A Dangerous Harbor

A Dangerous Harbor
vs
4.1

© 2011 RP
Dahlke

Published in the USA by Dead Bear Publishing

A Dangerous Harbor
is a work of fiction. The names, characters, and incidents are entirely the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or events, is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be copied, transmitted, or recorded by any means whatsoever, including printing, photocopying, file transfer, or any form of data storage, mechanical or electronic, without the express written consent of the publisher. In addition, no part of this publication may be lent, re-sold, hired, or otherwise circulated or distributed, in any form whatsoever, without the express written consent of the publisher.

Foreword:

This book was the result of several years aboard our cutter rigged
Hylas
47 sailboat spent sailing in Mexico and as most California sailors know, first port of call into Baja, Mexico, after San Diego is Ensenada. Most of the town is clustered around the harbor where working marinas like Baja Naval still service American boaters.

I found this sleepy little town to be fascinating, full of endless stories, with a culture that was, and still is, struggling to gain a foothold in the twenty-first century. The irony is that I started this book ten years ago, based on a local news story, which at the time was staggering in its brutality. This story is no longer unique as the Mexican cartels daily murder with impunity. But, just as the cartels are not all that is Mexico, this story isn't all about them, it's about what happens when you try to run away from your problems, or as Yogi Berra would say, "No matter where you go, there you are."

It's about Americans, the ones passing through and the ones stuck in A Dangerous Harbor.

"Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things you didn't do… sail away from a safe harbor, catch the trade winds in your sail.

Explore.

Dream.

Discover."

Mark Twain

"No matter where you go, there you are."

                                                        
Yogi Berra

Dedicated to
:

Sharon
Heitman
:
 
robin blue eyes twinkling, frequently followed by husky laughter, a generous and thoughtful friend of thirty-eight years: 1949-2011

*
          
     
*
        
           
 
*

Katrina Taylor Hunter, beloved godmother and dearest friend who always dreamed of sailing the deep blue ocean: 1910-2001

*
               
*
                     
*

As always, my dear son John Shanahan 1964-2005

*
                
*
                    
*

And to my darling granddaughters, Simone and Hanna Shanahan

*
                     
*
                
*

And, last but not least, to my daughter,
Dettre
Schmidt-Galvan, and my husband, Lutz
Dahlke
, whose love, encouragement and patience never fails.

Editors and Authors:

Editor: Christine
LePorte
:
http://christineleporte.com

Cover art:
Andy Brown

Many thanks to the authors and readers:

Authors: Lesley Diehl, whose sense of humor keeps any story fun and M. Louisa Locke, whose kindness, patience and thoughtful suggestions are an inspiration to this author.

Cousin Beth
Englehart
, who is the best of the Phillips writers, she's just too stubborn to admit it.

Chapter One:

Except for the mermaid on a weedy patch of sea grass ghosting in her wake, Katrina Hunter's solo sail into Mexican waters had been monotonous and uneventful. And now her thirty-two-foot
Westsail
was on a leisurely stroll with only the current and the thrum of the auxiliary engine for companionship… except, that is, for the mermaid.

She rubbed at gritty eyes, the result of too little sleep and too many hours at
Pilgrim's
helm. "Sure it is. Last night it was Mickey Mouse reciting Robert Frost on top of a following wave, so why not mermaids?"

Shivery, bleary-eyed and slow, she blew at cold, stiff hands, then reached over and tapped at the GPS on the cockpit helm. GPS and radar both said the same thing: arrival to her destination at the
port
of
Ensenada
in forty-five minutes.

She peered through the early morning light at the sun-fuzzed tan cliffs of Baja, the bare corduroy hills folding onto themselves, then breaking apart, humped up again into another cluster of barren hills. Bored with the dull scenery, she cupped a hand over her brow and glanced back at the patch of weed again.

"Definitely not Mickey Mouse. It's a busted white fender stuck on some seaweed, that's all it is," she said, rubbing at her eyes again and watching the seaweed pad wallowing on the oily swell as if moving to some genetic Latin rhythm.

The white plastic boat fender was now a pale arm swimming in slow, lazy strokes. There was also a head with long dark hair and a body to go along with the arm.

"Yeah, and gold watches are this year's accessory for every boat fender. Shit!"

Katy swatted at the clanging alarm going off in her head—that litany of cautionary instruction drilled into her by her superiors when they heard about her solo sail to
Mexico
. Never mind that she'd been sailing since she could stand, or that she was frequent crew for any racing regatta on the
San Francisco
Bay
. She was one of their own, or would be if her paid leave of absence played itself out as intended.

She stoppered her ears against getting involved with even the slightest whiff of trouble while she was in
Mexico
and stabbed at the Man Overboard button on her GPS to mark the exact location of the body. There would be no calling the American Coast Guard now; she was already too far away from
San Diego
and the American border.

Yanking at the furling line of her jib until it curled obediently onto itself and
crabwalking
forward, she
uncleated
the main and let it drop into the
lazyjacks
, worked her way back to secure the boom into its cradle, dropped down into the cockpit and shoved her wheel hard until the bow was aimed at the patch of weed, then tied off the wheel, idled the throttle, and with boat hook in hand, waited for the patch of weedy sea grass to slide across her waterline.

Katy leaned over and deftly nudged the weedy raft around so that its reluctant passenger was facing her, and then ever so gently pushed back the wet strands of black hair. Dark wings of brow stood out in stark relief on pale olive skin. It was a girl, maybe all of sixteen, she guessed.

"Where'd you come from?"

As if to answer at least part of her question, the ocean swelled, lifting up the maiden's bier until Katy was looking into slightly open eyes. There were no
petechiae
, the telltale red dots freckling the cornea and typical of strangulation.

"Not strangled, but still…."

A frothy red bubble clinging to a nostril and a few more at her mouth said drowned, but not in the water very long as the limbs were still pliant and the skin wasn't bloated or damaged by fish or sea birds.

Katy noted the time as seven a.m. for the investigation that was clearly going to happen, and gave her guess at a couple of hours earlier, which would put the death about three or four a.m.

"Did you fall off a party boat, my little mermaid?" She lifted her head to scan the horizon for any sign of a disappearing yacht or cruise ship.

The empty horizon made her sad and then angry, but not at the dead girl. Detective Katrina Taylor Hunter, recently of the San Francisco Police Department, would never be angry at a victim and certainly not one so young. "All right, let's get this over with," and she went below to twist the dial on her marine radio to 2.182 MHz and did as she was trained to do when finding dead bodies in Mexican waters—called the Mexican Navy.

Chapter Two:

After six hours in a small hot room in the Ensenada police station, she had every reason to agree with veteran travelers who made it their policy never to stick around after an accident in Mexico. She had been held in solitary confinement since she was met at the marina dock by a fat, nervous Mexican police officer. He had her write it all down on a pad with a stub of an old pencil and then read it back to him as he slowly pecked out the letters on a manual typewriter. Then he had her sign it and, leaving her a copy, bowed out the door of the interview room.

Every hour or so he would pop in with a cold soda or offer to escort her to the ladies' room, which was depressingly dingy, and without any windows to tempt her with escape, she naturally followed him back into the room where he once again begged for her patience.

"The chief inspector specifically asked for your patience, please," he said, smiling and backing out again.

A dead girl had been found floating in the ocean. What was so hard to understand about that? Katy's passport said she was an American citizen, her driver's license said she was a resident of San Francisco and her police ID said she was a detective with the San Francisco police department. The ID photo sucked but so did her attitude about now.

Just when she was beginning to think she might be here permanently, her jailer whisked open the door for a broad-chested suit, a thick file under his arm. The uniform stood guard while his superior squeezed his big shoulders around his sergeant, loosened his tie, thumped the file down on the table, and with a heavy sigh, lowered himself into the chair across from Katy.

"I am Chief Inspector Raul
Vignaroli
and this is Sergeant Moreno," he said, as if she hadn't already become best friends with the sergeant. The Chief's basso
profundo
was clearly upper-class Mexican, but it was also intertwined with something akin to a Louisiana patois. Odd, and maybe she would find it interesting in some other situation, but this wasn't a social call and there was no offer of a handshake as one does when encountering another police officer, especially since that police officer has gone out of her way to willingly report a suspicious death.