Santiago
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Brendan's Song
Maybe my favorite story by Mike. Happen to run across it this morning and thought I would post it for old time's sake.
________________________________________
Baja California Information Pages
Stories by Mike Humfreville
Brendan's Song ( Posted February 6, 2003 )
They were camped at Camp Gecko for two weeks. The man and his wife and two grown boys; a family friend and her son, Brendan, 8. The heat was intense,
well over the hundred degree mark daily, the sun pounding the sand more fiercely than the surf. They were sitting in front of their palapa near the
beach. A flock of cawking gulls and a number of brown pelicans stood along the shore, facing into the breeze. A set of four Oystercatchers, bright
beaks against dark bodies, settled with the other birds. They stood aside, didn't mingle with the others, rather kept within their own band. The boy
pointed out the four birds to the group. The man picked up a camera; he had never seen Oystercatchers in the Bahia de Los Angeles before. "Come on
Brendan." he said to the boy.
They moved toward the birds, some thirty yards distant. The man moved behind a beached boat to avoid frightening the birds. He and Brendan ducked low
and as they emerged from behind the boat, then dropped to the sand on their bellies. The birds saw them crawling forward but were unthreatened. The
pair inched forward toward the Oystercatchers, forcing themselves forward through the sand with their elbows, knees and feet, moving ever so slowly.
The birds were now twenty feet in front of them. The man indicated to Brendan that they should not make a sound. The boy signaled back the sign he
would use when he wanted to borrow the man's camera to take a picture.
It took them 10 silent and slow minutes to crawl forward to a position where they were both about six feet from the birds.
The man took several pictures. The boy tapped the man's leg when he was ready and received the camera silently, took several pictures himself. The
birds were curious about the event, but didn't seem to mind the proximity of the two quiet humans in their presence. Then they lost interest and
merged with the other birds, a few yards away. Brendan and the man stood and returned to their camp and families. "That was fun!" he said. "That was
teamwork." the man replied.
Later that day the man took the boy out in his boat, a small tin fourteen-footer with an outboard. The boy wanted to fish. They went to a place a few
miles out, between the north point of Piojo and the south point of Smith's and dropped baited jigs into the hundred foot depths. The man showed the
boy how to let the line out until the lure hit bottom, bring it in a bit to keep it off the rocks and then wait. Within seconds the boy had a hookup.
The man guided the boy's retrieval and Brendan soon had a four-pound jawfish nearing the surface.
"Now what?" he asked.
"Bring the line over to me." the man said. "Don't reel the line in too tight. Leave me some slack." He pulled the fish aboard, unhooked it, held it up
for the boy to admire, then tossed it to the rear of the boat.
"Teamwork." the man said.
They fished another hour, the man and the boy. Brendan caught six or eight more jawfish, two cabrillas and a trigger, was tired from reeling them in,
his small hands struggling to turn the spool, his arms rubbing against his life jacket, the sun wearing the boy down.
"Let me know if you need help." the man said. The boy continued, tired but unwilling to relinquish the rod.
"I think I can do it," he said.
"Just remember we're a team. I'm here to help if you need me."
So Brendan brought in all his own fish, and several the man had hooked. When they fired up and headed back to camp the man saw a shine in the boys'
eyes that he recognized as pride. The boy had accomplished a small unimaginable feat.
They arrived at camp and threw the fish on the sand, carted them up to the cleaning table, protected from the sun with a small thatched cover. The
table was tall, designed to fit the height of a man standing. The man placed the fish on the table, found his filet knife, noticed that the boy was
not able to see the working platform.
"Stand here, Brendan." the man said, pointing to an old fuel tank positioned beside the table. The boy climbed onto the tank and was now level with
the man. The man filleted the first fish, began the second.
"What's my job?" the boy asked, "we're a team, aren't we?"
The mans knife paused only briefly as he absorbed, recognized the boys desire to support his efforts, to be a member amidst others. It was an
overwhelming moment for the man, but he showed little, wanting the boy to be proud of his own action rather than to have made another happy.
"Feel like getting dirty?" the man asked.
"What do I do?" Brendan replied.
"Here," the man pointed to the building pile of guts, lying beside the soft flesh of the fish, "Give these to the birds."
The boy tentatively picked up a liver with two nervous fingers, stepped off the tank on which he had been standing, and walked toward the building
attack of seagulls and pelicans along the shore. He threw the liver into their midst and a great feathered flurry commenced that built as Brendan
retrieved and threw fishguts to the growing throng of birds. By the time the last gut hit the beach, the boy's hands, arms and legs were covered in
blood. He had no care except for the activity at hand.
The man and the boy washed and bagged the fish, cleaned the table, sheaved the knife, and carted the bags to icechests for dinner later that day.
"Thanks for taking me fishing." the boy said.
"My pleasure." the man responded with no further words.
What good were words at a moment like that? he wondered. His heart felt the warm moments with the boy, pulled thoughts of his own children forward for
perhaps a final time, from so long back over a twisted trail of years to the times when he had carried his boys forward through another adventure, had
shown them something new, unexpected; when they had piloted the boat for the first time, caught their first fish, found their way home from miles out
in the gulf in rough weather.
We are a team, he thought. He walked down to the shoreline, threw water on his face, walked back into camp. "Here, honey." his wife called, tossing
him a towel to dry his face. She knew his was a clever ruse to camouflage the fact that tears had dampened his eyes. Thanks for the memories, Brendan,
the man thought, to himself, it truly was his pleasure.
________________________________________
Copyright 2003-2006 Mike Humfreville
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Bajazly
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Nice. Guessing inspired by actual events.
Believing is religion - Knowing is science
Harald Pietschmann
"Get off the beaten path and memories, friends and new techniques are developed"
Bajazly, August 2019
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David K
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'Brendan' was modeled after a real person:
Brendon was Debra's son (aka Travelpearl). Debra and the Humfreville's traveled together after we all first got together for the Viva Van Tour of
2001. Mike and Mary Ann Humfreville followed along in Mike's beat-up little truck he called "POT" (Poor Old Truck). Their oldest son, Miguelito was
with them, too, but rode in the van with us as we had room.
Debra (from Wahington State) traveled back to Baja to join us on more Baja trips after that summer of 2001 and brought her youngest son, Brendon
along. They eventually got a place at Camp Gecko, and the Humfreville's did too, just north of Gecko. Mike and Brendon did go fishing together.
Thanks, Jim for the story posting.
Here are Mike Humfreville's stories (2002-2006), indexed:
https://math.ucr.edu/~ftm/bajaPages/Correspondents/BajaWithM...
Mike's book, In the Shadow of the Volcano, is for sale at www.oldmissions.com and at the L.A. Bay museum.
In Sept. 2002 at Cielito Lindo for BBBB #4 party (first two photos from Bedman):
Mike Humfreville
Travelpearl's son, Brendon.
Travelpearl's son Brendon and Brandi's son Michael, cooling off in the fountain.
More photos at: http://www.vivabaja.com/bbbb4/
[Edited on 12-30-2020 by David K]
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Paco Facullo
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The non published ending to this story was just after the old man wiped the tears from his face Branden retrieved the filet knife from the fishing
sack unsheathed it , started running amok slashing all flesh the viscous knife could find !
When all was quite the floor was a solid blood bath, Brendon , now had found is true team , him and his viscous knife and proceeded to walk out into
the sunshine singing a happy song ..........
Since I've given up all hope, I feel much better
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Bajazly
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Quote: Originally posted by Paco Facullo  | The non published ending to this story was just after the old man wiped the tears from his face Branden retrieved the filet knife from the fishing
sack unsheathed it , started running amok slashing all flesh the viscous knife could find !
When all was quite the floor was a solid blood bath, Brendon , now had found is true team , him and his viscous knife and proceeded to walk out into
the sunshine singing a happy song .......... |
Everybody likes a happy ending
Believing is religion - Knowing is science
Harald Pietschmann
"Get off the beaten path and memories, friends and new techniques are developed"
Bajazly, August 2019
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BajaBlanca
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Great story!
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David K
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Another of Mike Humfreville's gems:
Stories by Mike Humfreville
Punta Eugenia ( Posted July 27, 29, 31, 2006 )
Part 1: Bahia Tortugas
We left Mexico Highway 1 behind at the Viscaino junction and headed more or less west toward one of the more remote parts of Baja California. The road
was paved for the first ten miles or so; we weren't in the business of checking odometers. We passed through many acres of citrus trees and then
groves of figs. Somewhere near where the cultivated agriculture ceased so did the pavement. The dirt at first was heavily washboard and our two 4WD
SUV's handled it well but what was the rush? We had no firm schedule except to be back in Bahia de Los Angeles by the end of the week, several days
away.
I had been to the Viscaino peninsula before, but the road from the village of the same name was new to me. In the late '60's I had made a trip to
Bahia Tortugas, Punta Eugenia and Malarrimo, but the road was almost non-existent back in those years - we had had to cross the elevated dykes of the
Guerrero Negro salt works and then hug the eastern and southern flats bordering Scammon's Lagoon before heading west where there were only miles of
deep sand and we had followed the few tracks of other adventurers. We had had no compass and traveling at night we gazed through our two windshields
at the half-full moon. We theorized that, if we bisected the arc of the moon, chasing the long set sun, we would be heading west. It took us three
days back then to get to Bahia Tortugas. While today's trip was a longer drive it took us only four hours.
The current road smoothed out after an hour's slow driving before the washboard eased somewhat and our speed increased. We were passing through a
significant part of the Viscaino desert, never known for its exciting flora and fauna, but the road passed for miles along salt pans and low but
jagged ranges of hills that were interesting themselves. The road remained wide enough for two opposing vehicles to pass easily. That was a good thing
as the vast majority of folks that drive that road do it so often that they cover our four hour trip in half that. A number of miles before Tortugas
the road was paved again. Smooth as glass after all the dirt driving.
We arrived in Tortugas mid-afternoon, surveyed the hotels in the town, selected one, and unloaded our gear. We discovered that there were two hotels
in town and the prices were quite low. The one we selected was $20/night and allowed dogs. It was good that they did as we had four of them with us.
What a zoo!
We toured the dusty town and learned our way around and asked about the route to Punta Eugenia. It was an easy going oft-graded track that wound up
the Viscaino's arm, hanging out into the Pacific and would take us about an hour. We returned to eat dinner at the hotel. From their vantage point, on
a hill adjacent to the Pemex station, we could see the pier jutting out into the waters of the bay and a few sailing ships and fishing boats nearby.
The cooler air was refreshing after being in Bahia de Los Angeles for so long and then crossing to the west coast through the central desert. During
dinner the town's generator gasped and quit and the town's lights faded, went out. The owner of the restaurant immediately supplied a candle for our
table; we were the only people dining there. Looking out the windows we could see that the entire town was dark. But sooner rather than later a
personal generator fired up and then another and another and before long every family that wanted "luz" had it. It was a testimony to the rugged Baja
dwellers that they were prepared for just about any eventually.
Our traveling partners, including baby Brisa, and Mary Ann and I situated ourselves on a small patio looking north-west. The town was filled with
activity, headlights working down dusty irregular streets, children riding bicycles, pedestrians wandering and talking in the late evening. The
tranquility of the moment was touching and we sat listening to the activities. Soon the town generator was restored and the entire set of rolling
hills that comprise the village lit up.
As we prepared for bed we found that electricity to our rooms, which had been circuited off earlier in the day, was now working. The single light
socket in the middle of our ceiling had been provided with a bulb and turned on for our convenience. The towels we had requested earlier had now been
provided for morning utility. Dog Dito joined us on his rug between our two small beds. Our friends put two of their three dogs in the back of their
camper shell; the third slept in their room. It was a very comfortable night. In our room, adjacent to our friends, Mary Ann and I talked for a bit
and then lay down to read. Within a few minutes we were both fading and turned out the light. My head, resting on the difficult pillow, worked over
the sounds coming from the street below. It had been a wonderful day. I fell asleep listening to the bubbling laughter of children and women walking
the dusty path beneath our simple accommodations. All over town the dogs were barking but they only added to the simple serenade running through my
mind.
During dinner we discussed making the trek to Punta Eugenia. It had been almost forty years since I had been there.
Part 2: Punta Eugenia
(I hope this doesn't confuse folks - it is from a trip taken several weeks back but I merge alot of memories from a trip ~ 1969.)
As we had gone to sleep the night before, we woke to dogs barking. They were everywhere in the town. I dressed and stood looking over the village from
our vantage point on the hillock. The twisting streets loosely defined small quadrants of houses and business. I had always appreciated how the small
villages have most of the houses attached or adjacent to the businesses the dwellers operated, providing security and proximity the ever present and
growing family. The streets are almost all small and narrow and dirt. Whenever a vehicle passed there a cloud was sure to follow. This accounted for
the fact that many owners of homes or businesses were flinging water from pans and buckets across the earth.
It had been so many years since I'd been here it was impossible for me to say what was new and what had existed with my visit in the '60's. I was
certain the village had a new church, near the water and at the end of what appeared to be a primary street. The villagers were friendly and quickly
offered us whatever instructions we needed. The stores of the town were filled with items unavailable anywhere else in the central desert except
Guerrero Negro. We paid our bill, gathered up and organized the dogs, piling into the rear of our vehicles. We were off for Punta Eugenia.
The road heads north from the village. It is wide and occasionally graded. I was thinking while upgraded from decades before it still followed the
approximate route it had so many years back. While the Vizcaino - Tortugas road is certainly faster, it by-passes the parts of the malarrimo arm that
I had once shared with others. We had then passed, well into the desert, a sign for the old Rancho San Jose del Castro. So many years Castro was a
focal point for the entire area. En route to Malarrimo we'd pull off there to share a meal or a night's sleep at that ranch. We had siphoned gas from
oil drums there. After all the miles of deep loose sand we had traveled it was always a welcome sight, San Jose del Castro.
From Bahia Tortugas to Punta Eugenia took us about an hour. It's something over twenty kilometers. It is in good condition the entire stretch, winding
through some relatively steep then plunging hills and valleys. Several turnoffs on smaller roads to the west led to what I assumed to be tiny fishing
villages. The drive just for the sake of the drive is worth the effort. We dropped into the final washout and climbed to a small plateau. A few
village outbuildings extended toward the Pacific and several houses had been built there. We were approaching the village and everything felt familiar
without specific recollections from years passed. I looked for the old desalination plant that had existed on a small hill west of town. I couldn't
spot it; assumed it was long gone as the government had installed it but never trained anyone to maintain it, at least that was what I'd been told
back then.
I was in the lead of our two vehicles and wasn't certain where to go. There were certainly more buildings now then my last visit. But I kept to the
road and we soon dropped down into a small arroyo that I recognized. In fact I spotted an old building that might well have been where I had sat and
watched children playing 40 years before. We pulled to the side of the road and shut off the engines. The dust settled. We unloaded ourselves and the
dogs from the trucks. Baby Brisa had her bottle of mile in hand. She was walking now and quite secure on her feet, even on this slope that dropped
gently toward the bay that served as the village launch ramp. We must have appeared a ragged band by those who'd spent their extended days in this
hamlet by the sea. There were a number of young girls standing nearby. When we released the dogs the girls were terrified. Our friends retrieved the
dogs and told the girls that they all friendly, which they were. But they did enjoy a good bark. Baby Brisa, mom and dad walked down to the edge of
the water and sandy beach. Many pangas bobbed just off shore. A small opening in the lava that surrounded the beach formed a bay. A group of young
fishermen were pulling onto the beach, unloading their cargo. We walked down to visit. They had caught many Bonita, large sierra and a good number of
Yellowtail in the 15 - 20 pound range.
"There are many fishes here." One of the men said in broken English. We spoke Spanish in response, lauding their catch. They were offloading into a
sand-parked 2WD pickup but the men knew the beach and had no trouble pulling the loaded truck up to the small building, open on two sides and intended
for cleaning fish. In looking at the building I recognized the cinderblock walls and tin roof, was a reconstruction over the site where I had watched
the village, during the proper season, haul in their lobster traps by the hundreds. So long ago I had arrived at that magical moment and was
encouraged to join in with the process. Each aged wooden trap measured about three feet by two feet by 18 inches. They were all filled with lobster.
The traps were individually positioned in the old building. There were several officials who picked up individual lobsters and placed them atop a very
old measuring device. Depending of the length of the lobster, it was placed in another container with others of its size. Work had proceeded
throughout the afternoon. At one point a very large lobster was pulled from a trap. He was at least twice the size of even the biggest of all the
others. As this was unfolding a young man asked if I had a camera. I handed it to him. He asked if I would like my picture taken with the giant
lobster and waved me forward. One of the men told me to hold my hand out and put the beast in it. The boy stepped back a few feet and snapped my
camera shutter. I was honored.
On our current trip the old building was gone but the new one built exactly where I remembered the original. By now the girls that had been standing
nearby were playing lovingly with tiny Brisa, who knew very well she was the center of attention. My friend and I were asking about the village; one
of the fishermen invited us to lunch on his catch. I noticed an older man, about my age or older. He was sitting on a curb in the fishing hut.
"Have you lived here long?" I asked him.
"Fifty-five years." He said. He had lived here when I came for my first visit. I noted how the village had grown. He agreed.
"Do you remember the desalination plant that they used to have on the hill entering town?" I asked.
"It's still there, but a building now covers the equipment."
"Are there still plenty of lobster?"
"Yes, but they're not in season now. The time to trap lobster is fall and spring." He named the months.
It was mid day. The towns and our dogs had integrated, the children were adoring Brisa and she them in return. We were obliged to decline the young
mans offer of lunch at his family home. I have taken up folks on these offers before and it is always wonderful to experience the warmth and
generosity offered to me so far into the outback. But it was getting to the point of spending another night in Bahia Tortugas or heading back to
Guerrero Negro where we wanted to do food shopping the next day.
Regretfully, we piled back into our vehicles, turned them around, did a lot of waving and were gone. But I was majorly rewarded to have met the
gentleman that had lived here most of his life. I wondered if I had met him on the '60's trip. We returned to Bahia Tortugas, drove through the town
one last time for this vacation, and headed back toward Viscaino. I was sad to leave after only two hours but the stability of Punta Eugenia over the
decades and the friendly folks there will remain with me forever.
Part 3: Return to Bahia de Los Angeles
It was sad leaving Punta Eugenia so far out on the Malarrimo peninsula. The old man had warmed me with a feeling of continuity at a time when the
States seemed to be either at war or irritating the rest of the world. Here, a tiny hamlet at the end of all roads offered a stability to the few that
lived here and warmth to those few visitors who cared to travel that far. My new friend had lived and loved here most of his life and I respected him.
We returned to Bahia Tortugas. I bought gas from the Pemex and we were off heading east over the roads we had traveled two days before. I would have
liked to explore all the side roads we encountered but, alas, schedules put the skids on that. Maybe next time. Knowing what to expect this leg of the
trip I had only to reflect on so many years ago and the "roads" that more or less converged at San Jose de Castro. For the moment I could only add
that ranch as one of my destinations for the next trip. Three days was not enough. And I'd like to take the road south to Bahia Asuncion and points
south. On my 1969 trip, I had come north from that direction. As I remember there are some wonderful hills not far inland and I wanted to revisit them
too. There are so many natural and sociological interests in Baja. Most of us from the States are going so fast on a one- or two-week vacation that we
don't have time to stop and listen to the bees and smell the wildflowers of spring, to look for interesting trails, to follow endless roads that led
nowhere. I asked myself why someone would go to the trouble to start a road that led nowhere. But I knew plans could change.
We encountered the pavement of Highway 1 well before dusk and continued on into Guerrero Negro. With four dogs we had a little trouble finding a hotel
that would accept them but eventually prevailed. We unpacked the needs of a single night and carried them to our rooms. Brisa had been bouncing in the
backseat of our friend's truck and was ready to romp. She had made many new friends at Punta Eugenia; I wondered if she was too young to even think
about them now, let alone remember her warming experiences for life, something to carry her through the rough spots she would later encounter along
her way.
We ate dinner at the Malarrimo hotel and restaurant. The food was, as I have always found it, excellent and the service is even better if that's
possible. We slept early that night after all the dirt driving.
Guerrero Negro is the primary "supply" town in the central peninsula. The morning found us seeking out a small CD player and a number of music CD's. A
group our friends had introduced us to at their house in Bahia de Los Angeles, just down the sand from our place, was the Elefantes, very mellow
stuff. Then we stopped at a hardware store which had everything we needed for home improvements on a small scale. Then we shopped at Tanguis market
and found a great supply of foods. While Bahia de Los Angeles carries a lot more than a few years ago, it is so small there isn't need for much. At
Tanguis we stocked up in bulk before we headed north
The pavement between Guerrero Negro and the turn off is well paved and the countryside not spectacular. It allowed my mind to wander. We'd seen most
of the points of interest near the bay. We had many times made the La Paz - Cabo - loop. It's just too developed for my tastes these days; maybe when
I was younger?
Once we hit the turn off the desert is filled with a rich assortment of Cordon, Cirio and many, so many Elephant Trees all catching the water vapors
climbing up from the bay nightly.
So now, I'm thinking, maybe more trips into the central desert outback. There are so many places I haven't seen, ever or recently. There is so much
warmth to appreciate, most notably the local folks. On this trip I had seen that the smaller more remote villages are touched by the "civilization"
that's closing in. I know what interests me but the peninsula is bound to change. I think about what many of us call poverty. These locals are not
poor. Not having an abundance of money doesn't make poverty. Depravity will certainly add to it, but everywhere we visited in our too-short trip we
encountered acceptance, smiles and greetings, and helpful support of those who knew better than we did. I hope the changes hanging on the horizon like
water-laden cumulous clouds will benefit those families that settle here and there in the outback. While progress is necessary and inevitable, I wish
they could avoid the extremes regardless of from where they emanate. But in my heart I know they will; they'll carry their values of honor, family,
helpfulness forward to whatever generation is waiting patiently.
When they win, I will too.
Copyright 2003-2006 Mike Humfreville
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