We had been at sea for two days on Lazybuns II, Hobby’s new super yacht. The ocean was calm and the food excellent as Patsy Fortuna showed off his culinary skills. We played poker into the wee hours. Besides the crew, and Hobby and I, there were three other male guests: Hank and Barry from Palm Springs, and a late comer, L.A. lawyer, Pete. Sue and Kim, our special lady friends, had plans to meet us in France.
“Joe, I’m asking Mike to push it tonight so we can make our landing site in time for breakfast.”
“Site? Isn’t there a Balboa Yacht Club?”
“It burned down, but there’s a TGIF restaurant and hotel nearby. I’ve arranged to meet our transit agent, Mr. Vasquez, at TGIF. He should have all the paperwork and give us the skinny on the passage.”
“Does he travel with us?”
“No, I don’t think so, but he can probably get us extra help. We’ve got enough manpower to provide the four line handlers that are required, but they may need some coaching. What I don’t know is whether we can move into the Canal tomorrow. That’s why I want to get there early; I’d rather not layover offshore another night.”
“How about the poker game tonight, Hobby?”
“You guys can play if you want; I want to make sure everything’s shipshape and turn in early.”
After a leisurely dinner, our chef, Patsy, said, “According to the skipper, there‘s no breakfast tomorrow; we eat ashore. Whoopee, the chef gets time off. And since the boss isn’t playing poker tonight, I’m laying off, too.” That kind of clinched it for the rest of us.
By six-thirty in the morning we were on deck staring at the growing image of a land mass. “Hey, Hobby,” Pete said, “You sure you had your chart turned in the right direction? It looks like we’re coming into San Diego.”
“And how would you like to swim to shore,” Hobby answered as he pushed Pete to the rail. “I’ve got to go topside, but just so you’ll know, we’re about a half-hour out and we’ll be anchoring at a buoy. We’ll have to make two runs to get everyone ashore on the skiff.”
Hobby and I were in the first wave arriving at a make-shift pier not far from what looked like a hotel. “That’s got to be the Country Inn and the restaurant should be nearby. Vasquez gave me the coordinates, and we’re right on the mark.”
“Senor, Newton?” Someone called as we came off the pier. Hobby raised his hand to a tall elderly man wearing a loose white shirt and, wouldn’t you know it, a Panama hat. “I am Vasquez.”
After some hand shaking introductions we headed for the restaurant, which was a clone of the TGIFs we have in the States. After we ordered breakfast I concentrated on eating while Hobby reviewed the paperwork and talked with Vasquez. It wasn’t long before the rest of our motley crew arrived, a little boisterously after putting away some rum while on the skiff. They ordered margaritas with their breakfast and sent a round over to our table. It didn’t take me long to decide it wasn’t too early for an alcoholic libation.
“You can start your passage today, depending on traffic and how long the Panamanian customs people take. Your papers are in order, but it would help to tuck a $100 bill inside,” Vasquez said. “In case you are interested there is a man waiting by the pier who is looking for transit east. He’s an experienced line handler and he will do other work for $20 a day.”
“That sounds good,” Hobby said, “and can he show my crew how to work with the lines?”
“Of course, that would be no problem.”
“Are you planning to layover at Lake Miraflores, Senor?”
“I was thinking about it. Is that a good idea?”
“Yes, you will enjoy visiting the Pedro Miguel Boat Club and, if you need any work done or supplies, they’ll take care of you. Pardon me for being curious but I heard your friends talking about poker. Do you like to play?”
I felt I could get into the conversation on this. “Mr. Vasquez, you might say we are a floating poker game. It is our avocation. We are on our way to play poker at the great casinos on the French Riviera.”
“I’m not a player myself,” Vasquez replied, “but such a vacation sounds marvelous to me. You will find some poker games at the Boat Club, but there are stories of travelers losing a lot of money there and maybe not on the up-and-up. A name I have heard mentioned is Juan Noriega.”
“Thanks for the tip, that’s not a name we’ll not forget,” I said.
“Why is that, Joe?” Hobby asked.
“Don’t you remember the military dictator Manuel Noriega? Reagan sent troops to Panama and they arrested him.”
“Yeah, I remember. Wasn’t he put into prison in the U.S. for drug trafficking and some other stuff?”
“That’s right and his sentence was up just last year.”
“Is he back in Panama?” “No, the French had warrants for his arrest and he was extradited to France. Is that correct, Mr. Vasquez?”
“Si, Senor. The French convicted him also and he is now serving seven more years in prison there. We are very thankful for your President Reagan’s bold action to remove Noriega. It was a wonderful help for our country.”
I added, “Mr. Vasquez, you are fortunate it happened when it did. I can’t imagine that happening today.”
“Yes, and sadly, your troops would not have to travel all the way to Panama to deal with drug traffickers; all they would have to do is cross your southern borders.”
“Enough of that dismal talk,” said Hobby, with a warm smile, “let’s find your man and get underway.”
Write to author David Valley at: dvalley1@san.rr.com
»
