CHAPTER 12
Forsaking the noise and clutter of Mazatlán with its wall-to-wall tourists was a pleasure! Something had been toxic about the mixture of overheated tourist sweat, bargirl perfume, and exhaust, both mechanical and human. Clearing the polluted harbor, we felt invigorated—plus we were anxious to further blend with the real people of Mexico. For this segment of our journey, we welcomed aboard good friends, Art Taylor, and his partner, Laurie. Perhaps this gave Kim a feeling of seniority, as she seemed to take to her ‘fluff’ duties with renewed vigor. Kim was amusing to observe, assuming the self-appointed role of leading lady by showing our guests around. But, I admit, fluff and fold Kimmy was slowly finding a place in my heart as a pleasant young soul with intoxicating spirit and energy.
Art and Laurie had been with Denise and me when Endymion arrived in Los Angeles as freighter deck cargo. We had all worked to remove the shrink-wrap around the yacht, while sipping champagne—to relieve fears of nuclear poisoning, we told each other.
Now these nice folks were aboard. Two fishing lines instantly appeared. Art claimed fishing as his area of expertise.
“The lines will get a varsity workout,” Art boasted, “Mine will have the trophy catch.”
“You’re fulla crap, Art!” Tony replied, testing the pull on his Penn reel. That evening, with gentle seas, a soft breeze and setting sun, we dined on mahi-mahi. Ditto the next breakfast, and next lunch. All landed by Tony.
We arrived at Isla Isabella at dusk. All except me were anxious to go ashore to do some trading for lobster. I never knew which of our ship’s supplies were going up for barter. Usually beer was in the equation, and if Tony could slip one past me, I would lose a couple of my coveted Billabong T-shirts. Flashlights, magazines, and candy were hits as well—and Krazy Glue, believe it or not, fetched top lobster, but it required a demonstration to make the point and for this, we called again on Kim.
“Watch this!” Tony would say as Kim held out a hook, to which Tony would then attach squirmy bait by using Krazy Glue. The stunt, repeated frequently, earned us a lot of the tasty crustaceans.
Our intended next port of call was San Blas. Art read with interest from the sailing directions: “Located on a river flowing through dense jungle to the Pacific. River entrance shoaling can be dangerous due to shifting. Yachts entering this remote area are urged to exercise extreme caution.”
“Cool,” said Kim.
Tony looked skeptical. “I was talking with those guys from San Diego, on the charter boat in Mazatlán, remember them?”
No one did, so Tony kept going. “They were up this river . . . I think it was this one, anyway, and they told me there’s a whole bunch of Mexican marines in the area and they search everyone who passes.” “Yeah, so big deal,” said Art. “Your dad was a marine and look how harmless he is!”
“Thanks, pal,” came from me.
“My sentiments, too,” Laurie added, lifting the pen from a letter she was writing. “Once this cop pulled me over, an asshole, it took forever for him to search my car. He just wanted a date, I think . . .”
“I can see that,” Interrupted Tony.
“. . . and I know I personally don’t want some sweaty Mexican pawing through my things!” continued Laurie.
“Or pawing you either,” Kim proudly declared, like she had made a major contribution to an international debate.
“I’ll make this decision for everyone,” I said, rising behind the wheel to demonstrate authority. “Kim—Tony—anyone else with contraband, toss it or smoke it. We came to see this part of the world, and that’s what we’re going to do. As your Captain, I’ll be cautious. We shouldn’t be worried.”
“So we can’t have smokum on board?” Tony interrupted again. “Right, Tony, and we can’t be influenced by rumors from semi-sober charter fishermen who may, or may not, have been where they say they have been.”
My little speech caused everyone to leave the salon. Shortly, I was bathed in the familiar blue haze of ‘private stuff’ being disposed of.
We entered the San Blas River at daylight with Tony and Art standing bow watch, pointing out shallow areas to avoid or changes in water color, indicating shoaling. We had no problems, nor did we experience overly curious military checking us out as we passed their marine base, dropping anchor in fifteen feet of river water with a slight current taking us seaward, thus aligning and holding us broadside to a tiny village. Only a modest 20-foot anchorage separated us from a sullen, tired-looking group of village women, laboring over laundry on the river’s edge. I counted nine small mud and timber hut dwellings, several goats, and limitless chickens against a backdrop of truly forbidding, dense green jungle.
It was a setting of contrasts—my carefully maintained sailing yacht from another country anchored in the midst of what could only be described as Mexican poverty—happy poverty. We had hardly set anchor before a scruffy group of laughing children were swimming around Endymion, offering to be our guide or run errands. They were cute, and the laundry ladies, seeing us wave at them, waved back—broad smiles lighting dark faces as if to made their burdens lighter, whether it was heavy wet clothing being sloshed through the current, or baskets of drying fruit stacked atop heads sitting on shoulders made firm by years repetitious toil.
“This all makes me feel so lucky,” Laurie said, looking toward the shoreline wash rack.
“Yeah, me too,” came from Kim.
You don’t know the half of it, I thought.
The girls chose one particularly handsome youngster, a strapping teenager named Pedro, to be our guide, interpreter, and local friend. His mother taught in the one-room school. His father, grandfather, and three brothers had been lost at sea as fishermen—all in the same storm. It was tough to listen to the story or imagine its impact on these gentle people. Our lives, so gadget-oriented and complicated, were so different than their simplistic, straightforward, and too often tragic existence.
Pedro offered to take us up the river in his ‘ponga’ to see monkeys. We were delighted. The lad proved a skilled skipper of his small boat and an informative guide—and the family breadwinner. We later met the family, all seven surviving children and mom, none of who gave the slightest hint that tipping Pedro would be appreciated. But we did and Pedro earned his keep, taking us to places where wild pigs ran loose, and Art and Laurie ran after the wild pigs. Fools! Kim had a horseback ride on what looked like a donkey; while dozens of brightly colored cackling parrots eyed us from trees along the river’s edge.
We also learned that a crop favored by Tony, and illegal in America, was grown just a short hike from the village. We hardly missed Tony and Kim when they disappeared for a few hours.
With the girls promising Pedro they would write, we sailed from San Blas on the morning tide, going southeast to a picturesque, obscure little cove called Chalaka, fifty miles distant, another semi-safe anchorage with sparkling white sandy beaches on which rested two inviting restaurants. Certainly they would have lobster and chilled beer.
That morning being a Sunday, the girls requested to dress up for a meal ashore. However, an obvious, tricky shore break was going to make landing the Avon difficult. Tony and I held a brief management meeting.
“OK, here’s the plan,” I announced. “Tony and I will swim ashore, check out the restaurant, and then help you guys bring the Avon through the surf. Art, you drive. Kim and Laurie, you’ll be passengers, one on each seat forward of Art. Carry your shoes because you could get wet to the knees, in the landing.”
We were unintentionally misleading. This shore break was wicked. The girls, dressed to the nines, placed themselves in the Avon as instructed. Art, we knew, was not an experienced inflatable driver. With the girls looking every bit like Easter Sunday parade participants, they came roaring toward the shore, kamikaze Art at the helm—girls hanging on. The first wave to catch them sent the Avon into a broach, and the second wave sent them all, arms flailing and hair flying, into the surf. Tony and I had a chuckle. The others were pissed off.
Another day blending.