The Sand Trap (40 page)

“Famished. I passed on the airplane food.
Know what a Spalumbo is?” Doug’s look was the answer. “Well it is a
big spicy Calgary wiener that tastes great on the golf course, but
isn't that appealing at forty thousand feet. Would you happen to
know where we could get any good Mexican food?”

“I think I can find a place. It’s six now,
I’ll drop you at your new digs, it’s right beside the golf course,
give you a few moments to unpack and I’ll come by at seven and
we’ll walk into town to a great little place that likes golfers.
That OK?”

“Perfect. Would they have Pacifica as
well?”

I think I’m gong to like this guy, Doug
thought to himself. Good sense of humour. Seems easy going enough.
The teaching here isn’t too tough. It's mostly tourists who are
here to absorb more sunshine and Tequila than lessons so he doesn’t
have to be great at that. But there was something in the man's
swaggering demeanour that gave Doug a strange feeling in his
stomach. He knew Burt was not here because he was the most
qualified applicant. There had been other employees that Doug had
been just told to hire, but they all been lower level; a cook’s
helper, a waitress and most recently Jose had delivered him a lady
who was to look after the grounds. “She is wonderful with flowers!”
Jose had assured him. It turned out to be true, she was an
exceptional gardener, but he assumed that was only by chance, not
design. None of this should bother him. He was Mexican after all so
the notion that there would be some friend or preferential hiring
of relatives and friends was not foreign to him and he had to admit
it was probably only his own relationship with Jose that resulted
in his own position as head pro. It didn’t appear this guy had any
relatives or cronies in Mexico who he could hit up for this job. A
washed up, golfer Gringo who had never been to Mexico wasn’t the
ideal match for the teaching pro job so Doug knew that something
was going on. And the look of the guy didn’t lower his antenna
much. In addition to a bum knee – ski accident? -- he had blotches
on his face that suggested a collection of scabs had fallen off not
too long ago and the new skin had not yet reached the roughness of
the old. He would receive a clue by email later that week as to
Burt’s real purpose in Mexico, but for now he was just a skeptical,
friendly greeter.

“Here we are!” Doug announced twenty minutes
later as they pulled through the elaborate arc over the entrance to
the golf course parking lot. “You will stay in that house over
there.”

Burt looked. First at the golf course that
he could see beyond the clubhouse and then at the building Doug was
pointing to. The former was breathtaking. The latter even more
so.

“How many people will be staying there as
well?” Burt asked as he took his bags from the back seat of the car
and nodded towards the very large and ornate Mexican hacienda style
house perched on the side of the hill overlooking what Burt assumed
was the first hole of the course.

Doug laughed. “Just you. Unless of course
you find yourself a roommate. People who rarely come here own these
houses. They use the homes as landing places when they tire of
living on their yachts parked in the marina over there.” He pointed
towards the sea to a place Burt couldn’t see. “They ask us to rent
them when they aren’t here just to have them lived in. A financial
guy in New York who is now in jail owned this one. The developers
of the course and housing development around the course had to take
the place back so we have access to this one and several others of
the same type until they are sold again. Since no one is buying
anything down here right now I suspect you will have the place for
as long as you want it. Come on, I’ll show it to you.”

They walked together to the entry courtyard
of the house and Doug used his key to let them into the home. When
they walked in, Burt just stood staring for a moment. He had seen
nice places in his life but this was as spectacular as anything he
had seen anywhere in the world. Standing in the entryway he was
looking through a living room furnished exquisitely in Mexican
style, to a wall of complete glass. The windowed wall faced
southeast and provided a view that crept over the golf course and
led to the Ocean, lit up red and magenta by a western sun starting
its western descent.

Doug was enjoying Burt’s surprise. “The
sunrise is even better.” He handed a speechless Burt the key. “See
you at seven in the parking lot. The bar is already stocked if you
want a drink.” And he left Burt standing in the entrance as he
closed the door and made his way over to his own house, the one
next to Burt’s. He enjoyed the surprise when he showed Burt the
“apartment”, but he had not been entirely honest with him. The bust
of 2008 had resulted in a number of “repossessed” houses in the
subdivision and by 2012, the combined residual effect of the bust
and the drug wars had killed the real estate business so nothing
was selling. There were several property development projects for
the area that were on hold, and even at Puertos, the planned double
eighteen-hole course project had been reduced to a single
eighteen-hole project so the view from the parking lot of
unfinished homes and the unfinished golf course was not the most
impressive. Burt was waiting in the parking lot when Doug came down
the path from his own house.

“You get settled alright?”

“Fine. Was this the most comfortable place
you could find for me? I was hoping for something with a better
view.”

Doug smiled. “I’ll remember that. For now
let’s get a drink and some food. It’s a ten-minute walk to the
restaurants down by the marina. They are all pretty local, but
pretty good and the one I like has all the Pacifica you can
drink.”

They made small talk as they walked down the
road to the mouth of the marina and Doug explained that the harbour
golf course and housing development were only half a dozen years
old. All had been developed with the intention of bringing in
wealthy golfers, yachters, fishermen and beach people from the U.S.
Up until 2007 it was going well. Even today they could see that the
man-made harbour was full of ocean going yachts. Doug pointed out
that the area north of them, up the rugged Baja East Coast Road,
the shoreline was wild and undeveloped. That shore was full of
hidden coves and beaches and there were some spectacular homes
developed on acreages. One even had its own airstrip. Where they
were standing was the dividing line between the “developed” Baja
tip, and the “undeveloped” north. The area between here and La
Ribera, sixty kilometers north, was spectacular but still mostly
undeveloped. While he did not explain this to Burt, he knew the
area pretty well since Jose owned a lot of property up the coast
and he and Jose once went to what he called his fishing cabin, up
the gravel East Coast Road. For some reason, Jose had put the new
landscape gardener into that cabin when she arrived.

Soon they were at the mouth of the marina
and a small collection of rustic buildings. One of these was the
Mega grocery store, advertising the cheapest Pacifica in town.
Another small palapa covered restaurant was part of the Playita
Hotel and a sign on the outside wall proclaimed the “Best Tortilla
Soup in Mexico”. When they entered the sole waitress greeted them
at the door. Burt guessed she was in her twenties. Slim, with very
dark long hair and her warm greeting smile made her more than
attractive.

“Hola Senior Doug!” and they gave each other
a hug and a cheek peck. They chatted away in Spanish while she led
them to a table on the patio that overlooked both the marina and
the sandy beach leading to the water’s edge. Burt listened as he
told her in Spanish that this guy was a Canadian gringo and that
she was to leave him alone … he was too old for her. She responded
that she liked experienced men and they both laughed. He suggested
she tone down the chili level for the gringo, that Canadians liked
everything cold not hot. She laughed again. Doug turned to Burt as
they sat down at the table. “I told her to bring us her best food
tonight. You are a special guest.”

Burt turned to the young waitress and spoke
in perfect Spanish. “Senorita, it pleases me much to learn that you
prefer seasoned company to that of the young and inexperienced such
as my companion here. Like a well-aged wine you would find me full
bodied with a taste of fruit and the strength of oak. And I like
everything very hot and spicy. Could you bring me a Pacifica, some
sauce picante and my companion a glass of milk, por favor?”

It was a toss-up between who was more
surprised, the waitress or Doug. The waitress was embarrassed
enough to scurry quickly away to get Burt a beer. Doug just stared
at Burt and broke out laughing. He had greeted Burt at the airport
in English and they had been speaking English for the past hour. He
switched to Spanish. “I thought you said you hadn’t been to Mexico
before. How does a Canadian learn to speak Spanish like that?”

“I told you. I was brought up in Southern
California. You had a far better chance of getting laid if you
spoke a little Spanish. My first wife was actually from Madrid, so
I had to improve my Spanish to understand what she was saying when
she was yelling at me.”

Doug was not sure he totally accepted that
explanation but it was a pleasant surprise. After he got the
message from New York it would make even more sense. But for now,
he shrugged and suggested they speak Spanish when they were
together from now on if Burt didn’t mind. English was a second
language for Doug and he felt more secure sharing a conversation in
Spanish.

“I don’t mind at all. It would be good to
polish my Spanish.”

“Doesn’t sound to me like you need much
polish, but thanks anyhow.”

Their drinks came, beer for both, a straw
basket full of taco chips with a guacamole dip and they both
ordered the whole grilled snapper.

“My turn for a couple of questions,” Burt
suggested.

Doug looked wary but waited.

“First. Where did you learn your English?
And second how does a good Mexican boy like you have a name like
Doug.

Doug smiled, relieved at the nature of the
questions. “Easy. The English I studied at school and when I went
on tour, the language of golf was English so I just worked at it.
It seems you can’t be a pro at a Mexican resort golf course unless
you can speak to the old ladies from Calgary.”

He left out the year he spent training in
the Adirondacks.

“The second is more complicated. My full
name is Francisco del Monte Real Jimenez Douglas Hernandez. The
first four names are all my mother’s relatives. My dad was so
pissed off at there being none of his relatives’ names he slipped
Douglas into the birth certificate at the registry when my mother
wasn’t looking. It was the only real English name he knew. He took
it from the name of a record that someone had thrown out. He
salvaged it from the garbage and brought it home and he thought the
band was funky. I can’t remember the name of the band now, Doug and
the Bugs or something like that. At any rate I was anointed with
the name Douglas because my Dad wanted to piss off his
mother-in-law. I started using the name Doug when I was on the
tour. It was easier to say and made me more North American.”

Burt thought for a moment. “Was that Doug
and the Slugs?”

“That’s it!” Doug exclaimed. “Have you heard
of them?”

They both had a good laugh over the fact
Doug was named after a defunct Canadian band. How one of their
albums ever found its way into a Mexico City garbage pail would
remain a mystery forever. But it was a good story.

The food arrived and they both dug into
their grilled snapper and Burt had to admit to himself that this
was the most succulent piece of fish he remembered having
anywhere.

“So let’s talk golf for a moment,” Doug
suggested between mouthfuls of fish and rice. “I don’t want to be
rude, but this gig isn’t usual for a guy with your experience. You
could go for the head pro at any number of courses anywhere. With
your Spanish you could have my job. So what’s with the attraction
to teaching little old ladies and fat tourists?”

“I could ask a similar question of you. How
did a young guy like you land the head pro job at a place like
this? But to answer your question, I do have another motive for
being here.”

Doug smiled. He knew there was something
else.

“I’m preparing to enter the qualifiers for
the PGA Champions Tour in the fall. I needed a place to recover
from my accident and work on my game. A friend knew that this job
was open and he made a few calls and here I am.”

Doug was surprised. “You can’t be serious?
I’ve seen your file. Other than one time back when you were sixteen
and won the California Junior, you’ve haven’t won a thing of any
consequence. You’ve bounced all over Canada with pro jobs at the
most obscure places. Moose Jaw? Where the fuck is that? And you
have spent most of the last decade selling insurance for God’s
sake. And now you think you can beat the fifty thousand or so guys
who are as delusional as you in their assessment of their game? Do
you know that only five guys out of thousands make it through to
the tour?”

“Thanks for your encouragement. Maybe you’re
here because you’ve given up on your dreams. I’m here because I’m
chasing them.”

That clearly stung and Burt immediately
regretted his comment. Doug had given up on his dreams of a pro
life and he did have some remorse that he was entertaining gringos
instead of chasing his dream on any tour. He snapped back at
Burt.

“Enjoy your fish. I don’t care how foolish
you are as long as you do your job here.”

They ate the rest of the meal in silence or
meaningless small talk. They walked back to the course in the
gathering darkness and as they parted in the parking lot, Doug told
him to be ready to start tomorrow.