Warriors in Paradise (4 page)

I swam to her and asked her if she was afraid. She told me that she was a little bit afraid. I told her that it was quite an adventure and talked to her until she was calmer. I told my friend and his brother, “Don’t fight the current. Just float, enjoy the sea, and don’t get tired. I will come back for you shortly.” I asked the girl to grab onto my T-shirt and allow me to tow her back to land. She did, and eventually we were back on the jetty. It took me a total of twenty minutes to get the girlfriend and the girl out. My friend was about two hundred feet away from the jetty, and his brother about three hundred. I decided to go first for the one farther away, but my friend was behaving hysterically and began to swallow water. I decided to swim out to him first. I shouted to the brother to stay calm, to just float, and that I would be back for him as soon as I could. His older brother—even though he was farther out into the open sea—was a lot calmer. He told me not to worry, that he would be fine.

I swam to my friend and told him to grab onto my T-shirt and stop moving. “Just float. Don’t try to swim.”

I said, “Just enjoy the experience. Your girlfriend and niece are fine.” Little by little, he regained his composure. It might have taken me just a couple of minutes, talking him back into tranquility, but it seemed longer. He grabbed my T-shirt, and I started swimming back to the jetty. On various occasions, he would try to help me out, breaking my rhythm. I would stop swimming, turn around, and tell him to stay calm, not to become anxious, to just let me tow him out at my own pace. “Every time you try to help me, you throw us out of rhythm, and that makes it more difficult for me. I know where the currents are, and I know which ones to follow.” He would say that he was sorry, grab my T-shirt, and allow me to start swimming again. It took three quarters of an hour to get him out.

I had rescued three people. His brother was easily five hundred feet away from the dock. I did not feel tired, although my fingertips were completely wrinkled. I dove back in and swam in an easy, rhythmical pace toward him. The current helped me, so I was next to him five minutes later. I talked to him. He was cool, despite the fact that he was at the mercy of the current and almost out into the open sea. He thanked me profusely for getting his daughter and brother out. I told him the same thing I had told the others. He was cooler than them all and the easiest to tow back. We made it back in less than an hour.

That was all of my exercise for the day: rescuing four people from probable drowning. You wouldn’t believe how grateful they were. “Hell, man, you’re the best friend I’ve ever had. Thank you, thank you very much. We are very sorry that we ignored your advice and insisted in going into the sea.”

I was magnanimous and told them not to worry, no harm done, everything had turned out for the best.

Three months later, at another friend’s gathering, the very same friend told me that I was an irresponsible person. “How could you have let us go into the sea? It was your house; we were your guests and thus your responsibility. You should have stopped us from going into the sea. We are still having nightmares about drowning!” I was flabbergasted. I couldn’t believe my own ears. I just looked at him, turned around, and walked away. It reminded me of an old saying: “¿Qué favor te hice, para que me odies tanto?” Which loosely translates: “Tell me what favor I did for you, for you to hate me so much?”

Noon

That was a year ago.

I got out of the water, picked up my towel, and draped it over my shoulders. Then I walked up the 260 steps to my room. By the time I got there, I was sweating all over again, which was normal when the temperature was thirty Celsius, about eighty-six Fahrenheit, and the humidity 100 percent. I took longer than usual to shower. I put on loose shorts and a T-shirt and went down barefoot for breakfast. It was eleven o’clock, a late breakfast for me.

I had a fruit salad of piña and mango with fresh lime juice dusted with chile piquín, a plate of chilaquiles with green tomato sauce, four scrambled eggs, and a portion of refried beans. The coffee smelled and tasted heavenly. I need a cup of freshly ground coffee to start the day. The aroma of roasted coffee beans is what gets me going. I wanted to hug and kiss Sandra, but I just left it as a passing thought. The road to my heart most definitely runs through my stomach!

I turned on my iPad and reviewed the news and my e-mails. The news was not good. Tropical Storm Manuel was bearing down on Mexico’s southwest Pacific shoreline, while Hurricane Ingrid was causing havoc in the Gulf of Mexico. People were seeking shelter from the approaching heavy rains, gusty winds, and the threats of flash floods and mudslides along both coastlines. Manuel and Ingrid appeared set to wallop Mexico with a one-two punch and mar Mexico’s September 15 and 16 celebrations. Manuel was expected to dump about fifteen inches of rain on Acapulco, with a possible maximum of twenty-five inches in some areas.

I answered three of my e-mails and deleted forty or so junk e-mails.

I fetched my economics books from my bedroom and returned to the dining room to study, but I just couldn’t stay focused long enough to find my study rhythm. So, I gave up on studying, put on some music, and picked up a Paco Ignacio Taibo II (or PIT-II, as he likes to call himself) Belascoarán-Shayne novel,
Todo Belascoarán
. What a singular character! Belascoarán is an engineer transformed into a self-made, independent detective in one of largest and most corrupt cities in the world. Fascinating reading if you are into detective and noir novels.

Afternoon

The rest of the day went by with constant rain coming down in waves, hitting the living room windows with a vengeance. The sky would grow dark, then light, and then dark once again. Bolts of lightning illuminated the whole of La Roqueta, Boca Chica, and the sea beyond, followed by almost deafening thunderclaps. I could hardly concentrate on my book or listen to my music.

I took an uneasy nap and woke up with a feeling of dread in the pit of my stomach.

A rainy rematch

The thought of not meeting Charlie and Caleb crossed my mind. The fight with Charlie had been hard, and Caleb looked as dangerous, if not more. The rain was still falling, but not as heavily as in the afternoon. But I knew I would go. I had said that I would, and therefore I had to. There were no two ways about it. That is just the way my mind is wired. Growing up with a go-getting, self-disciplined, goal-oriented single mother molded me this way.

I got dressed in black pants, black shoes, and a white guayabera. I started off early. I wanted to be there by nine o’clock. Going from Old Acapulco—the traditional part of town—to Las Brisas, where Acaquila was located on Avenida Escénica, would take at least an hour, given the rain and the roadwork associated with the Acabus project.

By nine o’clock, I was in Acaquila, sitting in the same chair as the day before. After one frozen Herradura Reposado, I thought that they would be a no-show. I was wrong. Thirty or forty minutes later, I felt Charlie and Caleb sitting down next to me, sandwiching me.

I said, “I assumed you guys were a no-show. I figured you were running back to the good old USA with your tails between your legs.”

“You should be so lucky!” said Caleb.

“No way, Jose!” said Charlie. “The traffic was a bitch, and it took us forever to find a taxi in the middle of this fucking rain. Hell, it’s been raining all day long! This is Acapulco. Where the fuck is the sun? That is why we arrived late: too much rain, too few taxis. But here we are. Better late than never.”

“So, Caleb,” I asked, “do you still want to fight?”

“Not particularly, no. But if you’re still into it, I will happily oblige,” said Caleb.

“Good,” I said. “I feel the same way. I would rather drink and party than fight. Charlie, Caleb, would you care to join me?”

“Don’t mind if we do!” said Charlie. “By the way, you have to show me that move with the pants. You almost had me there.”

“Yes,” I responded. “You also had me there with that kick to my face. I have no idea how I didn’t go down. Look, the weather is shit. Why don’t we head out for the restaurant and later go to the club?” I said.

“I second the idea,” said Caleb.

“Yeah, I like the sound of that,” added Charlie, looking at me with a smile on his face.

Dinner

We left the bar and walked to the restaurant. The maître d’ gave us a table and three menus. I was in the mood for steak, so I ordered a
tampiqueña
(a tender strip of seared beef, tasty beans and rice, guacamole, a saucy enchilada, some lightly browned chile rajas, and onions). Charlie ordered the Acaquila hamburger, medium rare, with fries. Caleb went for the
pescado a la diabla
(crappie fillets in a chipotle and tomato sauce) with steamed potatoes.

We were hungry, so we also ordered the mixed
botana
(appetizers). We decided to stay with beer. They ordered Coronas, and I had a Bohemia.

The restaurant had few customers, probably because of the rain. The background music was soft and soothing. Our conversation got easier and more comfortable. We were suddenly asking personal questions about our backgrounds.

Who are we?

“By the way, my name is Santiago Carrasco Portillo. My friends call me Santi,” I said, looking at them over my frosted beer mug.

“Pleased to make your acquaintance,” responded Charlie. “My name is Charles Underhill, and this here is the world-famous Caleb Jackson.”

I told them that I lived in Mexico City and that I was studying economics at the National University of Mexico. I also mentioned that for the last couple of years, I had been on the national wrestling team and the Mixed Martial Arts Circuit.

Charlie and Caleb told me they had met nine years ago at Fairfield Prep, a Jesuit prep school in Fairfield, Connecticut. Charlie was the captain of the lacrosse team. Caleb was there on an athletic scholarship. Charlie saw Caleb in one of the trials, and he immediately knew he was a natural. He wanted Caleb on the team. So, next day, he went looking for him. He saw Caleb surrounded by some of the school’s nasty seniors. They were taunting him with some racial remarks. “Are you black or nigger?” one of the seniors was asking Caleb.

Caleb answered, “What kind of dumb-shit question is that? Here, let me ask you something: Are you an inbred redneck retard, or are you strung out on meth? Even though you don’t deserve a proper answer, I will tell you that I am both. I am a black American because I study and work. But I am also a nigger, because I think that we deserve special treatment to compete with you on an equal basis.”

Before they could retort, Charlie walked up to the group and asked Caleb: “How you doing? How is the school treating you?”

He then turned around and asked the seniors, “What are you guys doing? Do you know that this guy is one of the best lacrosse players I have ever seen? So, I am asking you again, what the fuck are you guys doing?”

The seniors just looked at Charlie and Caleb, and, without saying a word, they turned and walked away. Even the seniors feared Charlie.

Caleb was upset, and he told Charlie angrily, “I didn’t ask for your help. I didn’t need you; I had everything under control!”

Charlie answered: “I knew that. I know you don’t need my help to deal with those clowns. But this is not about you, it’s about me. I need your help. We really need you on the team!”

Caleb was silent for a moment. Suddenly, the angry face faded into a smile, and he responded: “Yeah, OK, but only because you ask so nicely.”

They had been best friends ever since that moment.

They both liked weightlifting and tennis. Charlie also did some jujitsu and Muay Thai
boxing. Though he still liked lacrosse, he had grown out of it by now.

Caleb liked everything from running to weightlifting. However, he didn’t practice anything on a regular basis. He enjoyed weightlifting and basketball because of the social aspects. He was fond of training and shooting hoops with friends. He also loved tennis because he relished competition on a one-on-one basis.

Whatever Caleb did, apparently he was successful at it—not only because he liked winning, but because he couldn’t lose. He was a natural, with the right brain wiring to go with the right body type. It wasn’t hard to imagine him doing twelve reps with three hundred pounds or even running a hundred meters close to or under ten seconds. His body was an extension of his mind. His mind had untapped resources, and his body had sheer animal strength and grace.

I thought, I was lucky yesterday that Charlie chose to be the first.

After high school, Charlie joined the army, partly driven by the death of his father and partly because it was a family tradition. Caleb also joined, partly because he thought it was the right thing to do—and mostly because Charlie joined. They volunteered for infantry, airborne, and ultimately army rangers. Their training took just short of a year.

They pulled two one-year tours in Afghanistan on the Pakistan border at remote mountain outposts, dealing with Afghan and Pakistani forces who were constantly changing allegiance to the highest bidder. They excelled at dropping behind enemy lines and in close combat in difficult terrain. Half of the time, they were doing back-to-back missions, rolling outside the wire and getting into firefights several times a night. The other half, their days were spent training out at the range, playing video games, and knocking out some college courses online.