Delivery

The job was pretty straightforward. Deliver a Hans Christian 43 from Galveston to Brownsville. The ship was in pretty good shape. She had the typical signs of a rich man’s vessel. The interior was nearly perfect for comfort and ostentation but the working parts were a little neglected. The rigging was a bit frayed and the engine coughed and belched black exhaust for several minutes before settling into raspy rhythm. The passage was largely uneventful. It is 250-some nautical miles between ports and as typical on these coast-hugging deliveries, getting from point A to B as quickly as possible means running the damn motor. The captain, Arlo, is a sailor to the core and he would rather take a circuitous route and hoist canvas but he also lives along the fine line of poverty and knows that the quicker the job done the quicker he gets paid. I join him on occasion to “help.” Really I am there to provide company and allow him to sleep. I know my way around a sailboat well enough to get it about however Arlo is a true salty dog and the lines of command are clearly established. We thudded along for five days and nights making a largely uneventful passage. While on board, Arlo and I pretty much ride a dry ship. We occasionally toss back a sip but mostly we are in get-the-job-done mode with the knowledge that once that voyage has been made, anything goes. Upon arrival at the Southpoint Marina in Brownsville, Arlo made the necessary arrangements at the marina office while I went in search of refreshment. I procured a half-case of Modelo, a bottle of Cruzan rum and 3 limes. We had a night to kill onboard before meeting a friend of the boat’s owner in the morning and then hitching a Greyhound back to Houston in the afternoon. We hunkered down in the cockpit and saluted each other for another passage made with a generous slash of rum and a cold beer. After an hour of relaxed sippage, a fella strolled by with a grocery bag in hand and Arlo recognized him from some wayward past. Arlo seems to know someone in every port in the western hemisphere. Tucker, or Tuck as we ended up soon calling him, was departing Brownsville on his way to the Caribbean on his Tartan 34 as soon as he got a new battery installed. In his bag he had three bottles of good red wine. He joined us as the rum, beer and wine were being worked over. Tuck then had an idea. It was spring break for the college kids who had congregated on nearby South Padre Island. The three of us were at an age where we were still young enough to think we were cool but just beginning to realize that we had passed the time where college kids, girls in particular, thought we might be interesting. Nonetheless, the sights and sounds of a raging college spring break bash intrigued. We righted ourselves and set out to check it out. The blue line city bus got us close and we hiked towards the sounds of the music and general chaos. We walked about the crowds and saw mostly drunk, shirtless guys yelling profanities and witnessed two fights. The scene was not as remarkable as we thought although we were treated to a brief Mardi Gras-style show from four coeds upon a balcony condo. We finally settled in, as sailors tend to do, at a dive bar with a name that I cannot recall. We ended up knocking back rum and Cokes with some guys on a power boat cruise apparently from Corpus Christi. As the night wore on my memory began to fade but I do recall looking about for Tuck and realizing he has slipped away. Arlo was practicing his Spanish with a lady in a yellow short skirt out on the patio while I was in a relatively good-natured debate about fishing. I was winning the debate by arguing the superiority of fly fishing over the Neanderthal-ian techniques of bass fishermen and their crankbaits and pork rinds. The power cruising duo finally hopped up and said they had to return to their boat and asked if I wanted to see it. I stood up in a haze and agreed. The walk down the docks took some effort but I have made those types of walks before. I vaguely recall being shown a very nice cruising trawler but I admit that the most appealing feature was the starboard berth that I fell into. I recall nothing of the voyage. I awoke with the hammer of the gods in my head in a dilapidated wooden beach chair with sun beating down upon me. The normally tranquil sounds of seagulls sounded like the screech of a maniacal witch. It took me way too long to realize I was on dry land. On my chest was a forked-tail pork rind from the bass fisherman’s tackle box. My wallet and phone were nowhere to be found. I had no idea where I was and the only thing I could think of was a gallon of water and equal measures of coffee. I eradicated myself from the chair and stumbled up the beach shielding the sun from my barely open eyes. I felt like I had been run over by a semi-truck hauling hogs. Each step brought on new twinges of pain in places that I didn’t know existed. My head thuded like a bass drum. Upon reaching a cracked sidewalk I saw a young kid on a bike and asked him where I was. He laughed and in Spanish called me a gringo borracho. I began to suspect something was amiss and confirmed it when I saw a road sign that read, Puerto de Matamoros. I had no money, no passport and no plan. I did survive with the thanks of a couple of expatriates I ran into along the docks of a nearby marina who helped smuggled me back into my own country from El Mezquital . I have learned to never trust a power boater and to not deride Texas bass fishermen, despite their ignorance.