Osprey - 5-21-2007 at 10:44 AM
Here's chapter 3 of a book I wrote about 5 years ago -- the action takes place here in the southland in the year 2015.
2015
Too Many Golf Courses
It would not stop. The voice. That deep authoritative voice of reason was talking non-stop inside his head. Dick Rangel did not want to listen.
What he wanted this Tuesday morning was to grab Tom, go the hotel bar, have Hector make up some Mango Daiquiris, get drunk and stay that way until the
voice grew weak and then, later, became a muted whisper and was gone.
The voice said put on your best business duds, go down there, be polite, be businesslike, kiss some ass and rent these two boats. He was reminded by
the voice that this was only his third try. The first charter operator he talked to was fast and firm - no. He really did not talk to the decision
maker on the second try -- a dockside lackey said we're up to here in boats and walked away. Dick knew the voice was right -- unless things picked up
significantly in San Carlos on the Pacific side, for charters, Cabo San Lucas was the only place from the tip of the Mexican peninsula to Seattle,
Washington, he could charter these two boats and keep the business in the black.
The voice was simply being friendly. All his other choices looked exceedingly grim. Now that Tres Palmas was operating only the foils, he was
treated like a stranger. Now he had to pay to be docked, anchored, hauled, fueled, whatever. Most of the 150 or so cruisers in Palmas Bay had
already gone back to the states, had been sold or found contract charter work in resorts in Mazatlan, Puerta Vallarta, Panama or Costa Rica. Two or
three of the larger boats, 50 footers, had been refitted and found work whale watching but his 34 and 36 foot boats could not be reworked. Dick had
called, Emailed or faxed every resort from Cabo to South America with no positive reply. He had scanned slick photos of the boats, equipment, specs,
tournament winnings, letters of recommendation, etc. Now all he could hope for is that some busy charter service in Cabo had two, or more, sick boats
and he would have a chance, at least for awhile, to make some money with the boats. He did not need the voice to remind him of the million and one
heartbreaks connected with the ultimate alternative; pushing the boats back uphill all the way to Washington state for a maybe charter there.
The voice mumbled during the hour-long drive from Los Barriles to Cabo San Lucas. It drowned out the DolbyXX sound system, negating the usually
uplifting beat of the latest and hottest calypso rhythms on his newest CDs. Dick had shaved, put on white shorts, captain's shirt, docksiders, a gold
Bisbee watch -- he was ready. In the stylish briefcase were two leatherbound folders, one for each boat; the Brujita, a 34 foot Stephens and the Lili
Ann, a 36 foot Cal. The folders looked organized and professional. He only had to do a little updating; he had not used the slick folders in the
nine years since he began to charter to Tres Palmas Hotels. The parking lot at the Plaza Las Glorias was jammed so he parked in the public lot and
walked back to the plaza. The charter office was in the rear on the marina side, first floor. Very fancy.
Dick stepped up to the reception area window, smiled at the receptionist and said, "Hi, I'm Dick Rangel, I have an appointment to see Mr. Ebort at
nine."
"Just a second, I'll tell him you're here."
She walked through a door, rather than use the phone. She had a slight European accent, nice legs. She came back through the door followed by Horst
Ebort. Crew-cut, very straight white teeth, lots of gold and covered by clothing which must have come from a book announcing the latest in "very
expensive clothing people wear on yachts."
"You wanted a charter?" said Mr. Ebort.
"No, I have two boats in East Cape I need to charter out. I was hoping you needed some more boats."
Ebort used another door to enter the reception area, shook Dick's hand, smiled and said: "Sorry, I forgot, lets go see Manny, Manny Quiroz, handles
all my boat contracts."
They walked through a door on the far side of the reception room into a small office with a view of the marina. Luckily "Manny" was in.
"Manny, this man is from East Cape, he has a couple of boats to rent." Horst's very German accent and speech pattern made the listener think of a
checklist being studied, read, completed. Manny was about 30, Mexican and clearly a body builder -- tailored shirt to show off the pecs and lats.
Manny said; "Have a seat."
Horst smiled, checked one more thing off his personal list and quietly retired.
Dick sat down, set his briefcase on the floor, next to the chair -- there was no room on Manny's desk to hold the briefcase or even the folders --
the top of Manny's desk was covered by stacks of boat folders. Plastic, metal, leather, snakeskin, elkskin, even one in bamboo. Shaken, but not yet
defeated, Dick plunged off the high board.
"I have two nice boats under contract to Tres Palmas that aren't getting worked the way they should so I am looking around in Cabo."
"I wish I had your problems. I can't get people out of the casinos and off the golf courses down here. We have almost 180 flights a day here
between the two airports, almost 30,000 people by air on some days and there aren't a handful of real fishermen among em. The fish count, fish caught
per fishermen per charter is still going down. It's all over the net, the news. It's killing us. So, the people on the planes want to do everything
but fish. I'm sorry but I can't get half my boats out now. If you're interested in selling your boats, leave the appraisals here and I can get back
to you."
Dick stood up, Manny stood up. The meeting was over; handshake, smile, there's the door. On his walk back to the car he considered how much
"Manny" would offer for the boats -- about the cost of a semi-good hull paint job.
The drive back was worse than the drive down. "Jesus, why did I wait so long to move on this stuff?" Dick asked himself. He had no answer, the
dreaded voice did.
"Because, Dickey boy, you are lazy, spoiled and disorganized. You have been content to take the $200 a day for each boat when they went out, sit on
your ass on the patio with Tom and Patty and get comfortably numb looking out over the calm blue waters of your Sea of Dreams. You got soft. You pay
Lucia to clean and wash. You pay Chino to take care of the Ford. You pay Enrique to take care of the boats -- all you do is go to the gosh darned
bank, arrange for a few parts and some engine repairs now and then. You don't even have to pay rent; keep the bar full of booze and take your hosts
to dinner occasionally, buy a few groceries. You got soft and lazy and stupid."
Dick had seen it coming. He had seen the boats leaving, sinking and burning. He had seen them suddenly disappear. Everyone knew the insurance
companies were aware of the problems in the Gulf. All the insurors were balking when new claims came in from any boats working these waters. One
time there were four marine insurance claims adjusters staying at the hotel to investigate new claims. The files did not stay open long. Two boats
were moved to Mazatlan, then sunk. The claims were denied.
He didn't need the voice to tell him that his own personal irony was about to eat his lunch. He waited too long to act because he had no real
expenses, he managed the money all right; he waited this long because he could, because he had the money. Now it was too late. Too late to sink or
burn. Too late to seek charters in southern Mexico or Central America. Too late to get a fair price if he sold the boats here in Mexico.
Choices: Drive the boats up the Pacific Coast to San Diego, sell them, take a bath. Drive the boats to San Filipe, 650 miles to the north in the
significantly calmer Sea of Cortez, truck/transport to San Diego, sell them, take a bath. Drive them to San Filipe, truck/transport to Seattle, maybe
charter, maybe sell, take a bath. Drink some Drano.
"Well dude, how'd it go?" asked Tom when Dick walked back into the house.
"Don't ask." from Dick.
"That bad?"
"Worse. A bunch of hustlers in gold chains. Say there's too many golf courses, everybody's in the casinos, yada, yada, yada."
After a delicious fish dinner a la Patty, they sat on the patio and looked out over the mirror surface of the sea. Four brandies following two
glasses of wine, preceded by four glasses of scotch made Dick's tongue a little thick; not so thick he could not talk.
"Say, the weather's so nice, you guys feel like a nice long boat ride with your old pal?"
Not a sound, Tom put his hand on Dick's shoulder, Patty slowly got up from her chair, turned and walked down the custom rock steps, now illuminated
only by a waning moon, to the beach below.
Cypress - 5-21-2007 at 11:20 AM
That crystal ball of Osprey's gives us all a glimpse into the future regarding the sports fishing industry of Baja if the new rules aren't
revoked.
Appreciate the story.
woody with a view - 5-21-2007 at 03:39 PM
great read, osprey! why isn't this published?
CaboRon - 6-3-2007 at 09:23 AM
I have really enjoyed your many posts on this forum. Love your writing. Ron 
Osprey - 6-3-2007 at 03:07 PM
Maybe I have "The Gift"
The Crystal Confirmation
My friend and neighbor, I'll call him Clyde, is a Crystal Guy. When I think of him, I think of Sedona, Arizona, bastion of the fringe-people, the
crystal folks. Those left-handed mystics who prowl the scrub pinions and redmud monoliths letting the metaphysical convergence overtake their
spirits. Sedona is a magnet, pulling in artsy-craftsy mind-gypsies who arrive, almost daily, with arcane medicine bags and dog-eared afterlogs of out
of body ventures; occasions where they sent their minds awandering. There is a whole school of theory and application attached to this
phenomenon/capacity. Clyde knows all about this stuff. He has attended seminars with those who can send their spirit, their conscious energy, at
warp speed, on short visits to such rare places as the core of the sun, the Egyptian tombs at the Valley of the Kings, the lightless depths of great
pools of oil beneath the Artic tundra. He is stingy with the little snippets of information he whispers to me about our government using these
space/time travelers as spies -- sneaking into Saddam Hussein's sub-terranian meetings, poking around missile silos in China, North Korea.
When I shared with Clyde some fanciful stories I had penned as practice pieces, Clyde, as both friend and critic, surprised me by suggesting that I
might be one of The Chosen -- one of those born with the gift of out of body travel. At first I was flattered that he would see me as gifted. He
said my tales rang with an understanding that could not come from research or sheer imagination. Clyde suggested that many people with the gift are
not completely aware that they take mind-trips. These adventures are not simple day-dreams or flights of fancy but the very real movement of
mind-energy; sending one's senses into worlds like the stomach of a tree frog or the floor of a huge crater on the far side of the moon. Something to
ponder. I took a little walk down memory lane to see if I could catch myself in mind-flight.
World War II was just winding down when I reached the age to go wandering with my body. My parents allowed me to spend my daylight hours at the
beach, in the swamps near our house, roaming afoot or on my bike through the streets and palmetto patches of a small town in southern Florida. There
were so many wondrous things to discover, uncover, catch, inspect. The swampy area just east of what is now The Everglades held so many different
kinds of insects, plants and animals, I was never bored. My senses were bombarded with the constant stimuli I encountered every second in this
untouched place of water, sawgrass; each hummock a miniature jungle right from the pages of Tarzan.
Maybe at that age, at a time when I was one gangly sponge, I was really soaking this stuff up wholesale, marking places I could return to at almost
any time, from any place by simply relaxing my body and my mind, focusing on the smells, the sounds, pesky mosquitoes, swelter of unbelievable
humidity. At that same impressionable age I wandered through fantastic worlds in books by Ray Bradbury, Harlan Ellison, H.G. Wells, Robert Heinlein.
My recollection now is that as I entered adulthood, when pressed by things I perceived as problems or obstacles, I would lie back, close my eyes,
relax my mind and body, return to the hot, green places I loved so much as a young man or wander through the stars with my favorite fantasy writers.
Everyone seeks escape. Escape from what they see as a humdrum existence or perhaps the ache of a dreary present with no hope for a better future.
Whatever the case, where and when escape is possible, it makes our lives bearable, more interesting. Music, books, the theater, movies, television
are our modern avenues of escape. We each take a little vacation from our regular lives, our routines, when we read, see a play, watch a movie.
These short sabbaticals are necessary because reality sometimes bites.
I don't suppose I'll ever know the truth about Clyde's flattering observation. How can one really know the difference between knowledge and
circumspection, intuition? Have I been sending my mind places? If so, was the visiting energy unnoticed by those I encountered? Was my intrusion
felt, discovered? If it was, I owe apologies to a lot of people, especially to Marilyn, Marilyn Monroe. Now that I think of it, also to Miss
Barnett, my 9th grade history teacher, some Playboy Bunnies and Jane, Tarzan's Jane--no big deal, only two or three times in the treehouse. The Ape
Man was off somewhere screaming orders to elephants and leopards -- they weren't even married.
I have never been a risk-taker, I've always played it safe. For now I think I'll rein in my peripatetic little mind, stop the intrusions, the
sub-leasing of people and places. Maybe, just for now, I'll give my mind a rest, right here in my boring head; a quiet little place of its own.
Bedman - 6-3-2007 at 05:59 PM
Hey......
Marilyn's Mine!! 
Of course there is always Brigette......Brigette Bardot!! 
Bedman