Piracy in the Sea of Cortez
A dream voice told me that Chamula morning had returned. As much as he had tried to do so, he had fallen in love with the captain of a shrimping trawler, Young, cooperative Guaymas, Mexico. We met six months earlier in a small palapa restaurant at the mouth of the river Mulege. For months, he had been having the most amazing experiences. Morning sleep, my sister and I talked as we drank coffee and told him how much he wanted to go out with him on this last expedition. However, Chamula could promise not when he would return and he thought it was better that he was not. Just then, Alisabeth boyfriend, Mark, came through the door, his face fierce Indian Yaki looking even more today. Gravely, he reported that the boy had been assaulted; The crew held at gunpoint by Mexican mafia!
The story unfolded. Shrimp boats worked nights and rested during the day, the catch crew getting well-deserved rest. They had anchored off the coast of Sinaloa, Mexico, and it was then that they were approached by six men with guns. Forced to remove all their clothing, they were thrown into the hold. The 600 kilos of shrimp, their personal belongings and money are used.
We ran to the boat, and I’ll never forget the sight of them: bare-chested, tattered sweatpants, and no hats, squinting against the sun. At that point it would have been hard to tell the difference between the bandits and crew. They all looked really tough. We were told that this was a common occurrence, due to the wealth represented by the shrimp, as valuable as gold, the Mexican mafia regularly took part in the TIC. Elisabeth looked at me with great big eyes. “You want to be on this boat trip.” I looked at Chamula. The he nodded. He couldn’t even imagine the horror he would have faced, or the likelihood that he wouldn’t have returned.
Stormy winds from the north kept the ship beached 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. He still couldn’t say goodbye and go back to the States, so when he asked me if I wanted to date again, I foolishly said yes. Alisabeth reminded me that it was a “unique experience in life,” and both laughed at the old joke. Back on board, I watched as the palm trees receded into the distance and the water caught the last golden rays of the sun; I was already having serious doubts about my decision. Chamula hadn’t told me where we were going or how long we’d be gone. 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 said we were headed for Sinaloa! Than? 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 Sinaloa coast, exactly where they had just been robbed!
“Stupid!” I replied angrily, wearing like a Mexican sailor. On deck, I dropped down and leaned against the salt-encrusted nets. I was shocked. I felt as if I had offered to be kidnapped. All this because he didn’t have the guts to say goodbye. Well, I had made the choice, and the choice put me here. Done. Now the only thing to do was either stay crazy or have an adventure. Since it was such a small world on board a ship in the middle of the sea, I thought adventure was the best option.
Chamula followed me. He 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 that, we would be safe from the threat for a while. The seas began to pick up the further south we went. I started taking large doses of Dramamine and fell asleep. When I arrived at the waves they had turned dark blue with deep depressions and white caps. I brought Chamula coffee with interest and asked if she could show me where we were. I might as well learn something during my trip to hell. I was very happy to see that I wasn’t holding a grudge. In the southern night we had gone to Loreto then southeast across the Gulf at night. We were now close to mainland Mexico. I sat on the step of the wheelhouse, sipped coffee, and watched the spouting whales.
At 4:00 pm the sound of the engine died. We docked at the stern of another co-op 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. Concerned, I asked the Captain if we were not going to approach the coast. No, he admitted, this was very different from Mulegé. 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 the boats wouldn’t have a problem, but I do.
The next morning I crawled out of the bunk and the movement of the Young woman held my body against the wall of the cabin. “Shit!” Another day of rough seas. I wondered how many days I was able to stay drugged and asleep. That’s when I was wondering if Chamula could get me off the boat. When I asked, he told me that he had a friend in Los Glorioso, Sinaloa, who could probably help. And just like the captain he dropped anchor and we headed for the mainland. I felt horrible being the reason everything was changing course. My brothers looked at it as just another joke, an “adventurer” at the time, and if you were a woman stuck in the middle of the gulf, they had your attitude very much to your advantage.
Once moored in the glorious, the wonders of the Mexican transport were clear. Everyone knew the young, and it went a panga. The seas were turbulent. I literally jumped out of the boat to the smaller boat that was under when both were cast. The fisherman who was driving the boat maneuvered through the breaking waves. And like a surfer riding the curl, he stops for a moment, and then, at the right time, he would use the force of the water to propel us forward. We deslizaríamos on strength until we reach another wave. We take the momentum all the way to the beach.
After removing the pot above the tide line, we enter the neighborhood of adobe houses. Chickens and dogs were running loose everywhere. We stopped for cold drinks at a small store. The sun was hot and penetrating. Sitting under the shade of a tree near the Sinaloa River, the old friends chatted while a lone gringa looked on. 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 down the open mouth of the Sinaloa River into the crashing waves. The breaking waves hit the bottom of the boat so hard that we had to hold on with both hands to keep from being thrown out. I knew Chamula expected me to be scared, but when she looked at me, she was smiling so big we both must have looked foolish. She was “very mad” for more! And that day I earned the title, “Pirate.”
Back aboard the choppy decks of the Younger, I went inside to pack. Chamula did not let me go alone so we both went to the beach to meet a friend of his. 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 sparkling waters of the gulf, I reached for my journal to keep the memories fresh. Like a giant backbone ancient volcanic rock, the Baja peninsula emerged from the water. Slowly, I closed the diary to prepare for the landing in La Paz.