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The Orphans of Pothole Beach

July 04-07, 1996


 
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IX

Surrender

 

In the exhausting hours of the afternoon our irritation at Captain Gringo’s dismissing Search and Rescue once again gave way to pity. The trio was no doubt looking at a healthy search and rescue bill unless the Cholla Bay Sportsmen's Club provided some sort of volunteer arrangement for such operations. Also, they would be forced to make arrangements to retrieve their cruiser at a time dictated by the moon rather than by personal schedule. These men would all be paying dearly for their naiveté. But as yet even they hadn't realize just how dearly.

The low murmuring from the rear compartment had returned with the definition of the roadway. Once again it started out barely audible, and once again the urgency increased as we approached our destination. But this time, the words surviving the washboard and perspiration related a different story. These greenhorns had bid their families farewell, telling their wives they were going to a nearby lake for the usual weekend. They had set out immediately for Mexico and Cholla Bay, slipped their cruiser into the blue waters of the Cortez, and headed for fertile fishing grounds northwest of Puerto Peñasco. They brought with them no knowledge of the beast they set out to conquer, and it had done them in. With the drug enforcement activity required of Mexico by the U.S. government, weren't the Federales likely to confiscate American boats abandoned along this lonely shore? Also, they had been missing two days now; wasn't the coast guard likely to have notified their families? And what were their wives going to say?

Thus, the mood was dark as we approached Cholla Bay in the waning daylight hours and pulled up at J.J.'s Cantina.

"Oh, oh," came a pronouncement from the rear compartment in a tone of resignation tempered by impending doom, "There's your wife's car."

With that, the trio bundled out of the vehicle and we were rid of them.

 
July 04-07, 1996

 

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