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Osprey
Ultra Nomad
Posts: 3694
Registered: 5-23-2004
Location: Baja Ca. Sur
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Baja Drugs
Thanks for the nice comments about adventures down here. While I conjure up some more, here's a piece about drugs.
Proud Papa
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 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 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 wild tales 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.
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bajajudy
Elite Nomad
Posts: 6886
Registered: 10-4-2004
Location: San Jose del Cabo,BCS
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Sad but true
Excelente
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shari
Select Nomad
Posts: 13050
Registered: 3-10-2006
Location: bahia asuncion, baja sur
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Mood: there is no reality except the one contained within us "Herman Hesse"
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gracias amigo...a real baja story and common tragedy.
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Marie-Rose
Senior Nomad
Posts: 894
Registered: 10-2-2003
Location: Victoria, B.C. and Todos Santos
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Mood: Worried...
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Heartbreaking story... fabulous writing. Thank you
Remember, when in Mexico, yes may be no and no may be
maybe!
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Debra
Super Nomad
Posts: 2101
Registered: 10-31-2002
Location: Port Orchard Wa./Bahia de Los Angeles BC
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So sad, you have me in tears.
Mean people suck!
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Bajagypsy
Super Nomad
Posts: 1416
Registered: 8-31-2006
Location: BahĂa Asuncion BCS
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Mood: Living the dream
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That was one great story, you have quite the way with words.
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Lindalou
Senior Nomad
Posts: 623
Registered: 1-12-2004
Location: Punta Banda Baja
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Very touching, thank you so much......Linda
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Kell-Baja
Nomad
Posts: 360
Registered: 1-18-2003
Location: San Diego
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This story brought me to tears. Thank you for sharing.
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vandenberg
Elite Nomad
Posts: 5118
Registered: 6-21-2005
Location: Nopolo
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Mood: mellow
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Good one George.
My hat off to you.
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Hook
Elite Nomad
Posts: 9011
Registered: 3-13-2004
Location: Sonora
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Mood: Inquisitive
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Really excellent. Thanks for sharing this with us.
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Iflyfish
Ultra Nomad
Posts: 3747
Registered: 10-17-2006
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God you write well......like an Elmore Leonard Novel...so sad...great dialogue....tragic lives....well said....well written..
Iflyfish
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Barbareno
Nomad
Posts: 410
Registered: 11-4-2007
Location: Vernon BC
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Osprey, what a wonderful gift you have.
Barb
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fishbuck
Banned
Posts: 5318
Registered: 8-31-2006
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So he got depressed and drunk and then went out in his panga and drowned?
That sounds stupid to me. Sounds like the problem was alcohol not drugs.
He gave up hope and that is the sad part.
"A ship in harbor is safe, but that is not what ships are built for." J. A. Shedd.
A clever person solves a problem. A wise person avoids it. – Albert Einstein
"Life's a Beach... and then you Fly!" Fishbuck
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bajalera
Super Nomad
Posts: 1875
Registered: 10-15-2003
Location: Santa Maria CA
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Another good one, Jorge.
\"Very few things happen at the right time, and the rest never happen at all. The conscientious historian will correct these defects.\" -
Mark Twain
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HCR
Junior Nomad
Posts: 47
Registered: 3-23-2008
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This post is fictional, right?
Use it up, wear it out, make do, or do without.
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Osprey
Ultra Nomad
Posts: 3694
Registered: 5-23-2004
Location: Baja Ca. Sur
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This piece is fiction. Most of what I write is fiction. Since new people are coming to this popular forum all the time I must remind myself to write
more disclaimers/explainers so as not to be misunderstood. Consider this one of those disclaimers.
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Gadget
Senior Nomad
Posts: 851
Registered: 9-10-2006
Location: Point Loma CA
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Mood: Blessed with another day
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| Quote: | Originally posted by Osprey
This piece is fiction. Most of what I write is fiction. Since new people are coming to this popular forum all the time I must remind myself to write
more disclaimers/explainers so as not to be misunderstood. Consider this one of those disclaimers. |
You got a glitch somewhere in your hard drive. 
The Geek Squad can fix that for you so you can stop pulling folks legs.
"Mankind will not be judged by their faults, but by the direction of their lives." Leo Giovinetti
See you in Baja
http://www.LocosMocos.com
Gadget |
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fishbuck
Banned
Posts: 5318
Registered: 8-31-2006
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Ya, I didn't think the guy was really that stupid.
Drown poaching or transporting drugs in a panga maybe.
"A ship in harbor is safe, but that is not what ships are built for." J. A. Shedd.
A clever person solves a problem. A wise person avoids it. – Albert Einstein
"Life's a Beach... and then you Fly!" Fishbuck
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DENNIS
Platinum Nomad
Posts: 29510
Registered: 9-2-2006
Location: Punta Banda
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| Quote: | Originally posted by Iflyfish
God you write well |
And I thought he quit after the Ten Commandments.
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gringette
Junior Nomad
Posts: 60
Registered: 6-16-2005
Location: san pedro ca
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Mood: happy!
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fantastic read. sad story. more please.
setting sun deals bands of gold; there\'s velvet in eyes in mexico.
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