yawned and fell asleep, leaving me to wonder if I was talking about his thing with Bubbles, or my own LDR—long distance relationship—with Jenks Jenkins.

As I do when faced with something serious to ponder, I made a spread sheet and did the math.

Jenks and I had started seriously dating over two years ago. During that time—and this took a good part of the rest of the afternoon and a calculator to figure out—we have spent less than two months together, total, which comes to 8.5 percent of the time we've seriously been serious. That is 2.5 days a month! Damned dismal if you ask me.

Yes, we are in almost constant contact, even now, with my ham radio e-mail capabilities, but is that any way to run a romance? Good grief, are both my dog and I in love with geographically, or species, unsuitable others?

And who even knows what could happen if, say, a hunky Scotsman suddenly turned up and dazzled me with an overzealous pursuit of my fair self? That thought sent me into giggles. Overzealous pursuit? Who was I kidding here? The man simply called me, "Lass," and swam away. He probably calls everyone Lass.

Some
one on this boat has way too much time on her hands and she needs a job! It was obviously time to return to port and dig up some paid employment, since my consulting job at a Baja mine near the town of Santa Rosalia ran its course when someone up there finally figured out I was milking them like a Jersey cow.

I hate it when that happens.

While I prepared to get underway and head for the marina the next day, I let Po Thang and Bubbles share a farewell early morning romp before raising anchor and heading south. I timed my arrival in La Paz for slack tide and hoped the wind didn't pick up before I was firmly tied to a dock. Entering Marina de la Paz can be a nasty experience even if one of those elements is not favorable, and single-handing in? Even worse. I needed all the breaks I could get.

It was a beautiful day, no wind, not too hot, not too cold, with the kind of glassy water that makes cruising in a power boat a joy. We were in the cut between San Francisco Island and Isla Espiritu Santo when, smack dab in our path, lolled a sailboat that seemed to be adrift. I raised my binoculars to take a closer look and read the boat's name, but I was too far away. No sails up, no sign of an anchor line, no one on deck, and no telltale engine exhaust water. Rats! I've towed more than one boat into port, but I really didn't want to try it without any crew on board my boat to help me snag it.

Sighing, I blasted my horn, hoping to catch their attention, then changed course so I could see the name of the boat and maybe raise them on the radio. It was a fair sized vessel, about thirty-five feet, and obviously a cruiser, judging by the clutter of blue water jugs, yellow diesel jerry cans, and a surf board strapped to the rails. An un-inflated rubber dinghy lay upside down on the foredeck. I tried a couple of times to hail
Carpe Diem
, but there was no response.

Sidling closer, I used my loud speaker to raise someone. Nada.

Crap! Now what?

Spying another sailboat heading north, I called them on the VHF.

"Sailing vessel heading north between Partida and San Francisco, come back to
Raymond Johnson
."

Almost immediately,
Me Too,
a boat whose crew I knew from Marina de la Paz
,
responded, listened to what I had to say, and changed course in my direction.

The water was too deep to anchor, so I held my position as
Me Too
approached close enough so we could talk boat to boat. There were three people onboard and, since they trailed a dinghy, one of them volunteered to run over and check out the unresponsive boat.

I sighed again. Valuable daylight was burning, and time and tide wait for no woman.

While I waited to find out if I was going to have to tow the boat into La Paz, I radioed Marina de la Paz and told them I was checking out a sailboat that might be disabled, and would need help once I got into the channel. I also said I'd be late arriving, and they suggested I go to a side tie on the outside dock until the next morning, when conditions would be more favorable for me to dock. Relieved, I relaxed and called Jenks on my cell phone, now that I had a signal.

Left a message.

Called Jan.

Left a message.

Called Mom and Dad.

Left a message.

Gave up.

Jill, the woman from
Me Too,
returned to tell me there was no one on board the drifter, so I called Marina de la Paz again, told them the name of the boat, and that I would be towing her in. They said they'd report the problem to the Port Captain and asked me to monitor Channel 16 so I could be contacted, maybe by the Mexican Navy. Anyhow, someone would meet me near the channel entrance and take over the tow.

Unable to bring my heavy fiberglass panga,
Se Vende,
on board my boat, and not wanting
two
boats trailing behind me, I asked the four sailors to help me side-tie
Carpe Diem
to
Raymond Johnson
for an easy tow in the slight seas and light wind
.

I chugged slowly for port hoping against hope conditions did not change before the handoff. As it was, should trouble arise, I could easily cut
Carpe Diem
loose and let someone else come and get her.

Boats from all over the area had evidently followed my radio conversations, and a few called to let me know they were available to help when I neared the channel if need be. I thanked them all, then told them I couldn't chat because I had to monitor 16. Nevertheless, inquisitiveness being in my genes, I set my radio on scan and listened in. Speculation was all over the charts, from
Carpe Diem
slipping anchor while the owner was in the water, to whether yet another diver had fallen victim to a giant squid attack.

The idea that the owner might be stranded on one of the islands sounded better to me than his being dragged overboard, shredded like pulled pork and eaten by a monstrous Red Devil.

My grandmother always said nosiness should be my middle name, and who am I to argue with a sweet old lady? About thirty minutes into the slow tow, Grandma proved right, and curiosity got the best of me.

Since
Carpe Diem
was side-tied to my boat, boarding her wasn't all that hard. I put
Raymond Johnson
in neutral, let her idle, and dropped down onto the sailboat's deck. I'd hitched Po Thang's harness to a stanchion so he couldn't follow, since one nosy critter on an abandoned boat is enough. I did, however, have to listen to his bellyaching as I prowled around looking for clues.

The first thing I noticed was what looked like blood smears in the cockpit, but that is not all that unusual on cruising boats, and given the three fishing poles hanging off the back, this sailor liked to fish. He might have snagged one and not cleaned up. But still.

The hatch leading down into the main boat was wide open, so I went down for a look. Everything seemed orderly so I made my way to the navigation station, hoping the boater, like most of us, kept a packet of all his paperwork handy in case of an emergency abandon ship drill, or even for checking into a marina. 

Sure enough, a clear plastic bag was nestled next to the radio, along with a few other folders. The pouch contained a Passport issued to Frederick P. Clark, a Mexican tourist visa, a ten-year Mexican boat import permit, US coast guard documentation certificate, insurance info, fishing license, Mexican
Parque Nacional
permits, and anything needed by a legit boater in Mexico. Many try to cut corners, but not this guy; he had it all.

I grabbed a piece of paper from his printer and jotted down all the information someone might need in order to contact family, friends, or the US Coast Guard, because Mexican officialdom works in slow-mo and I wanted to give his family and US officials a head's up. I pocketed his California drivers license, two credit cards, and a thousand pesos because I didn't want them going walkabout during this initial investigation. I left two hundred pesos so no one would think this guy went AWOL on purpose. Even if he did.

Po Thang's "someone is coming" barks caught my attention, and when I stuck my head out, I spotted a boat in the distance that seemed to be making a beeline for us. I hurried back to where I could heft myself onto
Raymond Johnson
, but my foot slipped and I almost dislocated a shoulder when I caught myself on my boat's rail.

Looking down, I saw a glob of something icky where my foot slid. Fish parts? Left over bait? God, I hoped so.

Climbing painfully onto my own deck, I slipped off my boat shoes, rushed inside, grabbed the camera and got a zoom shot of the stuff on
Carpe Diem's
deck.

I soon identified the oncoming craft as a small Mexican Navy boat and let out a groan. I had hoped one of the marinas had responded, because the way things work in Mexico, I had little hope the handover was going to go quickly.

And I was right. The naval officer in charge, as friendly as he was, was nonetheless mired by the swamp of Mexican officialdom, which comes with reams of paper, rubber stamping and the promise of my first born, in order to finally get rid of
Carpe Diem
and head for port.

No good deed goes unpunished.

The sun was hovering on the horizon when I pulled alongside the marina and basically jammed my boat in between two megayachts. 

The tide had turned and was ripping out: a bad thing. The wind, however, was on my beam and would push me sideways into the dock. With no one on board to throw a line from my bow to the marina personnel standing by on the dock, my game plan was simple: loop a bow line several times over a rail on the side away from the now side-tied
Se Vende
, hope like hell my end didn't fall into the water before someone was able to grab it, and then ram the dock as far forward as the space between those two monster yachts allowed.

A gathering awaited my return, to help with lines, watch what was sure to be a less than elegant docking exercise, and to get the lowdown from me on
Carpe Diem
. In addition to marina personnel and some cruisers I know, several nervous-looking crew from the multimillion dollar beauties awaited. Who needs television when you have docking boats to watch? A man I recognized as the captain of the hundred-footer I was aiming for looked prepared to jump, throwing his body in between his yacht's swim platform and my bow.

I made a pass, went to neutral to judge the wind and tide, pulled a hard U-turn, aimed for the dock and powered into the oncoming tide with way more speed than normal. 

Not for the first time I thought,
Why, oh, why don't boats have brakes?

No boats were harmed during this crash landing into the dock, but I scattered the crowd when, after a brave soul latched onto my bow line and rapidly secured it to a cleat, I put the boat into reverse, threw the wheel over and gave the engines full throttle for a few seconds, swinging the aft into the dock with a satisfying whack of my fenders.

In the end, I received a smattering of applause and hoots, which I acknowledged with a bow before my shaky legs powered me to the head below.

Bubbles, blowing burbles against the hull, woke us at five the next morning.

Po Thang was off the bed and up the steps before I could grab him, but I'd locked the doggie door the night before, as I do at the dock. And, as always, Po Thang crashed into the locked door a few times and howled in frustration before getting the message that he was no longer free to roam at will.

With the arrival of his BFF, he paced and grumbled, looking for an alternate escape route, but I had the boat buttoned up tight. Pulling on my jeans—speaking of tight—I gave him a sympathy pat. "Sorry, Romeo, no Juliet stuff today. She shouldn't even be here. I've never seen a dolphin in the marina."

I'd seen them swimming in the bay, but never inside the marina itself, so I made a management decision; I was wide awake, there was no wind or current to speak of, and it was getting light enough for me to maneuver my way to my dock. Better yet, I could see that the other half of my two-boat slip was empty, so all I had to do was aim and I'd get in without much damage. Just kidding. I really can dock a boat, but it is sooo much easier when there isn't a half-million dollars worth of fiberglass sharing the slip.

I started the engines, which roused a crewmember from one of the mega-yachts. He hustled to handle my lines, probably eager to get us gone, since Po Thang, held prisoner inside the cabin, was raising all Billy Hell.

If you are going to single-hand a boat, you come up with clever plans when docking and anchoring. My docking procedure was the lasso theory. I rigged a breast line on a center cleat of
Raymond Johnson
and after getting into a slip, I'd stop the boat the best I could, wait until I bumped the dock, and was able to lasso the dock cleat from the flying bridge. Without another boat to worry about next to me, all I had to do was cinch us in, then, even with a tricky tide or wind, at least the center of the boat was snugged in securely. Getting the bow and aft lines was then a piece of cake .

And, since I had no neighbor, I had the leisure of finding a place for
Se Vende
later in the day, since the pesky sucker increased the width of my boat by a good five feet.

After shutting the engines down and patting myself on the back for a job well done, I downed a celebratory cup of coffee and hooked up to power, water, and Internet: all those blessedly convenient luxuries you learn to either do without or conserve while anchored out.

As an appeasement to my very disgruntled dog—as I hoped, Bubbles had not followed us in—I took him for a long walk into town.

The
malecon
, or bay front walkway, stretches for five kilometers from Marina de la Paz all the way to the other end of town and is our favorite morning walk. The bronze artworks alone, some of them eleven feet high and depicting sea life and historical characters, are worth the trip. Since we were early, the daily clean up crews were out sweeping into piles whatever went on the night before. The
malecon
is
a popular spot for discothèques (yes, they still have them), bars, restaurants and draws young people who hang out all night, drinking and dancing. The aftermath often resembles a war zone early on in the day, but by seven a.m. everything is usually spic-and-span.

Even though meeting and greeting other walkers and dogs is a great way to start the day, my patience level is soon tested. I'm only good for about a mile each way because
being
dragged much farther by a badly leash-trained dog
soon becomes a test upon our relationship. Like, I want to kill him. Nary a palm tree escapes a sniff and a leg lift, every dog must be nose-greeted—and some are not all that friendly—and if I'm not vigilant, someone's breakfast is raided. If we were to stay in port,
some
one needed training! Probably me.

A skater whizzed by being pulled by a panting yellow lab, which struck me as a great idea until I realized I'd have to skate and would probably get yanked off the wall and into the surf by my dog.

We paused at one of my favorite art pieces, a huge chrome plated pearl in a bronze shell. Po Thang whined longingly at the sculpture of a mermaid playing with a dolphin. Young love is a bitch.

Returning to the boat in time to hear the eight a.m. cruisers VHF radio net, I was surprised to see a beautiful sailboat had somehow managed to squeeze into the other half of my slip despite
Se Vende
only allowing a couple of feet between us. Crap! I was also amazed the marina management folks, nice as they are, weren't already demanding I move my panga.

The net was abuzz with news of
Carpe Diem
. Turns out the owner, Freddie, had been  anchored in La Paz harbor for a couple of weeks before, when he headed north. He was a diver and a single-hander, and as I read between the lines of some comments, on a tight budget and a bit of a loner. I'd get the real scoop later, at the daily Club Cruceros clubhouse coffee klatch in the marina.

Minutes after the net closed, I was making toast and eggs for us when I heard the unmistakable sound of bagpipe music. Drawn out on deck, I recognized trouble in the form of a pec-hugging black tee shirt and a kilt.

Playing
Amazing Grace
.

He winked.

I choked on my toast.

"Jan," I screeched into my cell phone minutes after realizing that the diver from my San Francisco Island dolphin rescue and this piece of Scottish beefcake were one and the same, and we were living a mere four feet apart, "you have to come down here.
Now
."

"Can I brush my teeth first?"

"No."

"What's the big hurry? Are you back at the dock? I got your message yesterday, but it was really late, so I thought I'd call you this morning. What's going on?"

"I need you here, now."

"Why?"

"I might need moral support."

"You don't have any morals."

"I rest my case."

After Jan and I talked, I called Jenks. I really, really, needed some reassuring words from that man. You know, like, reassuring me I am everything in a woman he could possibly desire, and he loved me more than bologna.

"Hey there, Honey," his deep, soothing voice said. "I got your message. You back in port?"

"I love you," I blurted.

"Are you all right?"

"Of course I am. I just...well, I love you. That's all."

"Who're you trying to convince, me or yourself?" he joked. Little did he know how close to the truth he was.

"When can you come for a visit? I'm lonely, and I miss you." Oh, boy, did that sound needy, so I added, "And I have bologna." One of the things Jenks says he loves about me is my bullheaded independence. Okay, maybe not the bullheaded part so much.

"You're worrying me, Hetta. What's wrong? Are you sick? Po Thang okay? You need bail money again?"

I laughed, relieved that I could. "Nope, not sick and not in jail. But I do have a lovesick hound on my hands," I said, hoping to change direction, lighten the chat before I said something like, "And there is this handsome Scot next to me at the marina who plays bagpipes and calls me Lass, and you're not here and I'm so lonely I'm tempted to jump his haggis."

During the rest of our twenty minute call, I recounted the story of Bubbles, me finding a sailboat adrift, and the Navy meeting me to take the boat off my hands. I skipped admitting to my iffy docking technique—no harm no foul, right? By the time I hung up, I felt much, much better.

And, there was icing on the cake; my call to Jan set in motion a diversionary tactic to keep me away from any possible hanky-panky. She'd be on my boat by late afternoon, all five-foot eleven inches of blonde haired, blue-eyed, man-killer.

If anyone can put a tilt in a Scotsman's kilt, it is she.

Jan arrived in time for cocktail hour, which in the past was a precursor to way too much alcohol over
several
hours. We had, however, come to the conclusion that we should try using adult beverages, like, say, adults. Hey, it could happen.

We took our drinks out on deck and she asked, "So, what's the big deal that had me driving six hours to get here?"

"Uh, oysters."

"Say what?"

"I got you oysters and you gotta eat 'em, because I took them out of the water and put them in the fridge yesterday."

She narrowed her eyes. "And this you consider an emergency?"

"You like them, I found them, and now both you and they are here."

She looked doubtful, but asked, "Hookay, then. What kind are they?"

"Ones with shells?"

"One would hope. Okay, let's see these treasures you dragged my butt down two-hundred miles of Baja One to eat."

I went into the galley and took a bowl from the fridge. I'd read on the Internet to cover fresh oysters with wet paper towels and refrigerate at a temperature of forty degrees or so. "The Net said not to keep them more than a couple of days like this, and if they opened up to throw 'em out. They aren't open."

Jan picked one up and sniffed it. "Seems okay, but they sure are small."

"Yeah, I thought so, too. Not like the ones you dove for on the Pacific side."

"I've never seen any like these before. Maybe they aren't even oysters. Gimme a knife."

I fetched my knife from the dive locker and she expertly pried open one of the shells, inspected what I consider the ick factor inside, gave it a sniff, and decided they were indeed oysters and might be okay to eat. Just to be on the safe side though, she decided to steam and re-chill them.

With her oysters back on ice and our main course heating, we moved out on deck for another cocktail. In honor of our newly turned over leaf, it was only our second drink. 

What a concept.

The oysters had popped open on steaming, so Jan snagged some Tabasco sauce and tackled one. It was so small it was barely a good bite and she gingerly tested it with her front teeth.

"What do your think?"

"Tough as shoe leather. Sorry, Hetta. You went to a ton of trouble for nothing."

"Oh, well, Po Thang'll eat it. Here boy," I called, offering the, to me, nasty looking critter. 

Po Thang, always polite, sniffed it, took it between his front teeth as Jan had done, bit down, and spit it out.

Jan hooted. "A dawg of discriminating taste. Must take after his Auntie Jan."

I frowned at the blob on my carpet and went for a paper towel. Swooping it up, I felt a lump and inspected it. "Jan! Look at this!"

"Wha—Oh. My. God. A pearl!"

Forgetting all about our rapidly cooling stroganoff, we washed the pearl—Jan insisted we do so in salt water—and inspected our find. It had an incredible luster, an iridescence not unlike that of the inside of an abalone shell, but darker. Black actually.

Jan went online and identified my find as Pteria Rainbow lipped pearl oysters, and declared I had hit the pearl jackpot. Especially if this one turned out to be natural and not cultured. 

We finally reheated dinner and speculated about what we had over a bottle of wine. So much for leaf turning.

After dinner we inspected the rest of the oysters, and found two more pearls, smaller and not as round. Jan said they were baroques, but were probably still valuable.

"Hetta, what did you do with that net?"

"I threw it in the garbage bin behind the yacht club."

And that is how, in full view of amused cruisers, Jan and I dumpster dove. Dived?

Into a Mexican dumpster.

Our mission was accomplished, but at great loss of dignity.

We lugged the large black garbage bag containing a severely reeking net back to the boat, triple bagged it and dropped it into
Se Vende
, which had been given a one day reprieve at my side until it found a new home. By now we were fairly odiferous ourselves and decided to let reeking nets lie for the night and took badly needed showers.

All this hard work called for a second bottle of wine.

Sipping the last of it on deck, Jan reminded me we were supposed to go shopping for my mom's birthday present, which she would carry north with her in a few weeks. Her own mother was having foot surgery and Jan was needed to help out for a few days.

"You could come with me, ya know," she said.

"I could, I guess. But I really don't want to spend the money right now. Maybe the Trob can come up with something that'll pay the bills."

The Trob is Fidel Wontrobski, the guy who keeps me one bare step ahead of bankruptcy. His father was a Polish communist, thus the name. He's an engineering genius with less than stellar people skills, but a big cheese at the mega-firm, Baxter Brothers, in San Francisco. I once graced their personnel roster, but fell into disgrace because I wasn't, in their estimation, a team player, just because I ratted them out to a client for price gouging. Despite that little fall from grace, the Trob and I have remained friends and he feeds me clients the B brothers don't feel like gouging. That's
my
job.