CHAPTER 11
Our disappointment with Mazatlán‘s commercial harbor conditions was immediate. Attempting to set anchor we repeatedly pulled up twisted pieces of rusty metal with oily
rags and debris clinging to them. I had the sense every move was watched by dozens of eyes, causing me to suspect thievery in these parts. I decided not to leave the boat at night.
Once anchored, we locked Endymion down tight, securely stowed everything of value below decks and set out through sultry, humid air thick enough to wear it, to find customs and immigration check in. As dictated by Mexican logic, neither was located in or near the port, so we walked two blistering hours before finding the Port Captain. Fortunately, our clearing went smoothly.
We next checked out the beachfront, an end-to-end collection of brassy-looking hotels. The saving grace in the sea of humanity was sighting a bounty of apparently well-heeled female tourists in skimpy (thank you, Lord) swimming suits.
“I gotta think,” mused Tony, “all these people are blind to the poverty surrounding this street.”
“I dunno, son, I doubt even the blind could miss it. Some pickpocket will find em—for sure.”
“Yeah, crime is probably the leading economic provider.” Looking around, I surmised Tony had pegged this one. We stopped for a couple of cool drinks in a beachfront bar, grabbed some groceries, and took an exhaust-belching cab back to the harbor.
Tony and I decided to take deck watches, at least for the first night. “I’ll swing the first one,” volunteered Tony, also suggesting four-hour watches. We settled on two hours to keep us more alert.
I spent most of my first watch wondering about the people aboard the jet that had flown over us that morning. What had they been talking about up there? Was there a delicious in-flight meal? How many were businessmen under pressure from an employer in a distant city? Did they see the little yacht sailing toward Mazatlán in the dawn’s early light? Hey, that was us, I thought. Could they have wondered what our life was like, floating on a vast sea, where careers and city life were unheard of, distant considerations? Probably not, but it gave me a perverse secret joy to consider it.
Tony took over at 0200, and we shared a cuppa Joe.
“You know, Pops,” Tony opened a dialogue, “I’m excited about tomorrow.”
“Yeah, what’s up?”
“Kim will be here mid-afternoon. I just wish we had a more romantic anchorage to start her visit.”
“And what do you mean by ‘start her visit’?”
“Well, she quit her job, Dad, so there’s no pressure to go back. Maybe she can just hang with us—(long pause)—and be part of the crew?”
I felt blindsided. There it was, our first difficult discussion since San Diego. Kim, as cute a California blonde as any movie or joke ever created, was also as flakey.
Attempting to mask my disappointment by sounding considerate, I said. “Gee, Tony, I hadn’t thought about it. I’m guessing she’s flat broke. I know you don’t have much, and I’m not sure I’m keen to assume care and feeding responsibility, as well as her general safety. Remember, this is Kimmy.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Well, she’s your girlfriend, and you call her bonehead. Right?”
“Yeah. I’m joking, though.”
“Well, Tony, she’s not a brain trust. Boats are complicated. How about we welcome her tomorrow and figure it out over the next couple of weeks?” I was confident a couple of weeks with Bonehead would take the wind from Tony’s sails.
“Sure, Pops, that works—and she has letters from Denise.”
Tony appeared happy with the results of our short talk, so I excused myself, but was halted dead in my tracks descending the companionway.
“Dad, is this real love?”
“Is that a serious question, Tony?”
“Yes. You’re in love with Denise. How did you know it’s real?” “Oh boy—you are serious, aren’t you?” I said reappearing on deck.
“Well, Tony, first thing—I can’t say for sure I’m in love with Denise. I think so, but I can’t say for sure.”
“Could have fooled me,” said Tony, “the way you act together.” “Let’s see, Tony, if I can explain. With Denise and me, we went through a pretty short period of infatuation. You know what that is?” “Yeah, Pops, sex, parties, and rock n roll!”
I let his comment go. “Well, if your definition is right, infatuation continues for Denise and me, and that’s terrific, but infatuation is still a time of doubts. For us it took only a couple of months to build a truly abiding friendship. I believe that’s because planning this trip drew us closer. Anyway, we started acting and feeling more like one, perhaps as soul mates might. We’re at the high end of that curve now, and the deep love we all want so much, is, for us, right around the corner.”
“Meaning what?” Tony grumbled.
“Meaning you asked a damn good question. I’ll say infatuation is different than deep friendship and the deeper meaning of love doesn’t come without first having the abiding friendship. Where are you and Kim in this, Tony? Infatuation?”
“I was just asking a question, Dad, but thanks. You’re probably right. Infatuation. Can that also mean obsession, because that’s what I feel.”
“I’m going to bed, Tony. Goodnight,” I said, thinking of the early commitment Denise had made to sail with me, to entrust me with her life and future. A remarkable young lady, and yes, I believe in love.
Tony and Kim met in high school and found romantic attraction the summer following graduation. Kim became a mostly unemployed hair stylist, and Tony had rescued the tall, thin, attractive blonde. I liked Kim and believed they cared for each other in a dreamy, youthfully exciting way, but I put the brakes on calling her “bright.” Tony had become a splendid crew. He did anything I asked, but normally didn’t look for things to do. With Kim aboard, I sensed things would be different, that Tony would likely be less focused. I fell into an uncomfortable sleep, wondering if maybe I was a wee bit jealous of this bright-eyed perky blonde who would soon be sharing my son’s attention—attempting to pickpocket his heart.
Tony shook me awake for my watch. Kim was still on my mind, and I hadn’t slept well. Tony was going ashore to pick up Kim and needed money. Tony managed money poorly, spending every cent he had as quickly as he got it. But, when we were in places like the open-air market or around underprivileged children, he always reached for his pocket to give what he had. The world was a better place because of people like Tony. I gave him what he wanted.
Kim and Tony were late from the airport. It didn’t matter much on ‘mañana’ time. They had obviously stopped for her semi-official introduction to Jose Cuervo. I knew this because she fell out of the inflatable trying to climb aboard Endymion, but managed with wild thrashing, and a strong lift from Tony, to keep her head above the harbor sludge and get aboard. Her backpack carried mail from Denise and luckily it was in the second, more secure transfer from the Avon, so I too, had a pleasing end to my day.
We allowed Kim a day of sobering up. She wanted to go fishing. Imagine that! We went, and learned it was a mistake to fish during or just after a full moon because fish feed continuously in moonlight and had no interest in our bait. We also learned professionals like the one we hired don’t do much different than we do. Most important, we learned never to hire a guide again because we didn’t catch a damn thing.
“Well, that was fun. Let’s hit the bars, Tony!” Bonehead had spoken.
That night the two partied while I read and reread my letters from Denise, one of which offered a timely fantasy for being alone on Valentine’s Day. Good therapy—but a long night’s deck watch.
The following day I invested in a call to my parents in Florida, who were concerned because they had not heard from me for almost a month. I gave them a slow burn explanation about Mexican Postal Authorities and what might have gone amiss. We came to a conclusion, which worked well for many years. We started numbering our letters on the envelope. In the end, a few letters were lost, and confusion took hold as Dad gained years and mixed up the numbers. No problem, especially if it was to be our worst—which it was not.
The next day, Kim and Tony were taking pictures in Old Mazatlán, giving me precious time to be alone. I noticed the anemometer beginning to rise. I took a couple of bearings to be prudent, and went below to tackle morning dishes. Standing in the galley, I felt we were heeling (tipping or leaning). I jumped topside and found us nearly broadside to almost gale force winds whistling through the rigging.
They call these Mexican winds a Chubasco. On steamy hot days like this one, they race down from the mountains to cool over the ocean. They are capable of havoc.
Endymion was dragging anchor—moving toward a pile of slippery rocks.
I jolted the Perkins diesel from its snooze and dove into the tiny locker housing the remote control for the anchor windless, something I was really glad I had added as an accessory. As I screwed the remote into place, I put the engine in gear and Endymion rode up on her anchor, enabling me, alone with the remote, to get the anchor off the bottom and away from the harbor’s debris field of rusty anchor chains that had become the death knell of decaying freighters. I moved a quarter mile out, dropped again and seemed to hold. Wind was down to 30 knots, having dissipated as rapidly as it had arisen. When we started to drag I had out seven times scope—all chain. Had I been ashore with Tony and Kim, we could have been seriously damaged. I just accepted what had happened and put another check mark on my growing list of respect for nature.
Sitting in the cockpit, measuring my good fortune at being aboard the last half hours’ near calamity, I bowed my head: “Dearest Lord,” I offered, “I owe you another one for guiding me to purchase an anchor remote. By the way . . . did I say my thanks for the masthead strobe light? It’s handy . . . keep it working for us and I’ll do my end. Your buddy Skip—out!”
The wind dropped to a twenty-knot breeze. Chubascos can be fickle, though. I hoped Tony and Kim would choose a lull in the wind to row out to their mother ship. The Honda outboard wasn’t on the Avon (because of theft), so it could be a tough row against 20 knots trying to keep Tony’s expensive photo gear dry.
Fortunately, they spent the night ashore. Fun for them and worry for me, but all was safe and forgiven in the morning. Cruising is not for those who keep schedules.