A dreamlike voice at dawn told me that Chamula had returned. As much as I had tried not to, I had fallen in love with the captain of a cooperative shrimp trawler, Joven, from Guaymas, Mexico. We settled six months earlier in a small palapa restaurant at the mouth of the Mulegé River. For months, he had been having the most incredible experiences. The morning of the dream, my sister and I talked over coffee and I told him how much I had wanted to go out with him on this latest expedition. However, Chamula could not promise when he would return and thought it best not to go. Just then, Alisabeth’s boyfriend, Marcos, walked through the door, his fierce Indian Yaki face looking even brighter today. Seriously, he reported that the Young Man had been assaulted; The crew held at gunpoint by the Mexican mafia!
The story unfolded. The shrimp boats worked at night and rested during the day, the crew getting a well-deserved sleep. They had anchored off the coast of Sinaloa, Mexico, and that was when they were boarded by six armed men. Forced to remove all their clothing, they were thrown into the cellar. They took the 600 kilos of shrimp, their personal effects and money.
We ran to the boat, and I will never forget the sight of them: bare-chested, tattered sweatpants, and no hats, squinting into the sun. At that time it would have been difficult to tell the difference between the bandits and the crew. They all looked really tough. We were told that this was common, because of the wealth that shrimp represented, as valuable as gold, the Mexican mafia regularly took their share. Alisabeth looked at me with big big eyes. “You wanted to be on this boat trip.” I looked at Chamula. He nodded. He couldn’t even imagine the horror he would have faced, or the likelihood that he hadn’t returned.
Stormy winds from the north kept the ship stranded for several days. Since the captain and crew were paid according to the amount of shrimp brought in, it was critical to get back to work and make up for the loss. I still couldn’t say goodbye and go back to the States, so when he asked if I wanted to go out again, I foolishly said yes. Alisabeth reminded me that it was a “once in a lifetime experience” and we both laughed at the old joke. Back on board, I watched the palm trees recede into the distance and the water catch the last golden rays of the sun; I already had serious doubts about my decision. Chamula had not told me where we were going or how long we would be away. I found him at the helm and that’s when I learned the truth. We would be driving for two days, and the first officer mentioned that we were heading to Sinaloa! What? Chamula timidly affirmed that it was true, not wanting to tell me because he did not want me to return to the states. We were heading to the coast of Sinaloa, exactly where they had just robbed!
“Stupid!” I retorted angrily, cursing like a Mexican sailor. On deck, I dropped down and leaned into the salt-encrusted nets. I was in shock. I felt like I had volunteered to be kidnapped. All this because I didn’t have the guts to say goodbye. Well, I had made the choice, and the choice put me here. Done. Now all he could do was stay angry or have an affair. As it was such a small world aboard a ship in the middle of the sea, I thought adventure was the best option.
Chamula followed me. I didn’t understand how he could put me in danger, and I told him so. His response was very pragmatic. He assured me that since all the shrimp were gone and the mob knew about it, we would be safe from the threat for a while. The sea began to rise the further south we went. I started taking large doses of Dramamine and went to sleep. When I got up, the waves had turned dark blue with deep valleys and white caps. I brought Chamula coffee and asked him to show me where we were. I could also learn something during my trip to hell. He was very happy to see that he was not holding a grudge. In the evening we had gone south to Loreto and then southeast across the Gulf in the evening. Now we were close to mainland Mexico. I sat on the wheelhouse step, took a sip of coffee, and watched the whales throw up.
At 4:00 pm the engine’s roar died. We landed on the stern of another cooperative boat in the middle of nowhere. Well, I knew we were in the Gulf, but I couldn’t see land. The sea was a constant and relentless movement. Worried, I asked the Captain if we weren’t going to get close to shore. No, he admitted, this was very different from Mulege. It was unlikely that we would see land, because the gulf was so shallow here that ships could anchor right in the middle with no problem. I thought ships would have no problem, but I would.
The next morning I crawled out of the bunk and the movement of the Young Man threw my body against the wall of the cabin. “Shit!” Another heavy seas day. I was wondering how many days I could stay drugged and asleep. It was then that I wondered if I could get Chamula to let me get off the boat. When I asked him, he said he had a friend in Los Gloriosos, Sinaloa, who could probably help. And so the captain weighed anchor and we headed for the mainland. I felt horrible that I was the reason everything was changing course. My brothers saw it as just another joke, an “adventure” at the time, and if you were a woman trapped in the middle of the gulf, their attitude had a lot going for it.
Once moored in Los Gloriosos, the wonders of Mexican transportation became clear. Everyone knew the young man, and a panga was already coming out. The seas were rough. I literally jumped off the boat into the smaller boat below when they were both thrown. The fisherman driving the boat maneuvered through the breaking waves. And like a surfer, riding the curl, he would stop for a moment, and then, at the perfect moment, he would use the force of the water to propel us forward. We would slide on the force until another wave caught up with us. We seized the momentum all the way to the beach.
After taking the boat out above the tide line, we entered the neighborhood of adobe houses. Chickens and dogs ran loose everywhere. We stopped for cold drinks at a small shop. The sun was hot and biting. Sitting under the shade of a tree near the Sinaloa River, old friends chatted while a lonely gringa watched. In Mexico there was a time to visit and a time to go. You never thought of going when you visited. But when the time came, we had to go back to the trawler to collect my belongings. We jumped back into the panga and roared through the mangrove trees through the open mouth of the Sinaloa River toward the crashing waves. The crashing waves were hitting the bottom of the boat so hard that we had to hold on with both hands to keep from being thrown. I knew Chamula expected him to be scared, but when he looked at me, he was smiling so big that we must both have looked foolish. I was “too crazy” for more! And that day I earned the title, “Pirate.”
Back on board the choppy decks of the Young Man, I went in to pack. Chamula wouldn’t let me go alone, so we both went to the beach to meet his friend. We traveled in the back of an open truck to the Los Mochis airport. It was a tearful goodbye. My life had changed profoundly in these months. He had lived and loved life fully. However, I had to leave and it hurt. Looking down at the glistening waters of the gulf, I took my journal to keep the memories fresh. Like a giant backbone of ancient volcanic rock, the Baja Peninsula emerged from the water. Slowly, I closed the newspaper to prepare for landing in La Paz.