Just Different Devils (2 page)

I had a dolphin in distress that picked my boat for salvation, which already proved this critter had bad judgment. Not that there is any thing wrong with my
boat
.

Raymond Johnson
, my triple-decked multi-level forty-five-foot trawler, is pretty luxurious and boasts sleeping quarters fore and aft, each with its own head, and a sizeable main cabin with a comfy settee, a high-low coffee table, a dining area with real furniture instead of the usual built-in benches, and a down galley, complete with stainless steel appliances and a breakfast banquette. It is carpeted throughout with a deep plush dark blue marine grade carpet that is luxurious, but a pain in the butt to keep clean. Especially when you have a golden retriever. My next boat will be carpeted in Labrador Gold Dust, or perhaps Yip Yellow?

Back to the problem at hand: the poor dolphin didn't pick the wrong boat, he picked the wrong
crew
.

And speaking of yellow, I, Hetta Coffey, am the original chicken of the sea.

For a gal who lives on the water, I have an uncommon fear of it, and everything that lives in it.

Water is lovely to admire from the safety of some heavy-duty floatation device, like, say, a large yacht. Snorkeling in warm, clear, shallow water is something I enjoy, but there is always a smidgen of trepidation involved, a
soupçon
of fear of danger messing with my fun. I bolt at the slightest fright, which can be anything from a blowfish getting too close, or even a stingray ten feet away. Even those harmless garden eels give me the creeps, and a real eel?
Fuhgeddaboudit.

It is definitely
not
in my nature to jump overboard into the sea, at night, alone. I looked over the side at the little guy on the bottom. A couple of bubbles escaped him and tears welled in my eyes. Po Thang gave me a look that said, "Okay, you coward. Let me go and
I'll
go get him." 

Okay, maybe I was projecting there, but guilt will do that.

"Oh, hell, dog, you win." We were, after all, in only twelve feet of water and my lights lit the area like a huge aquarium. Still, even though this poor dolphin looked to be asking for help, getting up close and personal with a hunk of wild animal bigger than me just makes no sense.

Lucky for him, I don't have any.

All these thoughts ran through my head as I first launched a woman-overboard ring over the rail. Powerboats rarely sport these devices, but since I had a dog on board, I figured it might come in handy. I threw it upwind so it drifted back to where the dolphin lay on the sand, hoping he'd manage to come up again and use it as a headrest to keep him afloat until I could ...do what?

Opening a locker that used to be a liquor cabinet and wet bar until I'd recently had it remodeled by a carpenter in La Paz, I hauled out my newly acquired dive equipment. While crewing on a dive boat during the summer, I'd gained some confidence with the use of scuba gear, figuring that, with my fear of the sea it might be better if I could breathe while under it.

Shimmying into a light-weight Lycra body suit, I then hiked my wet suit up like a pair of tight jeans, shaking Elizabeth Taylor's "Passion" body powder—a birthday gift that finally came in handy—into the legs as I did so, then managed the arms and all the zipping, tugging and adjusting involved to garner the look of a Jimmy Dean sausage.

Even in the coolish wee hour air, by the time I got into my full regalia I was warming rapidly inside a layer of neoprene, which was probably overkill for the eighty-four degree water temperature, but I considered it extra armor in case this animal didn't take kindly to my rescue attempt.

I had been drilled well over the summer, and easily donned my rebreather—which, thanks to all that training, was repacked and ready to go—but I was sweating bullets inside all that neoprene and Lycra. My dive instructor would have had a cat if he saw me just grabbing everything like that without breaking it all down and repacking and checking valves and tubes and the like, but
time was
a
-
wastin
'
. A dolphin was drowning.  I guess. How long a dolphin can last without air I had no idea, but I think I read somewhere it was between five and twenty minutes. If it was five, his clock was running out, pronto.

I started for the swim platform, then went back to the locker and strapped a second scabbard and dive knife to my other leg. I was, after all, about to go into the water with a predator.

Calling a dolphin a predator might get a Flipper fan's panties in a twist, but that is what they are: aquatic fish-eating mammals. And they are at the top of their food chain. It is this predatory behavior that is sometimes their undoing when they raid fishing nets to steal the catch, which might be how this poor thing got himself into such a crappy situation.

Getting chummy with Flipper isn't on par with becoming BFFs with a great white shark, but still....

Sliding into the water, I put on my fins—something I've never quite mastered executing with finesse—then swam along the hull until I was hovering over the dolphin. Donning my mask and mouthpiece, I took a breath and floated away from the boat for a better look. My fears were right on target; this net wasn't one of those light green nylon jobs the Mexican fishermen use, but a heavier, rope-type model one sees decorating beachfront dives the world over. There were even a couple of cork floats still attached, but they were useless. The hemp, or whatever it was made of, was waterlogged, covered with slime, and looked to be heavy enough to entangle me as badly as it had the dolphin.

I flipped back to the swim platform and secured a safety line on both me and the boat, just in case I got literally fouled up and I had to haul myself back to the surface with it.

My first order of business was getting the dolphin to the surface so he could breathe. I figured buddy breathing with him wasn't in the cards. Even if I could hold my mouthpiece over his blowhole, something I considered on par to swapping spit with one of those squid I so feared, he wouldn't know to take a breath, and the whole idea bordered on ridiculous. In for a peso, in for a pound, I grabbed the horseshoe-shaped overboard ring and tried powering it down to the bottom, using my flippers to fight both mine and its buoyancy. It was a losing battle, but my struggles snagged the dolphin's attention.

Using what might have been his last bit of strength, he fought his way to the surface, grabbed a couple of breaths, and sank again. As he went down in defeat, his eyes pleaded for help. Maybe only in my imagination, of course, but it broke my heart to watch his plight. At least now, however, maybe I had another five minutes to free him.

Dive knives are razor sharp, and using one underwater can be tricky. A slip can be disastrous, and if I cut the dolphin he might react violently, causing me to slice myself. Or worse, he'd knock me silly. Some might say he was too late for that one.

Oh, and did I mention that dolphins have teeth?

I decided to try cutting through net trailing a few feet from his tail first, near that clump on the bottom, thus lightening the load so just maybe he could at least rise to the surface and stay there while I got rid of the rest of it.

Hitting a button on my buoyancy regulator, I sank until I was able to stand on the  bottom while hacking the part attached to that heavy, four-foot ball of death. Attacking it without much success, I realized that, ticking clock or no, I had to get a grip. I was tiring rapidly with little result, and my panicky stabbing proved ineffectual. I planted my feet, squared my shoulders, took a few deep breaths and began cutting the heavy line strand by strand,  at a maddeningly slow pace.

The dolphin lay still, only once in a while craning his neck as if checking my progress. "Hey, you, human!" he seemed to be saying, "Can you, like, hurry it up a bit? I'm running out of oxygen here."

My concentration on the task at hand was such that, when a dark shape suddenly materialized at my side, I reacted violently. Screaming into my mouthpiece, I kicked away and raised my knife in defense mode, prepared to filet whatever it was like a, well, filet.

When what I thought to be a shark or some other such critter backed off, threw its arms out in a, "Whoa!" move, then gave me two thumbs ups, relief—and something perhaps a bit more liquid—flooded through me. He waggled his own dive knife at me, I finned back to his side, and we attacked the net together.

In no time we severed the last strands holding the clump, but the dolphin didn't rise to the surface. Instead, he'd settled to the sand as if in surrender. My heart sank with him, thinking we were too late, but my new diver friend swam to the dolphin's side, grabbed his dorsal fin and tried swimming him to the surface. It was then I noticed the diver didn't have on tanks or a rebreather, but was free diving.

I pointed at him and gave him the international diver's
ascend
hand sign, then finned to the dolphin. Taking a firm hold on the net still attached to him, I hit my vest's buoyancy regulator button: something I've been warned not to do. Normally this would send me rocketing to the surface, a dangerous move for any diver. However, with a five-foot of dead-weight dolphin in tow, all I did was raise him a couple of feet off the bottom.

The diver returned and swam under the dolphin to push him up, a move I considered dangerous as hell, but between the two of us, we finally hauled the dolphin to the surface, where my companion began slapping the poor creature in the face. I moved away lest a huge hunk of animal woke suddenly and took issue with being whopped in the beak.

Jan's marine biologist boyfriend honey, Chino, an expert on all things living in the sea, told me dolphins cannot breathe underwater, and that the water they appear to blow on rising is actually just the animal clearing water from the area so they didn't ingest it. So, would the dolphin, even though on the surface, know to breathe? Did he have enough oxygen left to blow so he could?

My question was answered shortly when our dolphin blew and breathed. We backed off, giving him plenty of room to swim, but he still had netting impeding his movements and we had to finish the job. I said a little prayer, even though I was fairly certain that particular line of communication had shorted out long ago, but figured if I was requesting divine intervention for the dolphin instead of asking for, say, a new BMW for my backsliding self, it might work.

The dolphin remained where he was, looking at me, then back to his tail again. Hoping this was a sign from on high that if we approached he wouldn't slam-dunk us, we moved in and began removing the rest of the net wrapping his body. In ten minutes he was completely free. My diver friend gave him a pat on the side and away he went.

Back at the swim platform, I pushed my mask onto my head, spit out my regulator and cheered, then turned to thank my new pal. He'd shoved his own mask up into a mass of thick, wet black hair. Morning light revealed a seriously handsome face and dazzling green eyes.

"Well done, Lass," this vision said with a burr reminiscent of Sean Connery.

I love Sean Connery.

Oh, dear.

Let me state for the record, right here and now, that I am in love with Jenks Jenkins.

Most of the time.

Like when he's
here
, which is almost never, because he works in Dubai while I live on a boat in Mexico. Just sayin'.

So, when a dripping wet hunk who had just helped me save a dolphin's life praised me and called me, "Lass," I have to admit I had an inappropriate tweak for someone in love with another; a frisson of...okay, lecherousness. Before I could recover sufficiently from this whammy to my system and invite the tweaker aboard for an early morning Scotch or three, he swam away.

Clambering heavily onto the boat like I always do after being weightless for awhile, and gravity revisits, I grabbed my high-powered binoculars to track the Adonic creature back to his boat, but I was too late. Oh well, it was probably for the best, because I have historically found trouble without actually going after it, so why give myself the opportunity to chase it down? Still, maybe a little dinghy ride through the anchorage later was in order?

Po Thang was going bonkers when I climbed back up on deck, yipping his welcome home yip mixed with groans and growls of supreme miff-dom. Yes, I was back on board, but I'd left him behind. He'd fought his tether and grumped ever since I began suiting up, and he was still at it. My dog loves to dive for pretty stuff on the bottom and is mightily put out when he can't join me. However, having another being to worry about while trying to free a large dolphin with a sharp knife in hand had been out of the question.

Unclipping his vest from the rail, I gave him a hug and a kiss and promised to take him on a swim later. I noticed that oddly sweet odor he exudes when he's stressed, and I stank of a pasty combo of trapped sweat and designer talc gone sour. 

Stripping off and washing down the suit, I dragged Po Thang under the outdoor shower head with me. Ignoring my usual penurious water usage rules while cruising, I luxuriated in a long, hot, freshwater-and-suds wash for both of us as a reward for my efforts. I was headed back to port in a couple of days, anyhow. Po Thang, after grumping some, relaxed and enjoyed the shower with me. He always does after his habitual initial attempt to flee. I've never figured out why a water dog like him avoids baths and showers the best he can. Because he's a guy?

The sun had peeked over the surrounding volcanic hills, so I left him on deck to dry while I went below, pulled on clean shorts and a tee shirt, made iced tea, and joined him to let my own short hair dry in the early morning warmth, hoping some vestige of red survived all this salt and sun until I could get a touchup.

Scanning the anchorage for a glimpse of the diver, I thought about that little twinge of lust I experienced earlier, and I wondered if I wasn't just reacting to the ever more rocky road this long-distance relationship with Jenks was traveling.

Maybe I just needed to hear Jenks's voice. Unfortunately, there is no cell service at the island, and my very expensive satellite system went down with a ship I was crewing on during the summer.

I would be more upset about the loss of the sat system if it hadn't been me who sank the damned boat.

I am Hetta Coffey, a single woman of forty—I've gotten over the trauma of saying that "f" word—who lives alone on a boat with a dog.

Okay, so things are not quite as lamentable as that sounds; I only say such things when I'm feeling sorry for myself. I do not garner much sympathy from anyone who knows me because, after all, I live on a yacht in Mexico. Back when I worked as an engineer for large corporations, I traveled the world, stayed in five-star hotels, and ate and drank high on the hog, thanks to a fat expense account. Those days are long gone.

On the upside, I am the CEO, CFO, president, and sole employee of Hetta Coffey, SI, LLC. The SI is my little prank on the phonetic pronunciation of Civil Engineer. An engineer by degree, I specialize in materials management and stay somewhat employed, thanks to a penchant for taking on, shall we say, less than legitimate employ.

On the downside, I remain perpetually single, ten pounds—okay fifteen—overweight, and on the verge of blowing the best relationship I've ever had because I am also bullheaded and, some say, as temperamental as any Texas redhead.

I prefer to think of myself as independent minded. A woman of the world. A bon vivant.

My best friend, Jan, says I'm stubborn, incorrigible, and morally corrupt, which is why she likes me so much.

My pixie cut do dried quickly in the sun and light wind. With a yawn, I realized my night and dive were catching up with me, so I fixed another iced tea, grabbed my Kindle, and moved to a lounge chair under my shaded sundeck.

My body felt like I'd gone a few rounds with Mohammed Ali, the result of muscles tightening during the adrenalin rush while struggling to save the dolphin. I started reading a new book I'd been saving for a special occasion, and I figured being a super hero qualified as such. Po Thang attempted to join me on the narrow cushion, got rebuffed, grumped, then curled up on the other lounge and went to sleep instantly. I tried reading, even making the font larger when the words blurred, but lost that battle and was soon gone myself.

A cold nose nudged me awake. I opened my eyes and realized I had a Kindle on my chest and my reading glasses on my nose. Disoriented by this break in my normal routine, it took me a moment to figure out, from the sun's position, that it was early afternoon. I sat up and looked around, realizing we were the only ones left in the anchorage. This caused a moment's alarm, wondering if the other boaters knew something I didn't. Then reason prevailed. If there were some kind of problem, someone would have alerted me before they left.

Po Thang nudged me again and stared at his empty dish. I realized we had both missed breakfast, so I scrambled eggs with spicy chorizo sausage for two, even though I ran the chance of a snoot full of ferocious dog fart later as a result. And to further make up with him for what he perceived as earlier neglect, I decided, since no one was around to rat us out, to break the stupid no-dogs-on-the-beach rule and take him for a run and a swim.

Jumping into my twenty-two-foot panga,
Se Vende
, we motored to the far north end of the pristine crescent of white sand defining this picture-perfect cove. Inland are boulder-strewn red-brown hills sporting cactus and scrub brush above salt flats—where I envisioned hoards of no-see-ums lurking, waiting for the wind to change so they could ride it straight for my body. But, Lady Luck in the form of that southern breeze was still with us. Hetta One-Bugs Zip.

We walked the length of the deserted beach, me checking for shells on the sand and Po Thang splashing in to dive for shells in the shallows. As he will do, one moment he's bringing me a shell, and the next, the best I can figure, the junction across which a nerve impulse passes from an axon terminal to a neuron—a synapse, by definition—occurs, his doggie brain just plumb shorts out and he loses track of whatever he was doing—not unlike me after one too many glasses of wine. Anyhow, he froze in place, his head whipped around, he stared out to sea, then took off in a run, hit the water and swam across the anchorage, making a beeline for
Raymond Johnson
.

Perhaps he felt the call of Beggin' Strips. Heck, I was in need of a glass of wine myself, and maybe even another nap. I climbed into
Se Vende,
started up the 60-hp Evinrude outboard, and had just put it in gear when, in the middle of the cove right next to where Po Thang smoothly dog paddled, something large splashed.

Po Thang, being the big dufus he is, changed direction and swam toward it.

Opening up that Evinrude, I streaked south, hoping against hope a giant squid or shark hadn't wandered into the cove looking for an afternoon snack. I called for Po Thang to come to me, but, as usual when it suits him, he suffered temporary hearing loss.

"Some
one," I yelled into that hearing void of his, "is destined for
serious
and hopefully painful doggie boot-camp when we get back to La Paz!"

In the couple of minutes it took me to chase him down, Po Thang had changed direction twice, clearly and stupidly trying to track whatever lurked under him. Half-way back to
Raymond Johnson
, he was in thirty feet of water, so whatever it was in the water could be anything. I'd seen large manta rays, a green six-foot moray eel, dolphin, and all kinds of critters in this cove, and in the near-bottomless waters just offshore, every kind of sea monster lies in wait. At least in my cowardly imagination.

An adrenaline rush hit me hard, causing me to break into a sweat and look around for a weapon of some sort. All I had in the skiff were two wooden paddles, which I vowed to whop Po Thang with when I finally caught up with him.

He started barking and swimming in circles, then, in a heart-stopping moment, went under. There was no yelling for help, for the anchorage was still all ours. I motored to where Po Thang went down and leaned over the gunwale trying to spot him, but in thirty feet of water, the clarity wasn't all that good. Bubbles rose, and I was getting ready to jump in when two heads popped up: one goofy looking retriever, and one dolphin. They were both smiling.

They ignored me and continued to play some game unbeknownst to us humans.  Whatever it was involved leaps, squeaks, yips, and a whole lot of splashing. It looked harmless enough, so I relaxed and headed for the boat. And that wine.

On the way, my heart resumed a normal beat, but I wondered whether experiencing two adrenaline blasts and a tweak of lust in one day put me in danger of an impending cardiac arrest.

Did I mention I'm somewhat of a hypochondriac?

My worries over Po Thang gamboling with a large wild animal were quashed when I realized they meant each other no harm. Matter of fact, watching their joy, I realized I was a little jealous of my dog's fickleness with that dolphin, and that was just plain pitiful. I had sunk to a new low.

Taking a sip of wine, I gave myself a mental slap for feeling sorry for myself because my dog had a new friend, and decided to deal with that dastardly net like a grownup.

I'd been too pooped to secure the net that morning, but not wanting it to cause more harm to sea life, or foul someone's anchor or prop, I'd lowered my spare anchor onto it, holding it in place for now.

Leaving the animals to play, I untied the line attached to the anchor I'd lowered on the net to hold it in place on the bottom. I then granny knotted—nautical term for one who cannot tie a decent knot—it to my dinghy lift. Turning on the onboard electric winch designed to lift a dinghy to the top of my sun deck roof, I slowly raised the heavy net onto the swim platform and lashed it down. While cutting into the blob responsible for holding that poor dolphin under the night before, I'd realized it was not just netting, but heavy sisal woven around a metal cage. Some kind of fish trap?

Getting this thing on deck wasn't easy by myself, but using the electric winch and some serious rigging tricks I'd learned from my dad, I finally wrestled it onto the foredeck. I was trying to roll it into an oversized black plastic trash bag when I realized it was encrusted in shellfish which, on further inspection, looked like oysters. I plucked a couple of larger ones from the net, put them into a plastic freezer bag, and added ice and a little sea water. I don't really care for oysters myself, unless they're cleaned, battered and deep fried by someone besides me, but my friend Jan dearly loves them.

Besides, it is against my nature to throw away any form of food.