Troubled Sea Read Free Page B

the norther,” Jenks speculated as they ate.
    Hetta nodded. “Probably. We’ll listen to the Happy Hour Net on ham radio tonight. Maybe someone will report it missing.”
    “Oh, yeah. If one of our fellow cruisers lost it they’ll be crying in their piña coladas. If no one whines, I guess we’ve got ourselves a spare.”
    “Amazing, Jenks. My old boat was loaded with stuff like GPS's, sat dishes and the like, but in our reduced circumstances, we're down to a handheld. Not that these new ones aren't pretty danged sophisticated.”
    “Thanks to the Gulf War. So many Global Positioning Satellite units were manufactured for the American military that the unit price plummeted.”
    “Your tax dollars at work,” Hetta quipped, throwing a bread crust overboard for the black and yellow sergeant majors that had taken up residence under the boat. She watched the feeding frenzy, then added, “I wonder who lost it? As far as I know, we’re the only cruisers this far north on this side of the Sea right now. Almost everyone’s either in La Paz getting ready to cross to Mazatlan or Puerto Vallarta for the winter, or holed up in Puerto Escondido.”
    “They can have the so-called Mexican Riviera. I like it here. In the Sea.”
    “Speaking of which,” Hetta said, “do you think we can get over to San Carlos, be hauled out, paint HiJenks ’s bottom and be back over here on the Baja by Thanksgiving?”
    “Shouldn't be a problem. But first we gotta get to San Carlos. We should cross tomorrow night,” Jenks said, glancing at the diminished swells outside the placid anchorage. “Looks like we’ve got a weather window, so we'd better make tracks.”
    “I know. I’ll listen to the weather report on the Chubasco Net in the morning, make sure there’s nothing nasty coming our way. I just wish we had a big old moon.”
    “I know you don’t like night crossings without a full moon, but the water’s usually smoother after dark. I mean, we could give it a go tomorrow morning, but if we do, there's a good chance things'll get rough on the other side."
    “Jeez, get all logical on me, why don't you? But you’re right, it’ll most likely be smoother at night.”

 
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
    Chapter 4
     
    And pines with thirst amidst a sea of waves.
    —Homer, The Odyssey
     
    Dark red.
    That was all Pedro saw when he awoke. He felt the sun’s warmth on his skin, recognized it, knew he was awake, but he couldn’t open his eyes. As he’d slept, the unrelenting Baja sun baked him in a thick crust of salt that glued his eyes shut. Each eyelash and every hair on his head was white and stiff.
    He knew, from other times when he’d been sprayed and wind dried, that he looked like a photograph of an aboriginal tribesmen, their faces painted white, he’d seen in those yellow picture magazines that Gringos donated to the Mahatma Gandhi Library in Santa Rosalia.
    Squinching his eyelids tightly, then raising his eyebrows, he managed to open a small slit in one eye, but at a price; salt grit burned his eyeball like fire. With the help of those tears, he slowly and painfully concentrated on opening that eye.
    While he slept he'd dreamed of his mother's tortillas, and drinking icy cold aguas frescas , like the ones from a small store in Santa Rosalia. His favorite flavor was watermelon. Now awake, he cursed the fresh drinking water in the panga, only inches away from his head. His line, net and hook shroud allowed him to shift slightly, and he could, like a marionette on a string, manipulate one arm. But not far enough to reach that gallon of water he hoped was still in the aft cockpit. The bottle might as well have been in Mexico City.
    Scuffing, scraping noises overhead caught his attention. He gingerly cocked his head and, still struggling like a young kitten to open its eyes, felt his eyelashes finally release. He could see! A brown pelican sat on the motor shaft above his head, studying  Pedro like the fish he occasionally stole