Just Add Salt (2) (5 page)

Within a few hours, I knew I would get the call. Jenks would be apologetic. He would say he loved me. He would tell me how, when his project was finished, we could spend so much time together. He might even hint at marriage. I wouldn’t believe a word.

I sniffled self-pity the rest of the way home, then threw out my chin and charged down the ramp to
Raymond Johnson
.

I had a boat to get ready. Fast.

Chapter 5

Nothing like a new project or romantic rejection to get my lazy self motivated. So, fired by an emotionally charged combination of excitement and choler, I compiled an extortionate list of demands for Tanuki’s reading pleasure. Maybe, subconsciously, I hoped they’d tell me to go fly sushi, thereby giving me the slight chance of  not permanently depth charging my relationship with Jenks.

When I faxed off my outrageous contract demands and received it back within an hour, signed off, with all conditions met, I should have smelled a large rodent. Instead, I kicked myself for not asking for a new Honda. Within hours my bank confirmed that twenty grand had hit my heretofore minimum balance. Elated at my sudden affluence, I didn’t wonder, until much, much later who was sending faxes and money and sealing deals from Japan in the middle of their night.

The Trob had given me the basics of the project, so I still was a little scarce on details. I knew enough, however, to realize I would need a better communication system on the boat once we crossed into Mexico.

“Cross into Mexico? On the boat?” I could just hear Jan shrieking, when I told her of our windfall. But that would be later, after I’d figured out all the logistics. I wiped Jan’s future tirade from my head and got back to the communications thing.

I knew Jenks’s ham radio could give me bootlegged e-mail capabilities but, because it was amateur radio, commercial business was verboten. Besides, I hadn’t ordered the terminal node controller required for e-mail, so it was a moot point.

With a little Internet time, I also discovered the Mexican cell phone system was sketchy in many parts of the Baja. The only reliable option was a state of the art satellite communications system from Satfone. It was pricey, but within a few days I would have Internet service, telephone and even GPS tracking that would let someone back home know exactly where I was. With all of these techno toys, I could not only reach out and touch someone, they could come get me if a familiar brown substance hit the props. I had just hung up with the techie type who was going to install the Satfone when the phone rang in my hand.

“Hello,” I answered, forgetting it was my business line.

“Miss Co-hee?”

“Yes, this is Hetta.”

“Miss Co-hee, I am Mr. Ebata, from Tanuki, San Francisco. We are very pleased to be working with you and would like to request a meeting as soon as possible. My staff here has heard much about you from our coworkers in Tokyo.”

I just bet they had. “Of course, Ebata-san,” I said, adding the
san
to his name, even though we had not personally met. It was a bit forward, but I like to set a friendly tone with the worker bees from the get-go. “When would you like to see me?”

“We would like to meet you for lunch or dinner at your convenience, Hetta-san.”

Touche! I was gonna like this guy; he’d up-sanned me.

After a lengthy, ridiculously expensive lunch at Blowfish Sushi in the city, and with much tea under the bridge, I had a clearer picture of what Tanuki wanted for their big yen. And why they wanted
moi
. Their proposed project was a mite touchy with environmentalists, Mexican and otherwise. A similar project several years ago had cratered when the Sierra Club got wind that someone was planning to expand an existing salt mining operation way too near a whaling nursery.

Tanuki wanted me to do some major snoopery before they spent too much time and money on this one. Or so they said. My experience was that  Japan Incorporated rarely took the environment too seriously.

This meeting with the kowtowing Ebata-san and his minions was evidently my last, for they made it clear I was to work with only one man from now on: Mr. Ishikawa, in Tokyo. Somehow, I just knew not to call him Ishikawa-san. We had a brief teleconference during which I told him about the Satfone I was having installed, and my proposed schedule. I agreed to give him a daily update, via e-mail or phone, on my progress southward. I also hit him up for another five grand for the Satfone, which he agreed to. I was definitely on a California roll.

Ebata and I said our sayonaras. As friendly as the folks from the San Francisco office were, I got the feeling they were relieved to get out of the loop. And they were way too polite to say so, but I gathered I was deemed perfect for the job at Magdalena Bay by virtue of my gender, and my reputation for being slightly unorthodox. The Mexicans being second only to the Japanese when it comes to male chauvinism, no one would ever surmise that I, a mere female, would be doing anything other than sightseeing.

On the other hand, should a troop of Japanese engineers show up, rumors would take wing in the direction of Mexico City and into the ears of the cadre of acquisitive politicians who run the country. I could tromp around all day long in a hard hat, with a roll of drawings under my arm and still not raise suspicions. I was launching a whole new career as an undercover snooping civil engineer: Hetta Coffey, PI, SI, LLC.

I called Jan as soon as I got back to the boat. “Get out your serape, Chica. We are headin’ south.”

“You heard from Jenks? They’re coming home?”

“Uh, not exactly.”

There was silence, a sigh and a weird click. I thought she’d hung up, but she said, “Why, oh why, do I have the distinct feeling that I am not going to like what you have to tell me?”

“You will. Sort of. Come on over. We have lots to do and a short time to do it in.”

Ten minutes later Jan stormed the boat. Before I could open my mouth, she held up her hand to stop me. “Hetta, if you are going to tell me you want to go to Mexico without the men, do not waste your breath.”

“Just one word?”

She gave me a dubious nod.

“Professional captain.”

“That’s two words, but what do you mean?”

“How about if I hire a sure-enough United States Coast Guard certified delivery captain to take
Raymond Johnson
to Mexico? We can stop off along the coast, make a little dough, then on to Cabo. By then, Jenks and Lars should be finished up in Kuwait.” That last bit was a stretch, but I thought it sounded good.

“We can’t afford a captain. I think. What does one cost?”

“Not to worry, dear, for we have a benefactor. I signed a contract with Tanuki today, one which will prove very lucrative for us. All we have to do is stop off in someplace called Magdalena Bay, do a little grunt work for a couple of weeks, then head for Mariachiville.”

“Tanuki? They hate you. And what do you mean by
us
?”

“I told them I needed an assistant. You are, as of now, a marine biologist specializing in gray whales. Pull your credentials together, I need to fax them ASAP.”

“Hetta, I am an accountant, with a degree in math and a masters in accounting. I don’t know a whale from a goldfish.

“The closest I’ve been to a whale is when you conned me into that whale watching trip off Monterey. Getting that near to those overgrown guppies scared the crap out of me. I don’t have any credentials.”

“Details, details. Truth is, we don’t really require a marine biologist because I can get just about all the info I need from the Internet. And, when I called Dr. Craigosaurus to ask him about whales, he put me in touch with a real marine biologist he went to vet school with: Doctor Brigido Comacho Yee, a Mexican naturalist who works out of Scammons Lagoon, which is supposed to be whale central.”

“A Mexican named Yee? Vet school? Marine biologists go to vet school?”

I shrugged. “Guess he got a double degree or something. Maybe he does whale surgery. Who knows? Anyhow, Yee will supply us with what we need: his curriculum vitae, which we will use to make your CV. Cool, huh?”

“Illegal, huh?”

“Oh, I don’t think anyone at Tanuki is going to be in a position to be very picky about legalities. Hell, it’s a bootleg project. That’s why they’re giving us the big bucks. Big bucks enough to hire a captain. What do you think?”

“I think we’re headed for a Mexican jail.”

“Oh, pish. Trust me, everything will be fine. Are you in?”

Jan frowned, then shrugged. “Only because I know you’ll go without me.”

“Atta girl. Now, let’s get to work. Gimme that Sea Magazine and let’s find us a bona fide captain.”

After twenty minutes of leafing through boating magazines, I had a list of candidates. I dialed a Southern California number and asked, “Hi, is this Captain Bob?” when a deep voice answered on the second ring.

“That’s me.”

“Uh, can you give me some idea of what it would cost to get a forty-five foot power boat from San Diego to Cabo, with a three to four week layover in Magdalena Bay?” Jan started jumping up and down and giving me dirty looks. “Make that San Francisco to Cabo.”

“What’s the boat maker and year?”

I told him.

“Nice boat. Did you say a four week layover in Mag Bay?”

“Uh-huh.”

“I get three dollars a mile, fifty a day, all expenses paid. Owner buys all fuel and that kind of stuff. I require a week on the boat before departure to check it out.”

I did a quick calculation. It was over fourteen hundred miles to Cabo, and I’d need this guy at least six weeks, at fifty a day. “That’s over six grand,” I squeaked.

“Close. Plus airfare to San Francisco, then back from Cabo. Will the owner be on board?”

“Yes.”

“Add a thou.”

“Hey, you don’t even know me.”

He chuckled. “Just policy. So, you the owner?”

“Uh-huh,” I warily told him. Maybe female owners got charged double.

“How many on board?”

“Just me and my girlfriend.”

After a moment’s hesitation, he quipped, “Honeymoon?”

I slammed the phone shut.

“What happened?” Jan asked.

“Smartass. He thinks we’re a couple.”

“A couple of what?”

“Lesbians.”

Jan broke out laughing. “What do you care? Call the man back, tell him you were cut off. You don’t have to hire him, just pump him for information.”

I hit redial. “Uh, Captain Bob? Sorry, my batteries were low. Where were we?”

“I was about to ask you when you had to be in Mag Bay?”

“Let me see,” I said, pulling out my calendar, “October 5th?”

“You want to get down there that early, you got two problems, time and weather.”

“I know it’s a bit early, but I pulled up an historical website on hurricanes. Magdalena Bay hasn’t really had a bad hit in October since the ‘fifties.”

“Then she’s due. Good luck on finding a captain that’ll leave that early, then hang out and wait for trouble.” Dial tone.

Three calls later, I had the picture. I didn’t give away my scheduled dates until I’d pumped the prospective captains for info, so I learned that a boat like
Raymond Johnson
, with three people on board to stand watch, could cruise straight south from San Diego, refuel at a place called Turtle Bay, then on to Mag Bay. Cruising at eight nautical knots an hour to conserve fuel, we could easily make it to Mag Bay in five days, even with the fuel stop.

The problem was that when I finally told them when I wanted to leave, four more certified boat delivery captains basically told me I was certifiably nuts to take the boat to Mag Bay that early, for that long.

Discouraged, I dragged Jan up to the yacht club for a drink. The Jack London Yacht Club, appropriately located on Jack London Square, is in an old two-story building overlooking the Oakland Estuary. From the outside it looks like a sailmaker’s loft, probably was at one time. Inside, however, was all polished mahogany, brass and funky atmosphere. Jack London would have considered it a suitable hangout for trashing his liver had it been there when the great writer was penning and ginning.

Posters depicting Jack London’s boat, dog, and book jacket covers were scattered around the room, but my favorite was a snapshot of the man himself. Sporting a leather jacket and windblown hair, Jack grinned roguishly next to a ship’s wheel. His summation on life was scripted below the photo:

I would rather be ashes than dust!

I would rather that my spark should burn out in a brilliant blaze than it should be stifled by dry rot. I would rather be a superb meteor, every atom of me in magnificent glow, than a sleepy and permanent planet.

The proper function of a man is to live, not to exist.

I shall not waste my days in trying to prolong them.

I shall use my time.

“Bet he wasn’t afraid of hurricanes like those lilies I just got through talking to,” I huffed, and took a gulp of champagne that finished off half the split.

“Yep. And he died young.” Jan eyed my half empty flute and added, “Of alcoholism.”

“I only tipple socially. And I’m already too old to die young”

“Are not.”

“Am too.”

“Look, if it will make you feel any better, I’m actually kind of disappointed that our trip won’t happen. I mean, the one with you, me and Captain Whomever. The idea was starting to grow on me.”