The thirty-two km road to the Federale outpost departed perpendicular to the beach and was the first few miles barely visible in deep sand. Next it took to curved edges of countless mud flats and eventually directly traversed two or three wet flats where an inch or so of water was held in check by low ridges of earth graded up along either side of the road. Finally, the last two or three miles left the flats in favor of high ground, approaching the outpost as a quality unimproved road. By this time we began to notice substantial relief from extremes of wind and humidity, despite the stifling temperature, as perspiration ceased running down our faces and torsos in favor of evaporation.

The hombre bouncing in the seatless rear compartment of the vehicle had regurgitated his sense of humor in the sand at the beginning of the trip. He deteriorated ever deeper as we encountered the mud flats, at one point forced to back up half a mile to avoid flooded tracks. When my soul mate disembarked for closer inspection of the road surface, he leaped from the vehicle as if freed from a sinking ship and walked until we reached the safety of dryness. Yet, nothing had prepared him for the shock he received when the Federales approached our vehicle brandishing automatic rifles.

Captain Gringo turned white. As none of us spoke much Spanish, it wasn't simply a matter of asking the Federales if they possessed a radio which could communicate with the Puerto Peñasco Port Authority; what followed was about forty minutes of exchanged questions. According to custom when attempting serious bilingual intercourse, we offered up a few cold beers in hopes of gaining their indulgence; still, their attention was split between the questions and my soul mate, who managed to maintain her poise flawlessly despite the unexpected attention.

Question: "Do you have a radio transmitter?"

Response: "Tiene usted wee-pons?"

Guns held high, the Federales were appraising the situation. These very polite, very serious young men are always enamored of my wife, but it's invariably a great disappointment to them to learn that a pretty woman with shoulder-length braids and skin as chocolate as their own no hable Español. One of them held the vehicle door wide while she disembarked. While three or four of them attempted halted discourse, smiling broadly, two or three others held their distance, rifles steady. I opened a door and the rear hatch, waving an invitation to the leader and a couple of others to search the vehicle. As they probed various containers I willingly obliged by opening same for their inspection.

Unlike Captain Gringo, who's supper fomented fish fodder in the backwashes of dusty Bahia de Adair, the thirsty Federales genuinely seemed to appreciate the beer. Their search finally completed, one of them announced, "no rrrahdiophono", motioning toward the single windowless building. They obviously didn't even have electricity. Having convinced them also that no tengo wee-pons, rifles were lowered and we were free to return to the beach and our fate.

While exhausted Captain feigned sleep in the darkness of the wrenching rear enclosure, my soul mate and I quietly discussed our options during the two-hour return trip. One of them could easily make it to El Golfo and back with a few gasoline cans. Trouble is, they weren’t likely to be able to get their boat back into the water for at least two weeks. Whatever happened, these clowns would most certainly be found as soon as the search planes began systematically checking beaches instead of the sea. Yet, Captain Gringo’s fear was continuing its plunge toward the irrational. There was plainly no sense in trying to reason with any of them.

Optimized for performance rather than mileage, our vehicle had consumed every drop of gasoline we felt we had to spare on this fruitless boondoggle, and we were now critically short. Nonetheless, we had come to understand these three unfortunate waifs genuinely believed they were in risk of their lives. We resolved that if we continued running without refrigeration we would come reasonably close to making it back to Cholla Bay. If we ran out of gas, we'd be within a couple of hours walking distance, at worst.

We arrived back at the trio's campsite around 11:30 PM. As our rider painfully crawled from his torture chamber and straightened his back, his friends excitedly greeted him. With pledges of a ride to civilization on the morrow, we left the three anxious fishermen to contemplate their salvation. Awaiting them at Cholla Bay, however, was a fate they wouldn't openly entertain until the lucidity of time and distance set in on them in the yawning hours of tomorrow afternoon.

 
Copyright (c) 1996-2011
Larry K. Fox

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