briantroy - 6-16-2011 at 10:28 PM
It seems to me that the Human Resources representatives of large companies appear a friendly bunch on the surface. They smile, pat you on the back,
but ultimately remind me of homicide detectives who also happen to be selling a used car with bald tires; they are your friends until they get the
facts and the signature.
I say this not because I have ever been slighted by an HR rep, but because of my recent and somewhat sour encounter with HR. I left that meeting with
the sense that I was a suspect of wrong-doing in the incident I was reporting, besides being a in the market for an older model sedan.
Kelli and I have worked at the same place for six years, and I would never have guessed HR would get involved in our situation. For the first five
years I knew her, we laughed, talked, gave each other relationship advice and then, one day, found ourselves both single and having the occasional
drink. This, as one might predict, became dinners and parties and eventual “friendly camp trip” into Baja.
Kelli is a tiny figure: just over five feet and a hundred pounds after enchiladas. One would never anticipate the fire behind her green eyes, sand
colored hair and proclivity for shoes (size 5) that cost more than a weekend in Vegas. Man, nobody could suspect her fire.
Knowing fresh goods, tequila and gas are better to buy on the fly in Mexico, I stocked only the basics in preparing for our Baja trip. My 1999 Ford
E150 cargo van was a leftover from a business I had previously owned. My father and I converted it into a camper, and I keep it prepped for travel at
the drop of a hat. It is known as “The Westerfield”, for reasons that would be in bad taste to mention here, but suffice to say it has served me far
better than any vehicle I have ever owned.
It was early afternoon when Kelli and I crossed in Tijuana. I am a frequent visitor to this area and the Westerfield practically maneuvers itself
through the twists and turns before hitting the toll road. Kelli had never been to Mexico and showed absolutely no reservations about the trip. And,
once the coast appeared along the road, she seemed more relaxed than I had ever seen her.
“Brian, are you going to be OK on the boat? Have you ever been fishing on the Pacific?” She looked so wonderfully fragile in the Westerfield’s big
passenger seat. Her hair was pulled back and her feet were on the dashboard. Her sandals were pink and her toenails had tiny sunflowers painted on
them.
“I’ll be fine, Kellita. If I get seasick I will have a taste of agave juice. Isn’t that the Mexican cure-all?” I would be doing more than a few
tastes, and she smiled knowingly.
The ride to Ensenada was perfect. The Westerfield drove itself down the coast so I could watch the gold ray of sunset through Kelli’s hair and listen
as she promised to teach me how to fish; she assured me she would be landing plenty. She had been fishing these waters her entire life, she told me,
and would be happy to show me exactly what to do out on that big ocean. She really seemed to love the ocean and love fishing even more.
We enjoyed our drive and eventually stopped at Manzanita for dinner. On the northern edge of Ensenada proper, the restaurant is tucked away among
industrial buildings advertising boat repair and marine parts. One would never guess the gastronomical delights such a nondescript warehouse could
hold.
Other than a few other couples, there was only a big table of a dozen, obviously wealthy, aspiring artists of different genres. They had an upbeat
vibe and their laughter was inviting. The hostess urged us to sit at the bar and, despite my reservations, I was very happy we did. The presentation
came in four courses and the young woman helping us stood just the nod of my head away. She was attentively discrete, guided us gently through the
meal, and we essentially had a private concierge for dinner.
There was a man, however, that has stuck in my mind when I remember this trip. Before our dinner actually started, while we were having a glass of
wine, a rather tall, well-built man entered and sat alone at the end of the bar. An American in his mid-fifties, he wore shorts, sandals and a
tattered Hawaiian shirt. His countenance was that of a local and his fluent but heavily accented Spanish added to my presumption.
Tanned, but not leathered, he quickly downed two shots of Patron tequila. He must have been a regular, I don’t remember him ever ordering his meal so,
I assume, the management knew his preference and a menu was not in order.
Before we had even started our appetizers a huge Rib Eye steak on a sizzling platter was placed before him. With grilled vegetables and a pile of new
potatoes, the big American dug in. I was fascinated; I truly was wanted to know his story. Our server had not left our side and the bartender, a
smiling and obviously competent man in his sixties, took great care to see the American was attended but not bothered. The meal was quickly finished,
we were still enjoying our appetizers, and the American paid in dollars and no words. I still regret not getting at least an idea of his story.
I had the pork chop with huitlacoche polenta, Kelli had the sea bass with truffles, and we both had bread with the most amazing olive oil I have ever
tasted. It was a meal I will never forget; the chocolate soufflé is something I still crave.
I loved having Kelli near me. I loved that she had the smallest bit of chocolate on her bottom lip after desert. I loved seeing that tiny speck of
chocolate and her complete unawareness. And to this day I have never mentioned it to anyone. We had another glass of wine and, just before we left, I
simply kissed it off her lip.
We left Manzanita and continued south in the dark. I don’t like driving in the Mexican dark, especially after wine, but the Westerfield can be trusted
and we made it to the campground near the infamous blowhole without an issue. Instead of camping on the beach, we opted for the more private area
across the road. We had a nice fire that first night, in our secluded privacy, and kisses were exchanged but nothing more...
[Edited on 6-21-2011 by briantroy]
[Edited on 6-21-2011 by briantroy]
waiting for part 2
volcano - 6-18-2011 at 06:44 AM
ready and waiting for part 2, please...
Mike99km - 6-19-2011 at 08:37 AM
Nice, More please.
Eli - 6-19-2011 at 09:26 AM
Part I was excellent, await Part II, please, pretty please!
briantroy - 6-20-2011 at 09:38 PM
The next day was fishing, and a certain bond had been broken while a new bridge had been built during the night. I thought of her differently after
that, and I think she thought of me differently too. A man can never be sure, especially in the matters of women, but I am certain she was thinking
about our friendship status as Diego baited our hooks.
We were the only two on the boat and, while I am no sailor, I would guess we were at least ten miles from shore. Not a speck of the mainland was to be
seen and Kelli and I spent the next five hours either reeling in fish or battling a huge sea lion for our bait. In my limited Spanish, I understood
Diego to explain that sea lions were simply a hindrance of the sport and he surprisingly showed no ill-will toward the big fella. Kelli explained that
the sea lion had followed us out from the port for a free meal. When I asked Diego about her theory, he simply shrugged. It seemed a long swim from
port, over an hour boat ride, but not being a sailor I didn’t doubt her hypothesis.
We pulled in over thirty fish that morning but only three different types. One was grey/silver and the other two were red in color. One of the red
fish had huge spikes along the dorsal fin and Diego called them “poison fish.” I assumed he threw these poisonous fish overboard, I never really
watched, as I was growing increasingly nauseous. About halfway through the trip, when the ocean jumped and I was either going to throw up or grab a
beer, I started to fall. I nearly caught myself, but managed to jam my finger between my knee cap and the side of the boat. And, because most of my
fingers are already deformed from a childhood of assorted sports, a teenager prone to fighting and a brief semi-pro career as a soccer goalie, I felt
more discomfort from the sea sickness than the cracked bone in my ring finger.
Diego started cleaning the fish as we headed back to the harbor. The captain, upstairs, had never spoken a single word to either me or Kelli the
entire trip. Feeling better as I spotted land I was surprised to see the “poison fish” were still in the hold. Diego explained that it is the fishe's
fins that are poisonous, not the meat. He was wearing thick gloves and took extra care when handling them. Kelli had not explained this. She didn’t,
in fact, seem to have the slightest clue what I was translating to her from Diego about anything related to fishing. She had proclaimed herself a
seasoned Pacific fisherwoman and yet she was unable to name any of the three species we had caught. Her knowledge of basic fish and fishing equipment
left me questioning her contention of being experienced on the sea.
Only after some research, when returning home, did I find the "poison fish" are called Sculpin. And, only after that, did I realize that Kelli didn’t
have the first clue about fishing and had been talking B.S. the entire time. But, at any rate, I made fish tacos from our catch when back at our
secluded camp. The Sculpin tacos were our favorite by far, and I can still taste the poison goodness. Fried in tempura batter with handmade tortillas,
fresh salsa, light white sauce and a few slices of avocado, we ate standing and laughing in the perfect Baja firelight.
The fireworks started at sunset. She was wearing jeans and a hoody, her face peeking out from across the fire as we happily munched away. It was cool
for a July 4th, and the wind from the water would send an occasional chill. We decided to walk across the road, nearer the beach and watch all the
activity. There were far more California licenses plates than Mexican, only Spanish was being spoken, and hundreds of people were camping tent to
tent.
The fireworks show was a chaotic scene of bottle rockets and downright bombs…
[Edited on 6-21-2011 by briantroy]
[Edited on 6-21-2011 by briantroy]