BAHIA ESCONDIDO, Mexico JUNE 30, 1997

   On board the ponga were 2 men dressed in blue jeans and T-shirts. The T-shirts had the logo for the Policia Judicial Federal printed on them. Both men were sporting pistols on their belts. I immediately assumed that these were what Norte Americanos call ‘Federales’. There were 2 men dressed in military uniforms and carrying automatic rifles. There was also a local policeman, the ponga driver who had picked up our guests the evening before and fisherman Fernando. One of the two Federales seemed to be in charge. Although none seemed happy, I greeted them with a smile and a "Buenos dias." I received an apparently sincere "Buenos dias" from the Federale I assumed was in charge. He began speaking to me in Spanish too swift for me to follow. After a few minutes of trying to communicate, it was obvious they wanted to ask me some questions. I invited the party aboard and tied off their ponga to Toucan. As we all crowded into the cockpit, Cyndee made coffee. Why not make this pleasant? I chose to ignore the ugly black bootprints our new guests deposited all over the deck.

   Everybody seemed to relax a bit as coffee was passed around. They all giggled when Cyndee offered our canned cream, but the can came back empty. There was a polite pause while everybody drank their coffee and then it was our turn to answer questions.

   How long had they been afloat?

   What were they drinking?

   Where did we pick them up?

   Where was their ponga?

   Were they in the water?

   What were they floating on? (This and where we picked them up seemed to be really important.)

   We explained that they had been afloat for 3 days and only had a 1 gallon milk jug half filled with gasoline laced water. They had been trying to drink this a little at a time. There was no ponga in sight. One man was in the water and the other two were on a large raft made from flotsam covered with a large white plastic tarp. There was a lot of discussion about the raft and what the floats were. As the fishermen had explained to us, they were "boyas" or fishing net floats. Victor held up one of our type IV cushions and asked they were the similar. "No," Cyndee said. "mas grande." And pointed to our ice chest. Obviously the police didn’t believe the fishermen’s story.

   I brought out our charts to show exactly where we had picked them up. We always plot our course on the chart at least every hour, sometimes every half hour and whenever we make a course change or something else significant happens. As picking up survivors of a sunken boat was significant, I had noted this on the chart along with the time. I showed Victor our course from La Paz and the point where we picked up the survivors. He made a sketch of my chart including my positions from La Paz and a notation where we had picked up the survivors. It was a very crude sketch. No way he was going to find anything with that sketch.

   Evidently satisfied, our visitors smiled, thanked us and left for the beach. It wasn’t until later that afternoon that I noticed they had driven their ponga into the side of Toucan, making an ugly and permanent gouge in the name I had worked so hard to design, have created and installed eight years before. It still causes a pit in my stomach every time I look at it.

   A little while later, a helicopter gunship with the Federal Police insignia landed right in the middle of Agua Verde. A little while later, it lifted off, buzzed us with two marines toting automatic rifles hanging out the open door and flew off to open water. If it was going to the point where we picked up the survivors, it was headed the wrong way.

   Eventually all the police left and we went to the beach to talk to local residents. We wanted to find out what happened to our fishermen. We were assured that everything was ok, and that they had been taken care of. The old man had been taken to the hospital for treatment and there was no problem. We figured that all was well and the police had satisfied their curiosity.

   That evening all of us in the anchorage had a pot luck dinner on the beach. We told our story over and over and were congratulated as heroes for saving the lives of 3 innocent fishermen…

   At about 7 the next morning, Cyndee looked out to see the same Bronco on the beach with a couple of Army guys walking around. I got up and turned on the VHF. Within 5 minutes we were hailed on channel 16. I responded "This is Toucan."

   "We are the Army."

   "I copy, this is Toucan."

   "We are the Army."

   "Yes, this is Toucan."

   "We are the Army, do you understand."

   "Yes, I understand you are the Army. This is Toucan, can I help you?"

   "We have questions."

   Sigh, "I understand. Would you like me to come to the beach?"

   "We are waiting for you."

   I dressed, grabbed my charts and took the dinghy to the beach. A couple of guys in uniform rushed to help me with the dinghy in the surf and we hauled it up to dry sand. When we walked over to the Bronco, I recognized the Federale who had questioned me the morning before. He grinned, greeted me warmly and shook my hand. This time he had brought an army officer who spoke English. I was told that they had "questions for long time." I assured them I had the time. Again I was asked where I picked up the survivors. Again I showed them the point on the chart. This time they had a chart of their own. Actually just a road map of Baja. Again they asked me what the survivors were floating on. Again I described the large rectangular floats under the white tarp. With the translation, the Federale’s eyes lit up, he grinned and nodded his head vigorously. Obviously I had said something right he wanted to hear. He asked me about another ponga. I explained again that there was no other ponga. He asked me about a fourth person. There was no fourth person.

   Army man said they needed me to take them to the spot where the survivors were picked up. I could do that. He explained they wanted to use my boat. Toucan???!!!! He had to be kidding. I wanted to help, but I was not going to be a taxi driver for a bunch of kids with machine guns. I explained that it would take at least 6 hours to get there, time to look around and 6 hours to get back. This would put us back at midnight. They all looked very disappointed.

   After some discussion, they decided to commandeer a ponga. Oh right. Isn’t that why we had to rescue the fishermen in the first place? While the head Federale went off to question the local fishermen about a ponga, I spoke with the English speaking army officer. I asked him if there was some problem with the fishermen’s story. He nodded.

   "Aren’t they fishermen?"

   "No."

   "Is it drugs?" I asked in a brilliant flash of insight

   "Yes."

   Great. "How do you know?"

   Evidently one of the ‘fishermen’ had confessed. He had told the Federales that they were carrying 600 kilos of marijuana when they swamped their ponga. Evidently the fishing net floats under the white tarp were really bales of dope. The other two maintained that they knew nothing. I don’t really know why he confessed, but I suspect he was ‘encouraged’ to. The Federales wanted to find the dope and wanted my help.

   Army man explained that everything would be OK. I had "tried to do a good thing but had helped bad people." He implied that if I cooperated everything would be OK. I was a little offended by this as I had already decided I would help these guys any way I could (short of using toucan as their personal patrol boat) but I attributed most of his strong-arm approach to his weak command of English. Victor returned to announce that he had arranged for a local fisherman to take us out in his ponga. Unfortunately the fisherman did not carry enough fuel to make the trip, and the Federales would have to find more. He asked if I had eaten breakfast, and explained that since it would take a while for them to get the gasoline, I should go back to the boat and eat. They would call me on the radio when they were ready. He was trying to be considerate and it did help to ease my irritation with Army Man.

   I told him that is was now 24 hours after I picked up the survivors and left their raft. With the wind we had the previous night and the seas and currents I experienced out there, the dope was just not there. When we got to the spot in the ponga, all we were going to see was water. If we wanted to find it we needed a helicopter. I received a lot of nods, but no support, so the ponga plan went ahead.

   I headed back to Toucan to eat and wait while the Bronco roared up the road. A couple of hours later Army man radioed from the beach that they were ready and would pick me up. After finally getting the ponga outboard started, they came alongside. This time we were prepared with 2 large fenders hanging over the side to protect the hull. I jumped aboard and off we went. Once again I stressed that the dope had to have moved and we would not be able to search the ocean on a little ponga. We needed a helicopter. No dice.

   There were 6 of us aboard. The fisherman sat in the back to drive. I sat next to one of the Federales from the previous day, Army man, Victor and another Army officer sat in front of me. In front of them was a plastic 35 gallon drum of gasoline. This was the spare. A smaller gas tank was at the back of the ponga with the driver. The Federales carried automatic pistols on their belts and the Army officers carried automatic rifles. I was the only one wearing a life jacket. It was a full size Coast Guard type 1 life jacket and uncomfortable as hell, but I wasn’t taking any chances. They had no navigation tools except the road map. Their lunch consisted of a half eaten bag of frosted animal cookies. I was the only one who thought to bring water. Once we cleared the anchorage, they wanted to know were to go. Evidently they figured I could just look out and find a point 25 miles out to sea. I was glad I had come prepared. In a waterproof bag I had my charts, plotting tools, a compass, VHF radio and best of all, a handheld GPS.

   GPS stands for "Global Positioning System." The US military has launched a network of satellites orbiting the earth. A GPS receiver uses these signals to determine it’s position anywhere on the planet. Very handy. We have a fixed mount receiver on our radio panel at the navigation station that has lots of unused bells and whistles. We carry the handheld unit as a backup.

   I entered our current location and the location of the spot where we picked up the survivors, and bingo! The GPS told us how far it was and what direction to steer. Of course, there was no compass on the ponga for the fisherman to steer by, so for all of the fancy gadgetry, I just pointed anyway. Every once in a while, I’d check our location and point. "Uh, go a little more that way." We had a 25-mile trip ahead of us.

   Now that we were settled down for our cruise, introductions were made and we had time to chat. The English speaking Army officer (Army Man) was Daniel. Daniel is a 24 year old officer in the Mexican Marine Corps. He learned English when he lived in Sacramento. The Federale running the show was Victor. The quiet Federale was named Hector. Victor is the Comandante of the Policia Judicial Federal. PJF comes under the control of the PGR, but I never did learn what that TLA (three letter acronym) stood for. Victor was a whopping 22 years old. We saw a swordfish and talk turned to food. Did I like swordfish, what about hot jalepeno peppers? Daniel asked if I had ever had tuttels.

   "What?"

   "Tuttels"

   "I don’t know."

   "Tortuga." Offered Hector.

   "Oh! Turtle!"

   They thought it was very funny that the gringo didn’t understand the English word, but knew the Spanish word.

   "You’ve never had it? It’s great!" Daniel and Victor were incredulous.

   "Well, in the US, that’s illegal."

   "Oh, here too!"

   They grinned sheepishly at each other and began to inspect their shoes.

   I started asking questions about the dope. Where were these men coming from? Where were they going with 600 kilos of pot? Daniel explained the trade.

   The dope comes mostly from Mazatlan in a ponga, with stops up the coast for fuel. When the shipment is far enough north, it comes across to Baja. It almost always is taken to Bahia de Los Angeles in Baja. From there is goes to California. I remembered the fishermen’s belief that they were near Bahia de Los Angeles and that they had come from Mazatlan.

   "You mean they carry 600 kilos of dope across the Sea of Cortez in an open ponga?"

   Daniel laughed. "Yes, yes!"

   "OK, so if these guys were going to Bahia de Los Angeles there must have been someone waiting, right?"

   "Uh, yes." As if this was a new thought.

   "And by now they probably know the shipment is not coming, right?"

   "Yes." Still not sure what I was getting at.

   "So, there could be someone out here looking for the drugs besides us?"

   "Well, yes."

   We ran our first gas tank dry and had to heave the big gas drum over a bench and closer to the outboard. The fisherman pulled the fuel line from the first tank and put it in the top of the drum, stuffed a rag around the fuel line to hold it in the hole and fired up the outboard. We had all shifted positions and now I was next to Daniel with the new gasoline drum between us. Daniel lit a cigarette, then leaned across the fuel drum to talk to me. He casually rested his cigarette about an inch from it’s leaky top. As he spoke, he would wave the cigarette around. He was trying to tell me something about how they will stop the drug trade because drugs make people crazy. I don’t really remember exactly because I couldn’t take my eyes off that cigarette…

   The wind and seas had really built up. Waves were coming over the side and everyone was getting wet. From the ponga, all we could see were white caps on the surface. The white caps looked just like a white plastic tarp would. Half the time, we were in the trough of a wave and could see nothing except the sides of the waves around us. They were beginning to understand how big the ocean is and how hard it is to see anything from the surface.

   "WE NEED A HELICOPTER!"

   Everyone agreed. Victor tried to radio his men on the beach to call in the helicopter, but we were out of range. He asked me to call Cyndee on board Toucan, give her the coordinates and the unit’s code name, and have her call Victor’s men on the beach. They would call for the helicopter. Cyndee couldn’t hear us either. She had been on the radio, however, because the detachment on the beach was continually calling her to ask if she had heard anything from us.

   Apparently the beach detachment had been unsuccessfully calling us. Failing to reach us by VHF, they had begun to call Cyndee. For a while Cyndee didn’t understand what they wanted. Dick, aboard Emerald Star figured out that they were trying to find if she had heard from me. She replied to their call.

   "NO, mi esposa es en la panga WITH THE ARMY MEN!"

   On we went. A lot of excitement when we spotted another ponga. We raced over to it to find two 70 year old fisherman standing in the ponga with a pile of squid between them. They each had a hand line over the side and were riding the 5 foot waves like they were standing on the beach. No, they hadn’t seen any other pongas, no they hadn’t seen anything floating on the water. We thanked them and sped off, once again headed for that spot in the middle of the sea.

   The ponga driver slowed the boat and had a quick discussion with Victor and Daniel. They concluded that we did not have enough gasoline to make it to where I had picked up the survivors and back again, so we decided to head for Isla Santa Cruz, only a few miles away and search the beaches. Maybe the current or wind had washed the bales of dope up on the shore here. Not too likely as the wind and current were running the other way, but on we went. We seemed to have enough gas to circle the island and get back to Agua Verde.

   As we got closer to the island we spotted a small boat up against the shore. Everybody became very excited and we headed straight for it. As we approached the other boat, the ponga began to develop engine trouble. The outboard began to sputter and the boat slowed. The ponga driver and I exchanged glances. He just smiled an "Oh well" smile and shrugged, but managed to keep the engine running by pumping the throttle. We motored up to the small boat at anchor shut off the engine. We waited as four snorkeling Americans swam back to their boat.

   Victor and one of the Americans had a brief discussion in Spanish. Victor very courteously asked how they were and if the snorkeling was any good. He also asked where they had come from and how long ago. At this point, everybody became quiet and looked somewhat at a loss as to what to do. I asked the skipper of the other boat if they had seen any other pongas or any trash or tarps while they were out here. No, they hadn’t. They were part of a boating organization I recognized called "Vagabundos del Mar." They had come from Agua Verde just a few hours ago. I explained to Daniel that this was an American trailer boating club and they had all spent the night in the same anchorage that I was in. Nothing here. After a few pulls, the outboard roared to life and off we sped. For about 100 feet.

   The outboard coughs, sputters and dies. We’re about 20 miles from home. Since the outboard motor and ponga is the life blood of the fisherman, I was surprised that he didn’t have any idea what to do. Daniel seemed to have some experience working with engines gained while he lived in Sacramento, so he handed me his rifle and went to work. After about 15 minutes of messing around, he decided that we should go back to the American boat and ask for a tow. Ask them for a 20 mile tow? I’ll just keep my mouth shut.

   The guys on board the trailer boat were very helpful and kind of amused when we sputtered back. They immediately took a line and offered everyone beers. I was somewhat relieved when all the guys with guns declined. I figured automatic weapons and a six pack probably didn’t mix. One of the Americans jumped on board the ponga and went to work with Daniel on the outboard. Daniel was convinced that the problem was with the carburetor. The American was not so sure. He pulled out one of the spark plugs to find that it was badly fouled. The ponga driver did have a spare spark plug in a canvas sack and the American installed it. The engine started up and we were off again, running smoothly.

   While this was going on, one of the other Americans asked what we were doing. Nobody answered, so I explained about the three "fishermen" and how these guys were trying to find a possible fourth. I figured that these guys deserved an explanation, but didn’t need to know about the dope. After the explanation, Hector smiled and me and nodded his head. I realized that Hector spoke English.

   On the way back to Agua Verde, Victor told me they would bring the helicopter tomorrow. He told me he had a Magellan hand held GPS. I explained the he could find the location with his GPS just fine. He smiled, looked down at the ponga and asked if I would show them how to use it. I laughed and assured him it would be no problem. He seemed a little relieved, but obviously wanted to ask me something else. After a minute I asked "Do you need me to go with you?"

   "Yes! Yes!, Please!"

   "OK"

   "Thank You! And bring your charts. We’ll pick you up at 12:00 or 1:00 tomorrow."

   They dropped me off at Toucan and we all stood together so Cyndee could take a picture.

   We spent the evening updating our friends aboard Zugvogel and Emerald Star. Mike is a retired Navy fighter pilot who spent much of his career working drug interdiction with Navy intelligence. Dick is a retired Los Angeles County Sheriff homicide detective who worked closely with Mexican local and federal police. Mexico will not extradite criminals to the U.S., but they will prosecute them in Mexico. When a murderer fled to Mexico, Dick would work with the Mexican police to find, arrest and prosecute him. I went back to Toucan armed with lots of advice, aerial search patterns and a much more comfortable automatically inflating life vest/safety harness.

Jim, Cyndee, Christina and Chaz Crosby

s/v TOUCAN

END OF TRAVELS OF TOUCAN PART 3