Read Online Just Different Devils by Jinx Schwartz - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jinx Schwartz
Tags: Literature & Fiction, Action & Adventure, Mystery, Sea stories, Genre Fiction, Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, Women's Adventure, Sea Adventures
Ads: Link
to do, I put the cruiser's net on the ship's speakers so we could catch the weather forecast and the latest news. We'd listened to the Sonrisa Net weather on ham radio earlier, so we knew we were in for a few days of benign weather, but then Santa Ana winds were expected in California, and they were usually a sure sign of some nasty northers to follow in the Sea of Cortez.
Jan and I cheered when a cruiser relayed a report that he'd heard from a guy who knew a guy in the Mexican navy who told him that Freddie Clark was most likely killed by one of those Red Devils, and the Net Control operator lost total control of the net as hysteria rose.
I did a fist pump on hearing that report. I know, we shouldn't have been so happy at the bad news, or the fear it caused, but at least now I wouldn't be accused of being the blabberer and thereby land on the Port Captain's bad-girl list. The last thing I needed was for him to impound Raymond Johnson before my cash cow arrived.
Just to be safe, however, I didn't tell the marina office we were leaving until right at closing time on Saturday, and we sneaked out at first light on Sunday morning, thereby ensuring the Capitania del Puerto didn't get wind of our slipping out of port until at least Monday morning.
As required by law, I called the Capitania to report our departure as we left La Paz Bay, but nobody answered.
Maybe if I'd been on the correct channel and turned up the power? Oh, well.
Chapter Ten
The destination for our mysterious rendezvous was the Caleta Partida anchorage. Reputed to be what's left of an extinct volcano crater sandwiched between the Islands of Espiritu Santo and Partida, this protected anchorage was a wise choice. The islands were once one, until the volcano blew, leaving us boaters one of the most secure moorages in the Sea of Cortez. It is also the only one in the islands north of La Paz that I really trust, because I'd ridden out southerly, westerly and northerly winds there safely.
My favored spot is near the entrance, snugged up next to a fish camp where no sailboat with more than a three-foot draft dares go. Anchored in only twelve feet of water, one is safe from everything but the rare strong easterly, and even then there would not be much fetch—nautical speak for not enough distance for the wind to whip up the water—and thereby no large wave action. It was an ideal spot to wait for Deep Pockets.
Jan was jazzed, as this part of the Sea was all new to her. I was more than happy to share it with her and play tour guide. I was, after all, the expert on board; I'd been there. And, of course, I never pass up a chance to be a know-it-all.
Since we stole away so early, we anchored at Balandra, just twelve nautical miles north of La Paz, for breakfast. This beautiful place, with its famous El Hongo de Piedra , or mushroom rock, along with turquoise water and sugary sand beaches, is a summertime favorite for the locals. I hadn't been there in awhile because getting blown out by Coromuels during their season is a good possibility.
"Okay, what's a Coromuel?" Jan wanted know.
"Depends on who you talk to. It's a south, southwest wind that blows in spring and summer. Cools La Paz down, but plays hell with the anchorages. Anyhow, I've heard tell that the name, Coromuel, is the Hispanicization of Cromwell. Some say he was a pirate who used the predictable wind to raid Manila Galleons. I doubt it, though, because as we know, those ships stopped at Cabo, not here."
Jan pointed to the narrow-necked mushroom-shaped rock. "Jeez, how does it survive hurricanes?"
"It doesn't. Didn't. It collapsed under its own weight several years ago, and the nice folks from the Bercovich Boat Works—I pointed their yard out to you as we went by—and some typical Mexican ingenuity for fixing stuff by heavy lifting, drilling, and a lot of marine epoxy, managed to put Humpty Dumpty back together again. Don't you just love the way Mexicans can repair almost anything? In
Jan and I cheered when a cruiser relayed a report that he'd heard from a guy who knew a guy in the Mexican navy who told him that Freddie Clark was most likely killed by one of those Red Devils, and the Net Control operator lost total control of the net as hysteria rose.
I did a fist pump on hearing that report. I know, we shouldn't have been so happy at the bad news, or the fear it caused, but at least now I wouldn't be accused of being the blabberer and thereby land on the Port Captain's bad-girl list. The last thing I needed was for him to impound Raymond Johnson before my cash cow arrived.
Just to be safe, however, I didn't tell the marina office we were leaving until right at closing time on Saturday, and we sneaked out at first light on Sunday morning, thereby ensuring the Capitania del Puerto didn't get wind of our slipping out of port until at least Monday morning.
As required by law, I called the Capitania to report our departure as we left La Paz Bay, but nobody answered.
Maybe if I'd been on the correct channel and turned up the power? Oh, well.
Chapter Ten
The destination for our mysterious rendezvous was the Caleta Partida anchorage. Reputed to be what's left of an extinct volcano crater sandwiched between the Islands of Espiritu Santo and Partida, this protected anchorage was a wise choice. The islands were once one, until the volcano blew, leaving us boaters one of the most secure moorages in the Sea of Cortez. It is also the only one in the islands north of La Paz that I really trust, because I'd ridden out southerly, westerly and northerly winds there safely.
My favored spot is near the entrance, snugged up next to a fish camp where no sailboat with more than a three-foot draft dares go. Anchored in only twelve feet of water, one is safe from everything but the rare strong easterly, and even then there would not be much fetch—nautical speak for not enough distance for the wind to whip up the water—and thereby no large wave action. It was an ideal spot to wait for Deep Pockets.
Jan was jazzed, as this part of the Sea was all new to her. I was more than happy to share it with her and play tour guide. I was, after all, the expert on board; I'd been there. And, of course, I never pass up a chance to be a know-it-all.
Since we stole away so early, we anchored at Balandra, just twelve nautical miles north of La Paz, for breakfast. This beautiful place, with its famous El Hongo de Piedra , or mushroom rock, along with turquoise water and sugary sand beaches, is a summertime favorite for the locals. I hadn't been there in awhile because getting blown out by Coromuels during their season is a good possibility.
"Okay, what's a Coromuel?" Jan wanted know.
"Depends on who you talk to. It's a south, southwest wind that blows in spring and summer. Cools La Paz down, but plays hell with the anchorages. Anyhow, I've heard tell that the name, Coromuel, is the Hispanicization of Cromwell. Some say he was a pirate who used the predictable wind to raid Manila Galleons. I doubt it, though, because as we know, those ships stopped at Cabo, not here."
Jan pointed to the narrow-necked mushroom-shaped rock. "Jeez, how does it survive hurricanes?"
"It doesn't. Didn't. It collapsed under its own weight several years ago, and the nice folks from the Bercovich Boat Works—I pointed their yard out to you as we went by—and some typical Mexican ingenuity for fixing stuff by heavy lifting, drilling, and a lot of marine epoxy, managed to put Humpty Dumpty back together again. Don't you just love the way Mexicans can repair almost anything? In
Similar Books
