Just Add Salt (2) (12 page)

“Uh, Abreojos.”

“Always wanted to go there," she said sarcastically, then added, “What’s
abreojos
mean?”

I looked at Fabio. He shrugged. “Keep your eyes open.”

“I will, but what does Abreojos mean?”

“That is what it means,
señorita
.
Ojos
is eyes,
abre
is open: keep the eyes open.”

“For what?”

“
Rocas
. Rocks.”

Chapter 15

So here we were, steadfastly plowing toward Abreojos—which translates to “open eyes,” but, according to Fabio, really means “keep your eyes open”—with a pesky whale in hot pursuit. Two hours out, Dr. Yee, whale guru, finally calls back. He sounds out of sorts, letting me know I had jammed his message center and that one message, not fifteen, would have sufficed.

“Sorry, Doc, but we got a problem here. A big one.”

“So I gather. I understand you have collided with a whale? Is he hurt?”

“Not so you’d notice.” I told him the whole story.

“This whale, what does he look like?” His tone changed from mildly annoyed to what sounded like wildly excited. I rarely have this effect on men.

“Really, really big.” Really, really and big are sorely ineffective adjectives for describing our Moby, but it was all I could think of except, “fuckin’ huge,” which would cost me ten bucks.

“No, I mean his dorsal fin. And his back.”

I had noticed, in my one other conversation with Doctor Yee, that he had no discernable Spanish accent, but his resume said he was born in Mexico and carried a Mexican passport. Interesting.

“Uh, just a minute.” Fabio, Jan and I held a quick confab. “Smoothish back. A smallish fin, if smallish is a word that can describe anything on this fish, way back toward his tail. Oh, and he has a huge flat head. No doubt from ramming our boat.”

“Not a fish.”

“What?”

“He is a mammal, not a fish.”

“Okay, so he’s a friggin’ humongous mammal. Fabio, our captain, says he thinks it’s a blue.”

“Oh, dear.”

“Oh, dear? What does that mean?”

“He is very large, then.”

“No shit.” I glared at Jan, who whispered, “Ka-ching,” and got elbowed for her trouble.

Doctor Yee and I discussed our whale problem a while longer, me answering what questions I could. Finally, he came up with an hypothesis, but not one I wanted to hear. “What I suspect, “he concluded, “is that you have a lonely, pubescent male Balaenoptera musculus on your hands.”

“I’d like to buy a vowel.”

“Excuse me?”

“Never mind. A what?”

“A young male Blue.”

“He’s pretty danged big for a teenager.”

“Actually, he sounds a bit small for his species. From what you tell me, he measures around twenty meters, about sixty-five feet, which is not large for a blue.”

“Why am I not comforted? He’s still got twenty feet on us. So, we got a horny whale with a short man complex. What’s that got to do with him harassing us? Why isn’t he out flirting with a girl whale?”

“That, I think is exactly the problem. Most whales have migrated north and since they are by nature social animals, he is most likely lonely.”

“I guess that would explain that big pink thing he keeps waggling at us?”

Yee chuckled. “We call that a Pink Floyd.”

“We’re being flashed by a whale? I don’t want the bastard psychoanalyzed, Doc. I don’t give a crap about his love life. I just want to know if he’s dangerous.”

“I did not mean to sound flippant, Miss Coffey. I only wish to advise you that he could be a danger if he becomes overly amorous. In this case, he could damage your boat in an attempt to, uh, woo it. I must do more research and get back to you. Where are you right now?”

“We hope to make Abreojos before dark.”

“Fantastic! I am only seventy kilometers away. I can meet you either this evening or tomorrow morning.”

“Tonight? Please?”

“Okay. Just in case my cell phone does not work there, keep calling me on VHF 16 when you get near
Bahía Ballena
.”

“We will. Hey, are you telling me that Abreojos is on Whale Bay?”

“Yep. Keep your eyes open.”

“Could you be a bit more reassuring?”

“Sorry, I assume your captain is familiar with the area?”

“Yes, he’s been there often.”

“Good.” Doc Yee sounded relieved.

“Is there anything we can do to shake this whale off? Maybe not brush our teeth? Tell him we’re looking for a commitment?”

“Excuse me?”

“Never mind. Call me back if you get any ideas. We’ll see you tonight. Bye.”

My shipmates were staring at me. “Not brush our teeth?” Jan asked. “What the hell was that all about?”

“It would seem that our whale wants to mate with
Raymond Johnson
.”

Fabio broke out in an infectious laugh that soon had Jan and me howling.

Tears streaming down my cheeks, I managed to gasp, “So, Fabio. You’re a guy. What would you consider a major turnoff? What makes you run away from women?”

Fabio wiped his cheeks. “That would be my wife.”

“You’re married?”

“Many years.”

“Yeah,” Jan piped up, “leave it to a wife to take the romance out of a guy.”

Although dismayed to learn of Fabio’s marital status, I joined in the fun. “Evidently this whale ain’t got no stinkin’ wife, so he’s dogging
Raymond Johnson
. Instead of Moby Dick, we got Lonesome Floyd.”

I told them about the Pink Floyd thing and we broke up again, until a fine mist of foul smelling saltwater drifted over the decks, gagging us into silence. Jan held her nose and suggested we get back on the Internet and order a fifty-five gallon drum of Listerine.

Fabio, per Doctor Yee’s suggestion when I’d told him what we were doing to escape the whale, brought back the throttles. Outrunning Lonesome was out of the question; Yee said some whales could do forty miles an hour and that our best bet for getting rid of the lovesick guy would be to anchor as close in to shore at Abreojos as we dared. And to be prepared to abandon ship in case lonely boy wanted a little rough foreplay. We were all vastly relieved that Doctor Yee was joining us.

The phone rang again, raising my hopes that my marine biologist had come up with a recipe for whale saltpeter. “Hetta, were you planning on getting back to me in this century?” an annoyed-sounding Martinez  asked. But then, he always sounded annoyed.

“Oh, sorry. I forgot. We’ve been preoccupied.”

“Problems?”

“You could say that.”

“Anything I can do?”

“Know any unattached female whales? One who isn’t real picky?”

“Never mind, solve it yourself. Uh, are you alone?”

“Sort of. Jan’s here, but Fabio’s out on whale watch.”

“Okay, here’s the deal. I nabbed your mystery e-mailer.”

“Really? Great. Did you bust his kneecaps for me?”

“No, his mama wouldn’t let me.”

“His mama?”

“Kid is eleven. Some woman paid him to send the messages. Told him to change his address each time. I actually witnessed him sending you an e-mail, which you should have by now.”

“I haven’t had time to check my mail, believe me.”

“Anyway, I followed the little brat home and nailed him.”

“And?”

“That’s it so far. I’ve paid the kid to go ahead and send more messages to you, hoping the woman will show up again. I gave him a Ladatel phone card so he can use a pay phone and call me. When I promised him a hundred bucks to lead me to his employer, his eyes lit up like a pinball machine.”

“He didn’t know the woman?”

“Naw, she came into the Internet café, gave him a hundred pesos and the message. He had never seen her before and not since. She also paid for him to have Internet time for the next two weeks. I’m working on finding out who she is. Do you want me to hang here, or give it up? “

“Hang. We need to know who and why. Don’t forget, we’ve also been getting phone calls, as well, and it doesn’t sound like the kid made those.”

“He says he didn’t and I believe him.”

“Good enough for me. Meanwhile, we’re making a pit stop in Abreojos before we continue on to Mag Bay.”

“Why the diversion?”

“We’re trying to scrape a whale off our keel.”

“Huh?”

“You hadda be here. Keep me in the loop.”

Jenks called as we were tooling for Abreojos, but I didn’t bother mentioning Martinez, the pint-sized e-mailer, or mysterious Mexican women. I did tell him about our whale, now dubbed Lonesome, but not that we’d whacked the big blue on my watch. “So, according to the marine biologist, we’re being flashed by a blue whale who’s taken a liking to
Raymond Johnson
. He keeps waggling his Pink Floyd at us.”

“How big is it?”

“Bigger’n yours.”

“I meant the whale, Hetta.”

“Oh, sixty-five feet or so.”

“Stay away from him.”

“Jealous?”

“Only of his Floyd. Leave the phone on so I can check on you. Have fun. Bye now.”

“Bye.”

So, judging by the lack of love you on his signoff, I was still in hot water. Maybe I’d glossed over the danger we were in? Or was he just taking a cavalier attitude because of my bogus
everything is just dandy
voyage reports. After all, to hear me tell it, Jan and I were on a whale-watching Carnival cruise. Sigh. At least Jenks still called me; Lars didn’t even bother talking to Jan any more.

Lonesome was starting to look better by the minute. At least he cared.

Chapter 16

“Ha-ll-looo,
Raymond Johnson
,” a voice called from shore. Jan and I were finishing off our after dinner wine, enjoying the lights of Abreojos. After a couple of days at sea, any sign of civilization, even such a scantly lit village, was somehow comforting. Twilight was upon us, but when I trained my pricey Monk Admirals in the direction of the town, I could easily make out a figure wearing, what else? a Save The Whales T-shirt. Doctor Yee, I presume?

“Fabio,” I yelled down into the engine room, “let’s launch the dink and go pick up a doctor.”

Fabio looked concerned. “You are ill?”

“No, it’s the whale doctor.”

“Whales got doctors?” he asked, sounding just like Jan.

“You know, Fabio, you have been on this boat with us far too long. Doctor Yee is here from Scammon's Lagoon. Go get him, okay?” I hadn’t told Fabio why I had Yee’s phone number, because I didn’t want my captain to know I had a marine life expert on the payroll. Martinez didn’t want Fabio to know Jack doo doo, so that’s the way I planned to keep it. Luckily Fabio didn’t seem the curious type.

Within thirty minutes, Doctor Yee, Jan, Fabio and I were seated around our dining room, discussing whales. Again, if Fabio wondered how I had so easily gotten a whale expert on my boat, he didn’t say anything. In fact, his lack of nosiness was starting to get on my nerves. How can a person live with so little curiosity? Fabio excused himself and went to bed, leaving us to discuss Lonesome.

“Doctor Yee, my veterinarian friend, Craig, back in Oakland, tells me you are a world-renowned expert on whales.”

“Craig is very kind. It is true that I am dedicated to the preservation of whales. Some might say obsessed.” Yee spoke English perfectly, with just a hint of a British, not Spanish, accent. At least six feet tall, muscular and bronzed, his most startling feature were steel gray eyes. His sun, rather than age-wrinkled, skin, shock of black hair and sparkling white teeth, gave him the look of a California surfer dude of indeterminate age. Whatever Yee was in his ancestry had long since disappeared.

Jan, who was eyeing him like the proverbial one-eyed cat in a seafood store, purred, “Uh, Doctor Yee—”

“Please, call me Brigido.” He pronounced it Bree-hee-dough. “Or, as they call me down here, Chino.”

“Okay, Chino. Do they call you Chino because your last name is Chinese?”

“No, actually that’s what Mexicans call descendants of Filipinos who immigrated to Mexico back in the Manila Galleon days. The galleons, although Spanish, were called Noa de China because of all the Chinese goods on board. Porcelain, in particular, was a hot commodity, as the Europeans had not yet mastered the art of making it. Family legend has it that I am descended from two men. Yee, who was Chinese, and Comacho, a Filipine man. They were said to be marooned here in Baja about four hundred years ago when the galleon they were on sank.

“Many Filipinos came to Mexico back then, as deck hands, merchants. Some words used in Mexico, like palapa, a thatch-roofed hut, originated in the Philippines.”

A little light went on in my head. “You know, I never really understood why so much Spanish is used in the Philippines. At least for the town names. I guess by now, though, most speak Tagalog instead of Spanish. I had no idea that Filipinos came to Mexico, but it makes sense, what with the Manila galleons and all.”

Chino settled into his chair and warmed to the subject. “The galleons sailed between Manila and Acapulco for two hundred and fifty years. An exchange of populous was inevitable. I should suppose there are many Mexican descendants over there, as well. As for me, I was born in San Carlos, in Magdalena Bay. I became enamored with whales as a small boy, as I watched them pass by out there,” he pointed out to sea, “by the hundreds. Thousands.”

Jan was sidetracked by something Chino said. “A galleon sank in Mag Bay? Wow. I knew there was one they’re searching for north of San Francisco, up in Drake’s Bay.”

“Well, like I said, the one my ancestors were supposedly on, that is strictly legend. No trace of such a ship has been found in or near Magdalena Bay.” He heard Lonesome blow and looked out into the moonlit bay. “Is that your whale?”

“That would be he.”

“Then Fabio was correct. Definitely a blue.”

“You can tell just from the sound of his blow?”

“Oh, yes. And, I can just make out the spray in the moonlight. From the way it hangs in the air, and the size, I can tell he is large, but not,” he smiled, “friggin’ humongous.”

“Looks huge to me,” I grumbled. “How long can you stay?”

“I am prepared to go with you to Magdalena Bay. I am very interested in your whale’s behavior.”

“Lonesome.”

“Not really, I have my work.”

I laughed. “No, Doctor Yee, not you. We have named the whale Lonesome.”

Jan, with a broad Cheshire cat smile, purred, “No Mrs. Doctor Yee?”

“Sadly, I have not had the time. Or the interest.” He gave Jan a captivating smile of his own and added, “To date.”

Seems as though Lonesome and Yee are both members of the Lonely Hearts Club. Jan, Yee, and Lonesome makes three?

Bahía Magdalena, or Mag Bay, is larger than San Francisco Bay and is protected by over one hundred and thirty miles of sand barriers and islands. Our onboard marine biologist informed us that, during the winter months, the bay is a Mecca for whales. Since it was off season, we brought our own.

Lonesome seemed to sense where we were heading. Occasionally he forged ahead as if to lead the way. Maybe he was doing some kind of Roots thing, returning to his birthplace. Or perhaps he was on a soul-searching mission, trying to understand why he didn’t have a meaningful relationship with one of his own species. I could have given him plenty of advice on that one, but I don’t speak whale. With any luck at all, a beach bunny blue had lingered past the season and would lure Lonesome away before a testosterone surge resulted in his taking
Raymond Johnson
to the bottom.

While my marine biologist—the real one, Doctor Yee, not the fake one, Jan Sims—wasn’t much help in the reassurance department, it was a vast relief having him on the boat. He spent hours on the Internet, garnering info from fellow whale dudes worldwide. He did say he doubted Lonesome would trail us into port at San Carlos.

In Abreojos, Lonesome stayed out past the fifteen-foot mark and Fabio assured us that the channel into Puerto San Carlos was mucho shallower than that. Somehow this nautical tidbit didn’t raise my spirits one bit, especially since, to get to this mucho shallow channel, we still had to go back out to sea with a monster on our tail.

Whales aside, I had a job to do and was now in touch with Tanuki, Tokyo, twice a day. Ishikawa told me he forwarded drawings and project details to a small office they maintained in Puerto San Carlos and I could pick them up there. I was not, he insisted, to show the contents of the package or discuss my contract with anyone except my marine biologist, Doctor Jan Sims. Oh, what a tangled web we weave.

After a tense, but pelagically uncontested voyage south, we finally entered Mag Bay and headed for the port. When Fabio is right, he’s really right, and I thanked my lucky stars we had a high flying bridge so we could spot sandbars.

“Say, Fabio, have you been in here a lot?” I asked as we gingerly navigated the winding channel into San Carlos Harbor.

“
Sí
, much times.”

“You know, you’ve never asked me what we’re going to do here for three weeks.” Not that I was going to tell him.

I got the now-familiar Mexican shrug and answer. “It is you boat.”