Authors: Jinx Schwartz
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 he 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, and 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.
As
HiJenks
powered away, a rattled Hetta blabbered, “Did you see all those packages? There must be twenty or more. Twenty kilos of...coke? Yeah, probably cocaine. God, I wonder what happened to the
panguero
?”
“Who knows? Right now, I just want to get us as far away as fast as possible.”
“You got that right. What’s that noise?” Hetta said, looking around.
“I don’t hear anything.”
Pedro was cursing
Gringos
, his brother who sent him out here, his net shroud, and all the major saints, when he heard a noise.
Motores
? His hopes soared. They were returning.
“Listen, Jenks.”
“I still don’t hear anything. What’s it sound like? Wait, I hear it. There,” Jenks yelled, pointing at a helicopter flying low towards the panga.
“Oh,
merde
, I sure hope those guys don’t think we have anything to do with the stuff in that panga,” Hetta squeaked. Every cruiser knew to give floating dope in the Sea of Cortez a wide berth. Most never even slowed down when they spotted the drugs Jenks called “square grouper.” And whether the chopper held drug runners or cops made little difference.
HiJenks
was in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Behind them, the helicopter swooped over the panga and hovered within ten feet. Dull pops of an automatic weapon barrage reached
HiJenks
as the chopper abruptly pulled up and away. The panga exploded in a spectacular fireball and the sky lit up like the grand finale at a Fourth of July spectacular.
“They blew it up! They blew up the panga, Jenks. What’s going on?”
“Damned if I know,” Jenks said through clenched teeth. Then, while Hetta jumped around screaming and cursing, he calmly brought both engines to full throttle, headed for the fog bank, and switched the controls to autopilot. The thirty-year-old Perkins 6-354 engines had not been pushed past 1800 rpm in years but, coughing up a cloud of white smoke, they responded when Jenks pushed them to 2300. He had no idea what speed the old Perkins were capable of making, or how long they would hold out at full throttle. While trying to calm Hetta, he vaguely wondered if their insurance company would cover a claim for two blown engines incurred in the act of fleeing a hostile helicopter. An act of war?
In the fast-descending darkness, the Jenkins lost sight of the helicopter after it left the glow of the burning panga. Straining their eyes, they heard the increasingly louder whop, whop, whop of blades before they saw the chopper again.
“Hetta, get below,” Jenks commanded in an even voice. “They’re coming after us.”