For five dollars a panga would take us to the real world. We had been sailing for almost two months, deprived of news, fresh food, and alcohol. We hadn’t set foot ashore since San Francisco. Now, in Barra de Navidad, a local fisherman was prepared to sell us our freedom for fifteen thousand pesos. We had cleared Customs and Immigration in Ensenada, but this was our first port call in Mexico.
Most people walk cautiously on life’s path, assuming adventure will find them. They’re taught that opportunity lies on the road less traveled. They venture down the dock, but remain one step short of embarkation. How romantic, they all agree, living on the ocean.
“Hold the boat, Greg,” I called to my shipmate. Last week saw to all the deficiencies of machinery and canvas. Every swim call was a hull cleaning, and three coats of paint could only envy the seven coats of varnish. I slipped through the lifelines, from the deck of our pristine fiberglass hull into a wooden kettle of fish.
I was raised on boats. Each day was steeped in sea lore, seamanship, and the menial chores which make it possible to live in such a small space. the only great mystery of life was the fate of all those landlocked passions.
I slumped in the bow, writing frantically as we skimmed the clear blue river Styx. The glorious sunsets, the company of flying fish and dolphins, the watches spent singing under the stars, were fading just as a ship’s wake melts back into the sea. I was ready for my next crusade.
Greg squatted, ready to spring from the boat. “Are you going to see that girl from San Francisco?”
“Andrea?”
Greg cocked his head. “Is there another harpy calling you to your doom?”
“No. Just the one.”
Greg stood as tall as the little boat’s stability would let him, and danced. “Obsession,” he sang. “You are my obsession. What do you what me to be, to make you sleep with me?”
“She’s picking me up in Oakland.”
“Excuse moi,” he said to the fisherman. Greg plopped down next to me and muttered, “Stupid Frogs.”
“Are you determined to spend a month in Mexico?” I wondered.
“Maybe more,” he said, keeping his eye to the white sand ahead. “It’ll take a while to hike to Big Bend.”
“Why do they call it ‘Big Bend’?”
He gave me his tourist face. “‘Cause the Rio Grande winds through there,” he waved his arms, “and makes this big bend—”
The boat grated to a halt. Greg jumped from the panga and disappeared towards town. The fisherman pulled up the outboard and locked down the wheels on the transom before joining me at the bow. We heaved up and rolled the boat above the tide line. And, for the moment, my burden slipped away.
I crawled into the warm afternoon sand. A frame of tree branches and palm fronds stood above me. The fisherman spoke something more elaborate than “gracias” as he walked away. “Di nada,” I said for my hand in hauling his boat.
The ketch had taken its time coming down the coast from Seattle. The original plan would have put us in Acapulco a week ago, farther south. Greg and I were supposed to fly out of Mexico City tomorrow. Greg bumped his flight back. I changed my point of departure to Guadalajara.
Greg Harrelson and I had spent most of our schooner days in Puget Sound and the San Juan Islands. The thought of getting 30 degrees closer to the Equator warmed our souls. But we worked our way to Mexico for the simple reason we’d never been there before.
This was the beginning of our years abroad, away from the Pacific Northwest. We had earned enough sea time to win berths on East Coast boats for the 1991 season. We would trade up from there for a Transatlantic and begin a slow trot to the far reaches of the globe. I couldn’t wait to see the Middle East and some working dhows, some of the oldest sailing vessels still hauling cargo. Greg was holding his breath for Thailand. He was making a pilgrimage to the last home of Tristan Jones, the eccentric Welsh sailor. Those, if we stretched our vision far enough, were but small pieces of this big blue puzzle.
Mexico was just the end of our first leg. We had hitched a ride with a family of four heading south for the Winter. They needed some disposable help with their Gulfstar 51, and two experienced schooner bums fit the bill. Private boats paid very little, if at all. But that was on par with the schooner business. At $200 a week, it took quite a few paychecks to set us on this new voyage.
“Take a picture of me,” Greg shouted.
My camera was ready before I realized what the subject was. Backlit by the setting sun, the bottle of rum sparkled. He held it high on his lips wearing nothing but a straw hat.
“Where’s your clothes,” I asked, taking the picture.
“I don’t know,” he laughed, passing the bottle. “You gonna send me a copy?”
“I’ll send your MOTHER a copy.”
Greg hid behind the shelter as two young women approached. Just as the shutter clicked, they repeated the words the fisherman had used. I waved and lay back in the sand.
“Hey, Greg. What did those girls say?”
Greg jumped back into the frame wearing a sarong and a woven bag. “You don’t want to know,” he said, taking back the bottle. “Could I borrow some money? I’m a month behind on Christmas shopping.”
“I’m strapped till I get back.” I admitted. “There’s just enough money in this pocket to get this pocket to the aeropuerto.”
Greg eyed me suspiciously. “Just answer me one question, Dave. What are you offering this girl?”
“Isn’t it obvious? Romance, man. I will have traveled vast distances, brought exotic visions and tales from far away lands. The pilgrim will have trekked to the gates of her temple.”
He nodded his head suspiciously.
I rose up to my knees, ignoring the infidel’s lack of faith. Amusement drew across Greg’s face as I bowed to the setting sun. The evening crowd strolled past, and I chanted the phrase that was thrown at me over and over again.
“You really don’t know any Spanish, do ya?”
“No,” casting away his blasphemies. I prostrated myself in prayer.
“They say you shouldn’t lay here because of the scorpions.”
I jumped out of the sand and we headed for town.
Selkirk's Ghost 