BajaNomad

A Bigger Stick

Osprey - 5-26-2015 at 08:18 AM

When this was posted 8 years ago it got some nice comments. Baja Bernie loved it so I'll post it again in his memory.

A Bigger Stick



Enrique is gone. His boat is gone. He’s gone. He put his little boat in the water Wednesday, was seen by other fishermen heading for the seamount. The whole village has been out looking for him; along the shore, in boats, all the way south to Frailes. No use going northeast because the wind has been coming from there for two months. The hunt started Wednesday night. The resorts on the east end of the bay have all sent out search boats. The winds have been light for over a week so no one believes he is a victim of foul weather, killing waves or swells.

They might find the boat but they are searching for a dead man. There are three of us in the village who know he is never coming back.

Monday afternoon my wife had a card game on the patio with some of our lady friend neighbors. I was at the computer fishing and wishing in an endless sea of dreams; ultralite, ultrastrong, ultrapriced fishing gear of every known description. At times I grow restive. I grabbed a six pack of Modelo, some ice, a small cooler, my binoculars and said goodbye to the group for a quick and easy change of venue; couple of hours on the beach lookin’ for whales. Cynthia Crane, who considers me a complete Neanderthal, waved and said her “Love you! Mean it!” Newport cheer just to get me going.

I didn’t see Enrique until I parked the truck next to the little palm ramadas the municipio had constructed last year. There were enough empty quart bottles (Ballenas) of beer lined up in the sand next to him to let me know he had been there awhile and had not been alone. Now we had the whole beach to ourselves.

The wind was out of the northeast but not too cold. I left the radio on in the truck, left the driver’s side door open to better hear the music, sat down on the big log bench under the palm shade and opened a beer.

I met Enrique the first day I moved to this little village. Even before I unloaded the big trailer, I couldn’t resist a walk to the beach; kind of a celebration of sorts – seems like I had waited a lifetime for a chance at retirement in this quiet little place and finally, at long last, the day had come.

He and his brother Juan were standing by his big red truck looking out to sea. I introduced myself as a new neighbor and I tried out some Spanish words I had boned up on hoping I would pronounce them correctly. Enrique had some English.

When I asked him how the fishing was he said “No bueno por chit.”

That was eight years ago. My Spanish has improved, his English did not. I was born On February 12, 1937, so was Enrique Castro. We had little else in common; I considered him a friend and I have no idea what he called me.


Instead of trying to repeat what he said that last time I saw him, I’ll just explain the overall gist of what happened under the palm; we didn’t talk in complete sentences, we mixed the lingo, we pointed and waved and gestured, we made grunts and whistles – he did most of the talking.

He told me his mother used to tell him he had too much pride; that it would cause him problems throughout his whole life. He said his wife thought the same. Enrique said he knew all about it but he was born a prideful man and could not change. He told me the troubles his mother promised were upon him and he did not know what to do.

I knew that for almost 40 years he and his three brothers worked the bait boats for the resorts in the bay, that his age and diabetes finally forced him to quit two years ago. I also knew his son, Paco, broke away from working bait with his brothers and took a job with resort Tres Palmas. Paco worked as a deckhand, marinero, for two years and finally got his own big charter cruiser as captain.

The whole village knew Paco was earning the big bucks because twice his boat won huge prizes for clients in the local Bizbee Billfish tournaments. His picture was in fishing magazines – little Paco being embraced by husky, grinning millionaire fishermen. The timing could not have been better because now he had to be the big breadwinner for the Castro family; his sister, Delia, was a food checker at a local tienda but her income was not nearly enough to feed the whole family.

I thought I saw what might have been a whale breaching so I played the binoculars over the area; just some whitecaps far out making their familiar popcorn pattern. Opened another beer for myself and handed one to Enrique. He was picking at his toe with a stick. Several decades in the boat, in the sun have turned his feet to wood, the skin to fresh tanned bullhide.

Now he really began to unburden himself. The beer was talking for him and he slurred some of his words but he made the message clear with his gestures, grimaces. The word drogas, drugs, riddled his speech – he spat the word out like it was a pebble in his frijoles. Paco was into drugs. His son was handing out drugs to the local cops, drugs and money. Enrique’s brand new silver Dodge pickup was a gift to him from Paco. Enrique would not get in the truck; now it was Delia’s truck

His wife, his daughter, his friends and neighbors, the whole village knows about the drugs and the drug money. His wife, Marta, will not refuse the money. He said “She is like me, una puta, a hoar to the drug money.” He told me Marta argues that they have better food now, can pay all their bills with the money. She says who cares about where the money comes from? The tender beef she buys now and serves the old man sticks in his throat, its sweetness lost in his disappointment and self-loathing.

He looked away, took a sip of his beer and fell quiet. Perhaps he was crying and didn’t want me to see. I looked out to sea and considered that my old friend might be coming close to what I call the struggle point. I worked a lot with animals before I retired here and I know animals will remain calm even when tethered. For a while – then there is a point at which they realize they cannot move. The struggle point varies with the animal, the restraints, handlers and the conditions but those who work with large animals like bears or wolves or mules know the signs, the flash in the eye, the subtle twitching that precedes the adrenaline rush, the unnatural strength, the violent attempt to escape at all costs.

When he broke his silence it was a question for me. “Gringo, is all this just a Mexican thing? Do you not have putas in Estatos Unidos? Nothing good can come from the drugs.” He said he warned Paco that the drugs would bring sorrow and an early death to those who used and sold the stuff.

He said “If we are not changed by what we learn, then why bother? Why pay the maestros, the teachers, why have old men around to advise the young if it does no good? What wonderful lies the drugs must tell!”

“Jorge, this orgulloso, this pride is a curse. I wish my mother had beat me with a bigger stick.”

Enrique’s helplessness was contagious. What could I say? What could I do? I felt powerless to help, advise or support. With the police as accomplices Enrique could hold out slim hope that the situation would move his son away from more and bigger dope deals; perhaps it would nudge him closer to involvement with soldiers of mainland and Tijuana drug cartels.

The fisherman slid slowly off the log, let his chin fall to his chest in final resignation. When I offered him a ride home he simply waved me off. I put the remaining beers in the sand beside him, put my hand on his shoulder for a few seconds and drove away.

Sunday morning a rancher walked into our local police station and reported a small boat washed up on the beach south of Antares. The authorities waited until it was dark to retrieve the battered hull and motor – once in the open impound yard the boat stood out as a sad and sore reminder of their complicity. They waited two days then moved the boat to a spot in Enrique’s back yard. While they maneuvered the rusty trailer into place and unceremoniously shoved the boat off onto the sand, Marta and Delia stayed silent, remained indoors and turned up the sound of the television.

With no body, no corpse, there will likely be no formal funeral – perhaps just the family, and those of the brothers’, will attend a private mass. I hope the body washes up. A big funeral would teach us all something. Maybe we would all be changed a little as Enrique wished. We would all see Marta and Delia’s tears of shame, not sorrow, be witness to the pose of the policia, slouched in the pews, staring at their hands or hymnals to hide their guilty eyes.


Whale-ista - 5-26-2015 at 08:30 AM

Perhaps Enrique faked his death: he met someone who spirited him away, and together they found a more honorable life...

We had a similar situation with my family in Northern Baja. Expensive cars bought with cash, JetSki's, vacations. We told the ones with all the new money: "we can't associate with you. Everyone knows this money is coming from narcotraficantes. Don't fool yourself and think we don't understand what's happening."

They had a choice to make: family or drug money.

Fortunately, they were able to choose family, and now have a reputable business that everyone supports.

Many others don't get to make that choice, or they don't have a family that encourages them to leave the drug trade. It's a dangerous business...

Udo - 5-26-2015 at 08:34 AM

Masterful writing, Jorge.

Glad little Paco landed the captain job, and got into the big buck in order to feed the family. Mexicans are great at sharing what they have with their families.

This is one of those that is hard to tell fact from fiction.

Great going, Jorge!

jbcoug - 5-26-2015 at 10:59 AM

One of your very best Jorge, very insightful!

Thank You

DanO - 5-26-2015 at 11:41 AM

Even better the second time around. Thanks, George.

4Cata - 5-26-2015 at 04:55 PM

Not sure of the title, but you're the man! Miss Enrique even thought I didn't know him.

Kgryfon - 5-26-2015 at 11:18 PM

Quote: Originally posted by Udo  
Masterful writing, Jorge.

Glad little Paco landed the captain job, and got into the big buck in order to feed the family. Mexicans are great at sharing what they have with their families.

This is one of those that is hard to tell fact from fiction.

Great going, Jorge!



Did you miss the part about Paco's newfound wealth coming from drug money, are are you just trolling?

Udo - 5-27-2015 at 01:44 PM

No, I did not miss it...I just ignored it.

woody with a view - 5-27-2015 at 04:57 PM

can't wait to put my toes in the sand with a drink in my hand and lose a few hours reading my collection of your stories!

T minus 33 hours until launch.....