This rather unusual tale took place several years ago when I joined some friends on a trip from San Diego down to their family's property in northern Baja California. Their land lies several miles south of the city of Ensenada and sprawls across the top of a lofty hill, providing a panoramic view of the Pacific Ocean.

My friends, Roberto and his brother Jesse, picked me up early on Saturday in their road worn Jeep Cherokee, and by midmorning we were waiting in line to cross the border at San Ysidro to begin our 120-mile drive south. I reclined in the back seat and munched on a few tortilla chips while wondering what the day would have in store for us. Eventually, we were waived through the international border crossing by a mustachioed customs officer who seemed to eye me rather suspiciously as we passed.

First time visitors from the United States are occasionally taken aback by the sights and aromas that they encounter crossing the bridge over the Rio Tia Juana. The city has become a burgeoning Mecca for those seeking to better their economic condition, and has grown in dramatic proportions to the times in the mid-twentieth century when Tijuana was considered a sleepy little border town, visited mostly by off duty members of the U.S. military.

At a stoplight, I glance out the window and see a young mother, probably a Yaqui Indian from further south in Mexico, who sits huddled in a worn blanket looking much older than her years. She has an infant cradled in her arms, and looks up at me with a plaintive expression as she extends her small basket toward a throng of pedestrians who blindly pass by her on the sidewalk.

Once past this type of disquieting introduction to its cultural extremes, Tijuana reveals a plethora of color, activity, and diversity. Local residents and visitors jockey for position along the busy streets and byways in an attempt to find a bargain, a special restaurant, or to simply go about their daily business. On this particular day we took the picturesque coastal toll road, leaving the hassles of urban confusion behind us in the reflection of our rear view mirror.

The highway connecting Tijuana to Ensenada is soundly constructed and generally well maintained. For several miles, the scenic coastline is punctuated by an increasing number of condominiums and other developments designed to cater to Americans seeking a weekend getaway or retirement villa south of the border. In a few areas it hugs the side of high bluffs that invite drivers to enjoy a breathtaking view of the Pacific Ocean, while keeping their tightly knuckled fists glued to the steering wheel. The occasional sight of a rusted vehicle halfway down an embankment provided Jesse with a graphic reminder of the importance of remaining alert.

The intense midday sun beat through the windshield and made me begin to perspire. I sat transfixed by the natural beauty of the area, and stared out my window toward the sea as a line of pelicans glided southward only a few feet above the surface of the water. Shortly after we passed the small lobster fishing village of Puerto Nuevo, Jesse turned off the highway and pulled into the dusty parking lot of a dilapidated fruit stand that looked as if it had just been hastily nailed together with scrap lumber. It was painted a bright turquoise and sported a large, hand painted sign that read, "Hay Frescas, Frutas y Cerveza Fria."

Although the little store was humble in appearance, the smiling owner was doing a banner business selling fresh cantaloupe and tomatoes as well as cold beer and sodas to quench the thirst of weary travelers in route to their various destinations. A young girl was busy filling plastic cups with horchata, a cooling rice beverage. It was held in a large cistern, which was actually an ancient five-gallon water bottle that had been artfully decapitated with a glasscutter.

It is amazing how incredibly resourceful the people of Baja California can be. Over the years, I have witnessed remarkable examples of their ingenuity, which usually involves taking an item that is broken and discarded, reclaiming it, then making it into a useful tool or appliance that is sometimes totally out of context with its original application. Since the water bottle contained a potable liquid, this was one instance where the apple had not fallen too far from the tree. I left the horchata for others and opted for a cold cerveza.

Back on the road, almost a half hour passed before we made it to the crest of a spectacular viewpoint at the last major high point before the steep descent down a stretch of the coastal road that ends up on the outskirts of Ensenada. The Mexican Department of Tourism obviously went to great trouble and expense in erecting these bright, multicolored structures, which include a restaurant and gift shop to help lure motorists into the parking lot, and on to waiting cash registers.

This day was particularly clear, and the view from El Mirador was unparalleled. Islas Todos Santos, two small islands off the coast of Ensenada, appeared so close that I felt as if I could hit them with one of the stones that lay near my feet. For the first time, I was starting to feel detached from the busy congestion back in southern California. As I gazed south, the entire Baja peninsula seemed to stretch out before me and then dissolve into a soft blur on the horizon.

In another 20 minutes we had reached the final tollbooth. After paying our "cuota", we left the main highway and headed down the road that leads into El Sauzal, and through Ensenada.

There is a factory just outside of town where, when the season is right, tons of fish are processed. Sometimes it is tuna, sometimes mackerel or sardines. During these times, if a westerly breeze prevails, passing drivers are treated to a bevy of earthy aromas that are not always pleasant. On this warm and sunny afternoon, we quickly became aware that the factory's operation was indeed in full swing.

The northern entrance to the Port of Ensenada is protected by a long jetty that acts as a breakwater, sheltering the commercial basin from the unrelenting swells that would otherwise wreak havoc on the many vessels that are anchored there. Some travelers take this opportunity to stop and enjoy a few fish tacos or seafood cocktail at the nearby Mercado Negro, a local fishermen's cooperative. We could afford no such luxury, since it was now early afternoon and we had nearly another hours drive ahead of us. We decided instead to split the last of the tortilla chips that I had opened before crossing the border.

The road south of Ensenada is a bit neglected by American standards, but remains a vital artery for the nearly constant line of vehicles that regularly use it. Just past the small town of Maneadero, the road comes to a fork. Those who continue south will find themselves on Baja’s Transpeninsula Highway that extends down the peninsula and ends near the rocky arch of Cabo San Lucas. We took the road veering off to the west, which leads past fields of corn, through Punta Banda, and on to the top of the hill above La Bufadora.

The closer we got to our destination, the more Roberto and Jesse reminisced about times in younger days that they had made a pilgrimage to this place they simply called "the hill". They described the secluded cove and turquoise lagoon that lay just below their property, and recalled the many varieties of fish that had once been caught there. The two spoke in nearly magical terms of the spectacular vistas that made them feel as if they were the masters of all that surrounded them.

Although I had not shared their specific experience, in my youth I had often accompanied my parents on camping trips that ended up on the beaches south of Ensenada. I well understood the magnetism that enchanted my friends. Often, beneath a blanket of bright stars, I was lulled to sleep during the changing of the tides by the sound of the sea rushing rapidly through the mouth of the estero.

With each mile we drove, we became more charged with anticipation; envisioning that, somehow, a special adventure would be awaiting us at the top of the hill. We rounded a curve just past a grove of fruit laden olive trees and the estero suddenly came into view. The calm water was like a sheet of glass reflecting the brilliant summer sun back into our eyes as if it were a mirror. Before long, we had passed the small town of Punta Banda and began driving out the long serpentine grade that leads to the end of the point.

As the road continued, I stared out at the great bay with its miles of distant sandy beach stretching magnificently to the north. At least for a moment it helped me forget that there was a shear drop of several hundred feet immediately to my right.

When we reached the crest of the paved road, Jesse slowed, then carefully turned onto a rutted gravel trail that led up the dusty hill and disappeared into the sagebrush. The gravel turned to dirt as we slowly maneuvered over the many bumps while climbing in goat-like fashion past endless stretches of dry brush, wildflowers and cactus. The further we ventured, the more apprehensive I became about the steep incline and the small, unstable path that we found ourselves on.

As we approached the summit, a small, teardrop shaped trailer could be seen off in a bulldozed clearing. Its paint was severely faded from exposure to the area’s unrelenting sun and wind. To its side sat an old tractor with corroded paint the color of dry mustard. There were a number of carefully segregated piles of pipes, rusted auto parts, and other assorted items between which half a dozen scrawny chickens clucked and pecked their way through the dirt. Beyond the trailer, fixed motionless in the open field as if she were a solitary statue, stood a tattered but sturdy looking brown and white cow.

"Somebody lives up here?" I asked with a certain degree of dismay.

"Yeah, El Negro." Roberto responded, glancing back at me over his shoulder.

"El who?" I inquired.

"El Negro." Roberto continued "His name is really Santiago, he's an old friend of dad's...used to be an abalone diver over near Puerto Santo Tomas. Everyone calls him El Negro because his skin is dark. Dad hired him to run the bulldozer, and keep people from messing around up here."

No sooner had these words left Roberto's mouth than the door to the tiny trailer swung open and out stepped a large, disheveled looking man wearing a baseball cap, faded red T-shirt, and ragged jeans. In his right hand, he tightly clutched a cut-off baseball bat. Lowering his head like a bull that was getting ready to charge, he squinted at us menacingly. Then, in a moment of sudden recognition, his stern expression evaporated into a broad, toothy smile. "Beto! Jesse!" he shouted, waiving his arms. "Bienvenidos! Como esta? Donde esta tu padre?"

Before I had time to fully recover from the vision of being violently clubbed into unconsciousness, Roberto and his brother had already left the car and were enthusiastically shaking hands with our greeter. I opened the back door and walked through the dust to join them.

Santiago's dark brown face looked like a creek bed that had been baked dry by the sun. His smile revealed occasional gaps between the encrusted yellow teeth that lined his gums and, even in the light afternoon breeze, I could detect the faint aroma of alcohol exuding from his hulking frame.

"Buenos tardes, Tomas!" he gushed after our introduction, while nearly crushing my hand with his firm, but friendly grip.

After a few more minutes of obligatory small talk Roberto turned and headed back to the Jeep, reached into the small cooler that we had filled with beer earlier in the day, and removed a couple of cold, dripping bottles. Walking back up to the trailer, Roberto placed them in the hands of the happily waiting Santiago, whose smile now seemed markedly enhanced.

Roberto turned to me with the wide-eyed expression of a young boy about to jump on the back of a new pony. "Ready to head down to the beach?" He asked in a hurried tone.

"Let's go!" I quickly shot back.

But it was Jesse who beat us both by turning and breaking into a dead run back to the Jeep. "I'll get the ice chest." He shouted. "You guys carry the other stuff!" Digging into the open back like a crazed gopher, he sent several brightly colored towels flying through the air and onto the roof of the Jeep.

"Last one on the beach is a gringo!" He called out, as he snatched the chest and scampered down the rocky path toward the cliff.

Roberto took off after Jesse, leaving billows of brown dust hanging in the air. I took my time and sauntered leisurely over to pick up the towels. Since I was already a gringo, I had accepted the fact that this was one contest I was pretty much destined to lose anyway.

I headed down the incline and immediately became alerted to the fact that my inexpensive rubber sandals were no match for the many sharp stones and pebbles that lined the path leading to the beach. As I continued sliding along the embankment, the carpet of small, protruding rocks proved far too taxing for my Taiwanese rubber soles. Suddenly, the thong popped through a gaping hole that had been torn in the bottom of my right sandal, and I was left partially shoeless some 300 meters above the cove.

I turned and awkwardly hopped back up the trail toward the car, casting one last look over my shoulder towards my two cohorts, who had already made their way past the ridge and were now obscured by a large growth of chaparral. While trying to avoid a menacing patch of cactus in my path, I lost my balance and tumbled forward onto the ground. This time, I managed to expertly scrape just enough skin off of my left knee to draw blood.

"Oh, what a pleasurable adventure!" I mumbled to myself as I slowly stood and began limping back toward the hot, beer-less vehicle that appeared as if it was going to be my only sanctuary until my friends decided to return from the beach. I lowered myself into the Jeep's shadow and sullenly swabbed off my wound with a few teaspoons of flat Bohemia that I coaxed from one of the empty bottles. I had just started to totally lose myself in contemplative self-pity when I heard the sound of brush rustling behind me.

Turning toward the source of the disturbance, my eyes were greeted by the broad grin of Santiago who, clomping toward me, was now churning up even more of the hill's dry, powdery dust.

"Café, amigo?" he offered, brimming with rural hospitality. Although it was a warm afternoon, and not the time I usually choose to pour a cup of hot liquid down my throat, I sensed that Santiago's suggestion was comprised of equal amounts of compassion and loneliness. The latter state of mind seemed totally understandable given his isolated existence. It was obvious that outright refusal would have been an insult.

"Si, gracias." I responded, using up a good portion of my limited Spanish while trying to project an expression of delight at his invitation. "No zapata aqui." I floundered pointing to my bare foot.

Santiago immediately reached behind his back, pulled a dirty mechanic's towel from under his belt and tossed it with surprising accuracy over my foot.

"Zapata nueva." he said, breaking into a snicker. I offered a strained smile as I wrapped the rag around my foot and tried to come up with a knot that was capable of making it back over the rubble and on to his trailer before it came undone. I stood up with the mixed feelings of gratitude and diminished dignity. On his way back, Santiago suddenly stopped in his tracks, turned, and encouraged me with a beckoning arm. "Valor, mi amigo!" he called out with a laugh.

With my foot wrap still in place, I arrived at the door of Santiago's trailer. He motioned for me to enter as he drew water from a clay cistern into a small, dented aluminum pot he then placed over one of the burners on his propane stove. I slid behind the small table and onto an uneven stool that was crowned by a torn, heavily soiled cushion.

After several minutes, the water began to boil furiously. Santiago opened a cellophane package of Café Combaté, haphazardly poured a random measure of the ground beans into the pot and turned off the flame. After allowing the mixture to steep several minutes, he poured the chunky liquid through a stainless steel strainer and into each of the two plastic mugs that he had already placed on the counter.

"Cafe!" He beamed benevolently while handing me my share of the strong smelling concoction.

"Ah, muchas gracias!" I responded, as I took a sip while trying to focus my attention on Santiago's hospitality rather than the opaque stain on the lip of my apparently unwashed cup. "Muy bien." I smiled.

Since neither of us were masters of the other's tongue, there was an initial period of silence. Even so, these few wordless moments were not dull, as Santiago looked down at his lap, furrowed his brow in displeasure, and then began to vigorously scratch at his crotch. "Pinchi pulgas!" He exclaimed in disgust.

It wasn't hard to understand why Santiago had a flea problem. A pregnant, gray cat was comfortably sprawled across the sagging bed behind him and another smaller feline who, perhaps sensing his mood, had just nosed its way past the screen door and escaped into the wild world beyond. The interior of the trailer had a definite air of presence about it, not unlike the smell of a sweaty sleeping bag. Thankfully, that odor was partially masked by the less offensive aroma of stale beer which was emanating from a pile of empty bottles that had been casually stacked near the foot of his stove.

"Base-a-bol?" Santiago offered as if to test my interest. "Los Angeles Doe-gers?"
He continued to probe.

"No, amigo" I said, smiling and raising my index finger in joking contradiction. "Los Padres de San Diego!"

This seemed to please him, and his face took on a broad, knowing smile. "Ah, si!" he nodded "Los Padres!" My reference to a rival baseball team must have unleashed a macho desire for further male bonding. Santiago leaned over and opened the door of a small cabinet under the stove. Reaching behind a bottle of cooking oil, he extracted a half empty jug of Bacardi. After pouring a generous ration into his
cup, he thrust the bottle toward me. "Ron Bacardi?" He asked with a congenial gleam in his eye.

The events of the afternoon had taken their toll on any resolution that I may have had to remain moderately sober and, before I realized it, I found myself reaching out with my cup. "Si, gracias." I responded.

It was suddenly happy hour.

After several slugs of spiked coffee, the interior of Santiago's trailer began to take on a rather homey atmosphere. This charming glow quickly dissipated, however, when my host bent over to grab the Bacardi jug and proceeded to fart loudly. He paused, and then glanced up at me with a childlike expression of mild embarrassment. I forced a smile and took another swallow from the cup that was cradled in my palms.

This time Santiago poured enough rum into his cup to fill it just an inch or so short of spilling over the lip. He placed the jug down on the table and shoved it toward me with an intensity that suggested more of a command than an offer.

"Mas!" he blurted out, slurring slightly. I obliged him in limited measure, pouring myself less than a shot. After being momentarily distracted by a cockroach that scurried out of a crack in floor, I noticed Santiago reflectively gazing out his door and into the sagebrush surrounding his trailer. "La noche es muy sola." Santiago's voice now softened, vaguely lamented the solitude of his many lonely nights on the hill, seemingly more to himself than to me.

In an attempt to brighten his mood with a little locker room humor, I put my hand up to the bill of my baseball cap and began to crane my neck back and forth, as if looking for someone. "Donde esta las putas?" I joked, in reference to the local ladies of the evening.

"Las Putas? No, mi amigo!" He rapidly assured me with an unexpected level of seriousness in his tone. "No es necesario!" Rising to his feet, he swayed for a moment, then staggered toward the screen door and knocked it ajar with his large, callused hand. "Aqui." he declared, motioning toward the old cow standing in the field. "La vaca es mi buen amiga!"

Santiago turned his smiling face toward mine and proudly nodded as I sat behind the tiny table numbed by his rum, and stunned by the implication of his statement. After a few seconds that seemed like an eternity, I swallowed and nervously tried to think of a diplomatic way to get him to clarify what he meant by “buen amiga.”

“Uh… la vaca, aqui?” I fumbled, while pointing out the door toward the cow.

“Simon!” He responded quickly, almost with a sense of pride.

“La vaca… uh, hacer amor con la vaca?” I faltered, trying to be as delicate as possible.

“Si… cuchi-cuchi!” He leered with a devilish grin while stiffly thrusting his index finger forward in a probative motion.

Santiago’s confirmation of my worst suspicions left me appalled and speechless. But before he had the opportunity to augment his shocking revelation with any colorful details, our attention was diverted by the sounds of voices, and feet shuffling through the gravel just outside the trailer.

“Son of a bitch, this hurts!” Jesse emerged from behind the corner of the tractor and stepped toward the screen door. Roberto was right behind him carrying the dust covered cooler.

I could tell immediately that something was wrong. Not only had they returned much earlier than expected, Jesse was hunched over in what was obviously excruciating pain.

“Oh, Jeeezus, this hurts!” Jesse wailed, as Roberto opened the screen. “Look, Man…” He moaned “I fell into the fuckin’ cactus!”

Of all the cacti that the chaparral has to offer, the Chollo is probably one of the most brutal. It is composed of many easily detachable segments which grow off the main stem and, when touched, become anchored and cause that portion of the cactus to break off and become affixed to whatever was unfortunate enough to have come in contact with it. The sight of a six-inch section hanging from Jesse’s forearm made my stomach tighten into a knot. I could see that its hooked talons had already torn well past the outer layer of skin, and had lodged deep into the flesh beneath.

“What the hell happened?” I inquired with concern while trying not to slur my words.

“Maybe he drank too much cerveza…” Roberto began.

“BULLSHIT!” Jesse quickly interrupted angrily. “I slipped on the damn rocks!

“Whatever.” Roberto continued. “Anyhow, he lost his footing just before he got to the beach, slid off the path and rolled into that big bunch of cactus down near the sandstone bluff. By the way… what the hell happened to you?”

“Oh…” I offered feebly. “I sort of … uh, ‘blew out my flip-flop’ as they say, and had to hang out up here until you guys got back.”

“Hey, cut the chit chat. We gotta get this fuckin’ thing off my arm!” Jesse screamed. “It hurts like a son of a bitch!”

By this time, Santiago had poured a hefty slug of rum into a cup and handed it to Jesse. “Tome!” he instructed firmly. Turning his back for a moment, Santiago reached into the trailer and removed a pair of pliers that had been sitting on the counter.

“Jeeezus Christ, be careful, Santiago!” Jesse pleaded after sucking the last drop of rum from the cup.

“Por favor” Santiago interjected, displaying an unanticipated degree of command over the situation. “Sea paciente.” He reassured.

Grasping Jesse firmly by the left wrist, he deftly reached over with the pliers and closed them on the thorny clump. There was a sort of squishing sound as, with one quick jerk, he pulled it from Jesse’s arm and tossed it into the nearby shrubbery.

“YEEEOOOOW!” Jessie shrieked, as rivulets of blood began to trickle down his forearm.

Roberto had the presence of mind to retrieve the first aid kit from the Jeep while the cactus was being removed from his brother’s arm, and was standing ready with antiseptic wipes and bandages. “Hang on, bro’. ” he said, attempting to offer solace. “Use one of these, and clean it off real carefully.”

“You don’t have to worry about that.” Jesse responded as he gingerly dabbed his multiple wounds with antiseptic. “Jeeez… oh, man…” he suddenly cried out. “It feels like there’s still a bunch of stickers in my arm.

“I’m sure that there are.” I offered with knowing resignation. “I had the same thing happen back when I was about twelve and ended up having to go to the doctor to get them all extracted. I hate to say it, man, but you’re probably going to have to get these taken out the same way.”

“You know…” Roberto observed, trying to change the subject. “It’s getting late and we still have over a two hour drive ahead of us, as well as that long wait at the border. We’d better head back pretty soon.”

Santiago was busy pouring Jesse another generous doling of rum as I took the cooler back to the Jeep, and Roberto mentally prepared himself to handle the responsibility of driving us back to the border. Slightly groggy, but nonetheless cooperative, we were finally able to coax Jesse into the passenger seat of the vehicle.

Roberto started up the engine, and we began making our way slowly down the dirt pathway during the final moments of fading daylight. Santiago stood by with a rather peculiar expression on his face, and made penetrating eye contact with me as we drove past. I got the definite feeling that he now had second thoughts about the wisdom of having shared a certain aspect of his bucolic lifestyle with me during a moment of freewheeling intoxication.

By the time we reached Ensenada, the several mishaps of the day began to team up with the waning effects of alcohol consumption. Our empty stomachs were growling, and demanded that we stop quickly at the Mercado Negro to grab some fish tacos to sustain us on the drive north. The city streets were bustling with cars, and people intent upon making the most of a Saturday night that was still young.

The aroma of fresh cilantro and salsa filled the Jeep as we backed out of the parking lot, and I began handing out the stuffed tortillas to the delight of all present. After squeezing a wedge of lime over the top of my taco, I took a long awaited first bite. The flavor of the many delectable condiments along with the mild, flaky fish and freshly made tortilla exploded happily in my mouth.

“Man… these things are really incredible!” I declared in a state of sensual bliss. “I should have bought six instead of three.”

“Yeah, I know what you mean!” Interjected Jesse, who now had a line of salsa running down his chin. “It almost makes me forget about all the cactus thorns in my arm.” He added with a touch of sarcasm.

We reached the first tollbooth, and proceeded up the highway under a clear sky and beaming, full moon. The warm, tasty food had contented us to the point where we simply sat quietly as the miles passed with the only sound inside the vehicle coming from a San Diego rock station that was fading in and out over the radio. On several occasions, I caught myself reflecting back on my experience in the trailer that afternoon, and finally could not contain my thoughts any longer.

“You know… uh, I was wondering… um, how long has that Santiago guy been workin’ up there on the hill for your dad?” I wasn’t quite sure how to tactfully broach the subject.

“Oh, I don’t know…” responded Roberto. “What do you think, Jesse?” He asked his brother, who seemed to have dozed off for a few moments.

“Huh?” Jesse looked up bleary eyed.

“Santiago.” Roberto repeated. “He’s been up on the hill off and on for about ten years or so, right?”

“Yeah, I guess… except when he gets too drunk, argues with dad, and then disappears for a month or two.” Jesse confirmed. “I don’t know why dad puts up with it, except for the fact that he’s an old friend… and I think dad feels sorry for him.”

“It seemed like you two got along alright.” Roberto observed, glancing back at me over his shoulder. “You guys sure looked like you had been hitting the juice pretty hard while we were gone.”

“Yeah, …well.” I hesitated for a moment. “You know… the guy told me something when he was really drunk that, uh… kinda got to me.” I wasn’t sure of the best way to continue.

“What?” Quizzed Roberto with aroused interest.

“I really don’t know how to say this.” I stalled.

“Get to the point, man!” Jesse suddenly blurted out from his groggy haze.

“Okay, here’s the deal.” I finally asserted bluntly. “The guy’s porkin’ the cow.”

“He WHAT?!” Roberto cried out in disbelief.

“I said he’s porkin’ the fuckin’ cow.” I repeated once more. “He’s having sexual intercourse with that goddamned cow up there next to his trailer!” I added to fully clarify my point.

“Get outta here! Howled Jesse, who was now fully awake. “You gotta be shitin’ me, man!”

“I’m not shitin’ you, Jesse.” I reassured. “The guy told me after he’d had a snoot full and, to tell you the truth, actually acted like he was rather proud of it!”

“You know, man…” Roberto remarked with a doubtful tone. “You looked like you had a few drinks yourself …and Santiago barely speaks English …you probably just misunderstood what he was trying to tell you.”

At this point, I was getting a little annoyed. “Look guy’s…” My voice became quite sober. “All I know is that when I started to try and joke with him about needing a hooker up there, he pointed over to the cow and referred to her as his ‘buen amiga’.”

“Huh?” Roberto uttered, now obviously on the ropes.

“That’s right, man! I continued, practically feeling like Ken Norton in the process of breaking Mohammed Ali’s jaw. “Hacer amor… that means ‘make love’, right?” I pressed.

“Uh, …yeah.” Roberto answered in a voice that was barely audible

“Well… when I asked him ‘hacer amor con la vaca’…he started grinning at me, then stuck out his finger and started poking it back and forth saying ‘Si, cuchi-cuchi’!”

For a long moment, the inside of the Jeep became extremely quite.

“Holy shit.” Jesse finally uttered in a withered tone.

Roberto looked stupefied. “Too much.” He muttered, as he repeatedly shook his head while trying to keep his attention focused on the road.

I stared silently out the window as an eerie aura of phosphorescence crowned the long rows of waves crashing onto the beach under the moonlight. No one had much more to say as we continued on what now seemed to be an even longer drive toward the border.

* * *

Over the next six months I had only occasional telephone contact with Roberto who, less than a week after our return from Baja, was offered a promotion to the position of Senior Production Manager at his plant. The only caveat was that he would have to switch to the second shift to take advantage of the opportunity. As a result, his new hours all but prohibited us from getting together for the ubiquitous ‘beer’ that we kept threatening to treat each other to. It was just after Easter, however, when I lifted the receiver on my ringing telephone and heard Roberto’s voice.

“Whaaaatz up, DUDE?” He chirped. “What the hell’s been goin’ on witchooo, baby?”

“Hey, Roberto… not much! How’s the job been going?” I was pleased that he had taken the time to call.

“Oh, it’s nice makin’ the big bucks… but I’m starting to get really tired of this second shift crap. It’s been playin’ hell with my body clock, and makes it pretty hard to get up early to go fishin’ on my days off. Hey, speaking of fishin’ and days off…” He continued. “That’s one of the reasons I called.”

“I’m listening.” I answered in keen anticipation.

“Well...” Roberto began. “I’m planning to take about five or six days off in three weeks when my buddy, Donny, comes out from Arkansas to visit. My dad suggested that we could all go down to Ensenada for a few days and go out fishing on my Uncle Geraldo’s 35-foot cruiser, and I thought you might want to join us. We haven’t been able to get together for awhile, and dad said that there’s a good chance we could nail a few nice yellowtail, white sea bass or even a big halibut!” He paused for a moment, then cooed with persuasive inflection. “Whaddya think, buddy… are ya in there?”

Roberto didn’t have to extend his invitation twice. I’d checked my calendar as we spoke and concluded that I was, indeed, well overdue for a Baja fishing trip. “You BET I’m in there!” I hooted into the receiver.

“Jeeezus.” He chuckled. “I wish you’d show a little enthusiasm! …Hey, someone’s beeping in on my call waiting… I’ll give you a buzz later this week and we can go over all the details!”

“Good enough, man.” I concluded. “Go ahead and get your other line.”

Less than a month later, the time had finally come to load up my fishing gear and duffel bag and drive over to Roberto’s to join the others for our trek south to Ensenada. Roberto’s father, Ramon, was a driven, self-made man whose tireless work ethic over many years had allowed him to acquire a home on each side of the border, and handsomely support his family of six. As I pulled up in front of Roberto’s, Ramon was busy proudly buffing the bumper of his new van.

“You can do mine next.” I joked as I opened the hatchback and grabbed my tackle box.

“Hey… Tomas! I’m glad you could come!” Ramon looked up grinning. “I hope you brought enough money with you to cover all of your losses when I take that jackpot fish every day.”

“You’re sure about that, are you? Are you planning to get us all so blind drunk that you’ll be the only one with your line in the water? That’s about the only way you’d be able to pull that one off.” I retorted. “Where’s Roberto?”

“Inside with his buddy, Donny.” Ramon responded. “Just toss your stuff in the back with every one else’s. You can slide your rods onto those last two racks just below the others. We’ve got to get on the road pretty soon”

As I began hastily shoving my belongings into the van, Roberto ambled around the corner of the garage with Donny in tow.

“Hey, cabron! You finally made it. I was beginning to wonder if you were ever going to show up.” He goaded playfully. “ I thought maybe you’d popped the thong out of your sandal, or something.”

“How would you like to wear my sandal as a tail?” I retaliated with a smile.

Roberto would not dignify my comment with a response. “You remember Donny, don’t you?

“I don’t think that you guys have seen each other since he moved back to Arkansas a couple of years ago.”

“That’s right.” I extended my hand. “You fished that tournament at Otay with us just before you left.”

“Yeah, how ya’ been doin’?” Donny asked, reaching out with a firm grasp.

“Pretty good.” I said, sliding a freshly sharpened fillet knife from the side pocket of my backpack. “But I’ll be doing even better if we catch so much in the next few days that I can use this to cut up a ton of fish for us. How about some big chunks of fresh white sea bass grilled over mesquite coals, slathered in garlic butter?”

“Dude! Stop!” Roberto exclaimed with a snort. “You’re making me hungry!”

“Okay ‘dudes’.” Ramon interrupted. “Let’s all pile in. We’ve got to pick up Tio Geraldo in Ensenada before we go get something to eat. It’s time to hit the asphalt!”

It was almost two hours before we finally arrived at the modest ranchita just past El Sauzal where Roberto’s uncle, Geraldo, lived. Since we were all famished and couldn’t wait to get to a restaurant, the rest of us stayed in the van while Ramon went inside to get his brother.

“Hey, Roberto.” Donny quizzed. “Do you ever go down to that little cove below your family’s hill anymore? Man, the calico bass fishin’ used to be red hot around those kelp beds! Last time I was there, I caught so many fish …I was ashamed of myself.”

“Game hog!” I quipped.

“That’s the nicest thing anyone ever called me.” Donny looked back with a grin.

“Yeah,” Roberto interjected. “The last time we went down there, Jesse fell into some cactus and Tomas here got drunk with the caretaker …and then found out that the guy was screwin’ the cow.”

“Whaaaat?” Donny was obviously dumbstruck.

“Uh …yeah” I butted in. “It was actually kind of awkward and embarrassing. The guy obviously drinks too much, and ..well, I guess he gets extremely lonely up…”

Donny abruptly interrupted me in mid sentence. “Screwin’ the cow?!!” He kept repeating as he laughed, hoping that it was all just a sick joke.

“True story.” I confirmed.

“Yeah, well whatever Santiago does, you can’t rely on that asshole worth a damn if there’s a bottle of booze anywhere around him.” Roberto added. “Dad told me about six months ago that he just dropped out of sight a couple weeks after our last visit, and no one has seen heard from him since. We ended up having to hire Ronaldo’s son, Chuey, to drive up to the property from Punta Banda a couple of times each week to keep an eye on things. But when he comes back with his tail between his legs like he always does, dad will probably feel sorry for him and, as usual, give him his job back. It’s disgusting.”

“Bummer.” Donny exhaled distantly, as if entertaining a vision of lustful, bovine violation.

A few more extremely long minutes passed before Ramon and Geraldo stepped out the front door of the house and started walking toward the van. “You guys hungry yet? Ramon called out playfully.

“We’re dyin ’ back here!” Roberto snapped. “I’ve gotta get something in my stomach, or I’m gonna pass out!”

After driving a few miles through the business district, we parked the van and walked into a small, colorful restaurant that Geraldo swore cooked up the best carnitas in Ensenada. The wonderful aromas coming from the kitchen made me all the more aware of my ravenous hunger. A waitress led us to a long table in the back of the room and Ramon sat at one corner with Geraldo, while Roberto, Donny and I seated ourselves at the other end.

Ramon lifted his arm and waived to a waiter standing near the cash register. “Por favor.” He requested before the man had a chance to reach us. “Carnitas, para cinco hombres hambriento!”

The waiter acknowledged Ramon’s announcement that were all famished with a nod and a smile, then quickly spun on his heels and headed back toward the kitchen.

As another waitress walked by us, Roberto called her over and made an additional request. “Tres cervezas Corona, por favor.” he motioned toward the three of us with his hand.

“Oh, boy …here we go! I guess we’re getting started already …and on empty stomachs, at that.” I shook my head with a smirk.

“Don’t worry!” Roberto countered. “They won’t be empty long and, beside that, we’re ‘on vacation’!”

We had barely finished squeezing wedges of lime into our long neck bottles, and were just beginning to suck out the contents when our food arrived.

“Oh, Man!! This smells killer!” Roberto proclaimed, as he began to dig his fork into a pile of the tender, shredded pork and stuff a wad into a warm tortilla. “Muy pinchi sabor!” he gasped under his breath after swallowing a bite.

I had just started to hungrily dig into my plate of carnitas when, without warning, Donny burst into laughter so intense that beer unexpectedly sprayed from his nostrils.

“Jeeezus Chriiist!” Roberto yowled. “What the hell’s so funny? You almost blew snot on my plate!”

“Sorry.” Donny tried to regain composure as tears of hysteria rolled down his cheeks. “I just can’t get over… Blahhh, ha ha ha...” He began laughing uncontrollably again, then finally got a hold of himself. “That guy …and the… he he he… the damn cow!! Screwin’ the… whoa, man!” Donny melted into a quivering, giggling mass.

“Get a grip, Donny!” Roberto scolded. “You’re already acting like a borracho loco, and you haven’t even finished your first beer!”

“What’s goin’ on! What the heck’s so funny, you guys?” Ramon shouted down toward Roberto. “You’re shakin’ the whole damn table!”

“Oh, it’s just Donny, dad!” Roberto rolled his eyes. “Remember when….” He abruptly stopped himself, then stood up and walked to the other end of the table, bent over, and began whispering into his father’s ear.

In a few moments, Ramon’s eyes widened and an ironic little smile passed his lips as he nodded his head slightly. “Si, hijo.” He acknowledged. “I remember the story you told me.” Roberto then walked silently back to his seat, and quietly resumed eating.

“Sorry, man.” Donny offered in a remorseful tone. “I was just blown away by what you guys told me earlier. I mean…”

“That’s O.K.” Roberto cut in. “Let’s just drop it, alright?”

By this time, Ramon was already intently engaged in a heated conversation with his brother in Spanish, and Geraldo’s face began to take on an expression of genuine displeasure.

“What’s goin’ on?” Quizzed Donny, sensing that all was not well.

“Oh, no big deal, I guess” Roberto answered somewhat curtly. “I guess dad’s just telling my uncle what we were laughing about.”

“I’m not so sure about that.” Donny mildly protested. “I thought that the story was pretty friggin’ funny …but your uncle looks like he’s starting to get really pissed off about something!”

Another moment of silence passed.

“I guess so.” Roberto remarked dryly as he looked up from his plate of carnitas. “It was HIS COW!”

A brief period of absolute quiet fell upon our end of the table, then Roberto weakly attempted to give Donny a tidbit of reassurance. “Don’t worry, man.” He offered. “I suppose that Tio Geraldo was bound to find out about it sooner or later.”

As Donny sat dumbfounded in catatonic silence, I reached into the straw basket that sat between us and pulled out another flour tortilla. Something told me that this was one ‘disappearance’ from which Santiago would choose to never return.