African Terror

  I don’t mind dying; I just don’t want to be there when it happens.

                                                                       Jimmy Buffet

The bloated African moon hung fat and low in the night sky when I jerked awake. Something was terribly wrong. I lay still, trying to collect my thoughts… trying to get my bearings.

 South Luangwa Park, Zambia came to mind. In our 3-month drive across Africa Smiling Mike and I had visited dozens of game parks but Luangwa was as far off the beaten track, into the heart of

Africa and as good as it gets. A hundred miles of dirt track just to get to the Parks gate. A hundred miles of corrugated hell that had shaken one door and the gas tank from the Isuzu’s rusty frame.

 The entrance to Luangwa Park proved as primitive as the drive in. A thatch guardhouse manned by a tattered carbine-wielding ranger, over looking the swollen Luangwa River. A rustic lodge constructed of thatch & sticks, three little pig’s style, clung tentatively to its banks.

We had arrived long after dark set up camp on the rivers edge and sought the lodge’s simple open-air bar. A young American, sat in quiet conversation with the black bartender. They were discussing the lion that had apparently smashed in the door to one of the lodge’s room’s two weeks earlier and drug a screaming tourist to her grisly death. The beast had enjoyed the easy meal for two days before a professional hunter had been called to dispatch him. It’s mate could be heard grunting & coughing still across the river as we settled in with a cold Tusker Beer.  The white fellow was doing his thesis on voodoo from U.C. Berkley. He had chosen Luangwa for it’s sheer remoteness. I couldn’t have agreed more staring out across the moonlit river, the grunts of hippos, and the insane laughter of hyenas filling the tiny bar. He informed us that the park was rarely visited due to the difficulty in getting there and the current political unrest in Zambia’s government. It was a magical evening, cold beer in hand, perched in the heart of darkness.

Returning to our camp that night however brought a cold slap of reality. An errant troop of baboons had ransacked our meager belongings, ripping the tents to make off with whatever could be carried. Our sleeping bags were found lumped in the bushes, three months of exposed film dangling from tree limbs, clothing scattered & defecated on. We gathered the mess, cursing the vile creatures & lamenting our losses, the worst being the torn tent. It is imperative in Africa’s game parks to have shelter once night falls. Even the thinnest of nylon tents will detour lions, hyenas, reptiles & insects.

To sleep in the open or in a ripped tent is to invite disaster, so prudently I spent an uncomfortable night in the troopers front seat rocked by the roars of the man-eater.

 The next few days found us deeper & deeper into the parks interior. We had repaired the lacerated tent as best we could, the baboons having made off with the sewing kit. Our days were spent chasing herds of zebra & elephants across dusty plains; our nights nervously perched about the roaring campfire, serenaded by the screams & cries of life and death in the African bush.

 This particular night’s camp overlooked the languid Luangwa river it’s steep muddy banks pockmarked with nests of swallows & Carmine Bee Eaters, it’s tepid waters swirling with giant crocodiles and grunting hippos. The setting sun, blood red from bush fires & dust clouds, turned the entire scene surreal as the prehistoric reptiles tore at the corpse of a bloated hippo below. The stench and sound of rotted flesh being ripped apart made this place a fascinating hell on earth. Fairly confident that the creatures below could not scale the eroded bank to our frail camp I squirmed into a filthy mummy bag, it’s zipper long jammed from 3 months in the African dirt.

 It was a fitful night constantly being jerked awake by some un-holy blood-curdling scream when finally I dozed, my nerves exhausted.

 But now something was terribly wrong, the smooth cold weight of a reptilian body lay across my naked thigh, curled between my legs, it lay still…waiting. My first reaction was panic, to rid myself of the bag & it’s loathsome occupant when suddenly a deeper fear seized me. It was a snake, a large one by the weight; it had gained entrance through the torn tent flap seeking the warmth of my sleeping body. With nearly 30 varieties of poisonous snakes in southern Africa chances were very good this was one of them. It would be impossible to extract myself from the jammed mummy bag without disrupting the creature’s slumber. The situation I’d awoken into was nearly un-thinkable in it’s sheer horror. I could not understand why my heart went on beating, my mind continued to race in panic, yet I could do nothing but lay without moving, awaiting my fate like a doomed prisoner, like a rat in a python’s cage…the terror was over-whelming.

“Mike!!” I whispered my dry voice cracked pitiful in the vast African night. It was useless. He was inside the Trooper, windows up, parked 30 feet away. I was alone and sick with fear.

With my one free arm I slowly, carefully groped about the tent, searching out the flashlight.

I cursed beneath my breath at the stupidity of the whole thing. Stupid to sleep in a ripped tent, stupid baboons to have run off with scissors, knives, or any tool to extract myself, stupid jammed zipper, stupid God-forsaken place this Africa…stupid me…sick…sick…

I found the light & ever so slowly positioned it to shine towards the loathsome weight in my crotch. With my left hand I so, so slowly lifted the bag from my naked body & peered in.

Horror of Horrors!! Meeting my eyes in a cold black reptilian stare, its unmistakable ugly, triangular head raised inches above my privates was a Puff Adder, one of Africa’s deadliest snakes.

My stomach wretched, sending a throat burning spume of vomit into my mouth: over cracked lips it slowly dribbled down the side of tear stained cheeks to coagulate in tangled hair.

I was a dead man.

 

To be continued:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

                                   African Terror: Part 2

Life is pleasant. Death is peaceful. It’s the transition that’s troublesome.                                      Isaac Asimov

 

For two long hours now I had laid perfectly still, the Puff Adder remained motionless curled in my crotch. For two long excruciating hours I had fully expected the loathsome beast to sink it’s fangs deep into my thigh…or worse. I knew a bit about the snake from Smilin Mike’s Snake Book. I knew the Puff Adder was the most widespread snake in Africa. I knew it was responsible for most of the snakebite’s on the continent. I also knew it to be the most dangerous of Adders, with a nasty temper, three inch fangs that sunk deep into it’s victim’s flesh delivering up to 350 mg’s of venom when it took only 100 mg to kill a human. Being bitten once would be enough but the thought of the creature sinking those fangs to the hilt then clinging & pumping venom while I struggled & fought to rid myself of the mummy bag which held us both captive was almost to much to ponder.

 I was sick with the stress, drowning in despair, and could not understand why my brain did not simply short out from the sheer horror of the situation. I knew very well that if the Adder struck, I would die. We had no anti-venom & were two days drive from Luangwa Parks gate & another two days to Lusaka, Zambia’s capitol.

 I didn’t want to die just right then…especially this way. A naked man is a vulnerable man, and a naked man with a huge poison ness snake between his legs is flat out violated. I wanted to cry like a baby. I wanted to wake up to this nightmare over…for the first time in 3 months of traveling across Africa I missed the cool, reptile free mountains of Crested Butte.

The eastern horizon was now glowing red. A couple of hornbills hopped about the camp, searching for scraps. It would be just a mater of time before Smilin’ Mike woke up. He’d know what to do. There was no one cooler under pressure than Mike. A skilled pilot I had once been with him when the plane we were flying caught fire…he was no more perturbed than if a bug had hit the windshield.

  Another hour passed, before I saw the Trooper vibrate with his movement. A flaming red African sun crawled above the horizon as the rear door of the Isuzu creaked open & out stumbled my disheveled traveling partner. He stepped to the fire-pit, squatted in the dust and began poking the coals.

“Mike!” I whispered.”

After three months together we no longer spoke in sentences to each other but rather communicated with a series of grunts.

“Unum.” He answered.

“Mike!” I again whispered.

He looked about the camp, eyes darting from side to side as if I was about to revile some great secret the hornbills shouldn’t be privy to.

“Huh?” he whispered back.

“There’s a snake between my legs.” My voice cracked.

His eyes grew wide, his jaw dropped as if some great dark mystery had just been exposed.

“Really Church?”…There’s a snake between my legs too!” he whispered. “A big one….wanna see him?”

I couldn’t answer…

Perhaps then Mike noticed my vomit caked hair, the tear streaked dusty cheeks, or the vacant dead man stare. He walked over & knelt outside the shredded tent.

“What?”

“There’s a big snake…I think a Puff Adder coiled in my crotch…must have got through this ripped tent…looking for warmth…” my voice again cracked.

Carefully Mike unzipped the shredded tent flap, perched on his knees by my head and leaned close, flashlight in hand.

“Let’s have a look.”

Again, ever so slowly I lifted my left hand raising the mummy bag inches above my stomach. Again the snake’s ugly head raised with the bag to stare back, its cold black eyes unblinking.

“Mother of God!” Mike whispered, recoiling from the sight.

I gently let the bag settle, when suddenly the reptile moved. It had been mostly coiled between my legs with perhaps the last two feet of it draped across my upper thigh. For three hours now the beast had not moved a muscle, so now to feel its smooth, dead weight sliding across my naked thigh was too much to bear.

“Holy Moley.” I groaned, knowing this was the end. Just seconds now the massive fangs would sink deep into my exposed belly… the snake stopped again…the strike didn’t come…instead of relief I felt anger…why didn’t the basturd just get it over with? I was nearing the end of my emotional rope; I would have welcomed death to this.

Mike leapt to his feet & sprinted to the Trooper. He returned with the ‘Snakes Of Africa’ book, squatted nearby & began to read:

“The Puff Adder is one of Africa’s most widespread & beautiful snakes. Its diet consists of birds, rodents & other reptiles. In East Africa specimens as large as 1.7 meters have been recorded. The head is large, flattened, triangular, in shape with large nostrils, & exceptionally long fangs (12 to 18 mm) that assure the venom is injected rather deeply. The venom is cytotoxic with strong haematoxic and some cardiotoxic effects and large volumes are produced. It causes severe pain, massive swelling, internal & external hemorrhages, as the blood thins, serious necrosis (rotting) of the surrounding tissue, nausea, kidney failure & death.

Prompt medical attention with anti-venom is a must….”

“Bummer.” Mike muttered under his breath and continued…

“Adders can have a violent temper & extreme caution should be used as a sudden jump can be employed to leap from a snake hook.

A basking spot of the mid nineties, and a cool end of around eighty serve these snakes well…”

Mike paused… “That’s it!” I read a story about this same thing…Jack London was it?  Hemmingway? They used the sun to get the sleeping bag so hot the snake eventually crawled out…

He immediately set to work carefully cutting away the shredded tent from around me till I lay in the filthy, jammed bag, exposed to the elements.

“Now we wait.”

Contrary to what people may believe, East Africa can be quite cool in the nights. It’s well into the late morning before the blazing sun begins to warm the chill from the earth. By 10:oo the bag and myself were beginning to heat up. Mosquitoes from the languid Luangwa River below us swarmed about my face biting at will, swelling my eyes nearly shut. Through cracked lips Mike continued to pour water, reassuring me quietly. He packed the car for a rapid dash to the parks gate should the snake strike. A fruitless effort we both knew.

 I prepared myself to die. I had no illusions about floating off on silver wings to strum harps & eat grapes. I knew death would simply be the end of life…a certain and total non-conscience blackness, forever. But just in case I was mistaken about death I began to pray in earnest. I found myself coming clean about a life, that when I looked back on it, seemed quite sordid. There was an amazing amount of groveling to do which occupied my mind for some time.

 At one point during the long morning I had to relive myself & prayed the release of urine on the snake wouldn’t aggravate it to strike. Just maybe there was a higher being with control of such things as the beast never moved.

 The heat was getting unbearable as we waited; the bag now soaked in sweat & urine. My legs had fallen asleep my back ached, muscles cramped & still I could not move.

 Finally well past noon the reptile began to stir. The feel of it’s un-worldly smooth motion against my bare skin made my want to wretch again but I knew to jerk would be to die. Again the vomit bubbled across a swollen tongue, down the side of my face.

 The snake was now alongside me, its ugly flat head emerged not inches from my own. I closed my eyes, my mind incapable of grasping the horror of the thing. It slowly slid its heavy body over my thigh, alongside my ribcage, over my right arm, until at long last it was free of the bag. The vile beast was 4 1/2 foot long and big around as a man’s arm. It slowly crawled across camp into the bush and was gone.

For a long time I lay there, staring at the sky. I couldn’t comprehend that the ordeal was over. I thanked God; now being a staunch believer. I felt a bit embarrassed about regurgitating my past misdemeanors so easily. Perhaps I should have waited till the Adder actually bit me….

Mike knelt beside me and placed his hand on my shoulder.

“You might want to think about dry cleaning that bag when we get back to town.” He said.

 

Five days later I came down with Malaria from Luangwa Park…but that’s another story.

     

 

 

 

Last Thanks Giving in Mexico

We were up at 5:00 am . The nocturnal Rob Quint was dangerously disoriented, mumbling and running into walls. Rob, his bartender’s schedule shattered, had taken to dozing off at odd times during the day, like while walking down the beach, or swimming.

Gabriel picked us up in front of the hotel.

“Gabriel, where can I get some film?” I asked.

“Meester Steve, chew won’t find nuthing open in Mazatlan... It’s 6:00 in the morn, Meester Steve.”

That was funny, the entire town had been open two hours earlier, at 4:00am. We arrived at the harbor; an assortment of 30 fishing boats were backed against the dock taking on fuel and beer.

I spotted a gringo with a camera case and raced to catch him. “Hey, Mister, looky here, I work for a newspaper in the States and I need film!”

“Oh, yeah? Which one?”

“The Crested Butte Chronicle.”

“Never heard of it, but anyway it’s my only roll, I don’t want...”

“Oh, please, mister, if we catch a marlin and I don’t get a picture, who’s going to believe it!” I was begging shamelessly.

“No, I’m sorry, I...”

“I’ll give you twenty bucks for it...”

“Sold.” He handed it to me, took the money and leaped on a departing boat. I lokked at the roll.”HEY!!! THIS IS ONLY 12 EXPOSURES!!!”

The guy played an air violin as his boat pulled away.

We were 200 yards out of the harbor when the Venus died.

Captain Jorge, after drifting for half an hour, finally extracted a plastic bag, jammed with the water intake hoses. @@!!!## Plastico!! #@#@@!! Garbage!! We proceeded. The Venus was pitching, rolling, leaping, and falling, Joe and I clung for dear life. Rob slept like a baby below deck.

Our bery bery smart Captain was watching the seabirds who were looking for a school of sardines. Where there is a school of small fish, there will be larger fish. We just waited for the birds to dive, at which time Captain Jorge and 29 other bery, bery smart captains charged in. All hell broke loose, birds were sqawking and diving on a boiling mass of sardines, dorados (mahi) were leaping through the school in ajoyous feeding frenzy and boats were charging back and forth across this fishy turmoil.

Captains screamed and shook their fists at other captains. Our first mate, also named Jorge, leaped on the transom, dropped his pants and bent over towards the offending boat. Some age-old sailors’ signal, I assumed, you know how these guys get...I lokked around, we were 25 miles offshore in the middle of the Pacific Ocean, and all 30 of us were jostling in a space the size of a football field. Leave it to these guys to turn a fishing trip into a soccer game. Fish soccer. Then the fish hit, every boat got one at the same instant and, of course, and every boat had five lines out, even if there was only one client. A pole bent double, Jorge 2 yelled and grabbed it as Jorge 1 gunned the Venus, trying to set the hook, into the crowd. Loud referrals to jorge’s mother erupted over the CB radio.

“Wake, Meester Rob!!” Yelled Jorge 2. It was Rob’s fish, having won a prior coin toss, and up from the cabin he stumbled, groping his way across the heaving deck, fell into the fighting chair, and started to reel.

Rob didn’t have a clue where he was. The beautiful fish, iridescent green and gold, zipped through the water like an arrow but was no match for the massive marlin reel. Rob easily brought him to the boat, where Jorge 2 gaffed and hauled him aboard. The fish immediately started to lose its color and as it lay dying, the once-brilliant greens and gold faded to gray. There was some heavy meaning here somewhere but, as usual, it eluded me.

Things settled down, we floated downwind enjoying lunch. Their meal down, the captain adn crew tossed all their trash overboard. Cans, bottles and plastic bags, exactly like the one we’d sucked up that morn. Did they realize?...Should we point out??...naaaa.

We caqught one other dorado that afternoon and headed in. Only one marlin was caught in 30 boats. Although the Mexican captains practice catch and release, it is only after the client doesn’t want it, the captain and crew don’t want itand it is deemed not hurt severly by the fight. In other words, not many are released.

Consequently, there aren’t many marlin left. Simple, really.

As the harbor neared, I turned to Joe, “Ya knlw, Joe, I’ve been thinking about this mermaid photo...”

“You mean, where we hang Laura by her heels and we stand around her with our fishing poles?” (Laura was going to meet our boat in 20 minutes.)

“Yeah, well. I’ve been thinking that some readers might find that offensive.”

“Exactly, Church, after all, we’re men of the nineties.”

“Yes, sensitive men, men that respect women, men that...”

“Men that owe $100 if she shows...” interjected a seemingly awake Rob.

We hit the beach running; after all, the bet was for 3:00 and it was now two minutes till. No way she would show. We leaped in a cab; “Let’s go, let’s go!!” we instructed the driver.

Safely ensconced back at the hotel, we instructed the chef on the preparation of the dorado. We cleaned up, toasted the sunset, and returned to the crowded dining room.

Soft guitar music and tuxedoed waiters set a classy atmosphere as we raised our glasses in salutations of the day’s success.

Suddenly Rob’s jaws dropped, as if he’d seen Godzilla behind me. Before I could turn, two-inch red fingernails passed in front of my eyes and encircled my throat. A cloud of perfume engulfed the table.

“OKAY, BOYS, WHERE’S MY $100??” The restaurant went dead quiet.

I turned slightly to behold an irate Laura. She was dressed in a black skintight body stocking. Shiny black stiletto heels and her black hair piled high made her look two feet taller than I remembered her, while dangling silver earrings highlighted her flashing black eyes.

The Three Amigos stared at each other like lobotomy victims.

“SO YOU BOYS WANT TO HANG ME UPSIDE DOWN FROM A MEATHOOK IN FRONT OF THE ENTIRE MEXICAN FLEET???”
You could have heard a frijole hit the floor. The kitchen help was filtering in, waiters translating for them.

“Ahhh, Laura, sit down, have a nice glass of wine...” I ventured.

“I DON’T WANT ANY @##$$**@@!!# WINE!! I WANT $100!!”

Patio patrons were easing in for the show as Joe and I dug deep.

“MY DADDY’S NOT TOO HAPPY WITH YOU GUYS!!!”

“You told your father we were going to hang you from a meathook??”

“Oh, boy, just what does your father do, Laura?” as if I couldn’t guess.

“HE’S IN CEMENT, WHICH IS EXACTLY WHERE YOU GUYS ARE HEADED!!”

We paid Laura her $100 and apologized profusely, She turned on her heel and stormed through the riveted dinner crowd. “I NEVER WANT TO HEAR FROM YOU GUYS AGAIN!! NEWSPAPER! HAH!!”

Things were never quite the same around the Torres Mazatlan for the Three Amigos; we were dogs in the flowerbed, flies in the cake.

It was Jesus that finally came to our rescue.

“I’m gonna take chew boys to see a leetle Mexican culture, a place you won’t see no damn gringos!” I wasn’t sure if this made me happy or not. He picked us up at 10:00 that night. The cab dropped off the pavement into what looked like Africa. We had left the city, passed the docks and arrived in adubious part of Mazatlan. False-front buildings gave the place an old west look. Red lights festooned the doorways in what I assumed to be pre-Christmas decoration. A few suspect-looking taco stands dotted the street, where one or two patrons lay face down in the dirt in front of each. Not a good sign when picking a dining establishment. Other bodies were propped against walls, sombreros pulled over their faces, dogs and pigs rummaging their pockets. It looked as if some low-level tequila bomb had gone off.

We stepped through some swinging doors into what appeared to be a disorganized riot. A “rock” band was enthusiastically butchering Santana’s “Black Magic Woman.” About 30 women sat along one wall. They looked like potatoes in leotards, each wearing a number on their ample bosoms.

“Hey, Rob!! Looky here, they’re playng some type of Mexican bingo. This is great!!” Vendors piled the crowd with plastic roses and BBQ iguanas on sticks.

“Hey, Rob, ummbo!! Hey?” One guy had a device called the testosterone tester hung onto two wires while he cranked electricity through you. A meter hung from his neck displaying just how much voltage you were taking, just how big of a man you were. His customers would jerk like biology frogs, veins popping from their brows, before collapsing. You’d rarely see a woman do this, just proving once again girls know nothing about having a really good time.

Police in leather coats and sunglasses patrolled the crowd, M16s slung over their shoulders. YES!! The place was reeking in cultural diversity!! This is why we travel!!

Suddenly the band went into some jungle rhythm, a 10-year-old kid quickly mopped the dance floor, then strung a huge chain around it. Was this to keep the customers out? Or the floor show in? The lights dimmed, the band increased its tempo, suddenly onstage appeared a...a...steamrolled peacock??.. No, it was a woman, a substantial woman at that, adorned in a feather costume that stuck six feet out from each side, She leaped about the stage.

Then into the lights landed a pot-bellied, middle-aged male wearing a tiny skirt of feathers, a G-string, and nothing else. He strutted about, kicking his feet in the air as the crowd went nuts. He leaped behind the peacock lady and with much difficulty (as she was gyrating wildly) proceeded to undo her costume. Yes, folks, it appeared he was going to strip that girl naked. What in the world had we gotten ourselves into?? Hey, just what kind of a place was this?

Well, when he got her down to only a skirt of feathers, she looked exactly like one of Dis-mounts waltzing hippos. He bent down and did the unthinkable...that’s right, buckaroos... he picked her up!! Not without some struggle, he got all 200 pounds of her on his shoulder and started to spin around. He was about half her size and his skinny white legs were knocking violently as he staggered about the stage, spinning faster and faster.

Patrons sitting close started to pull tables back, even the band was backing away as it seemed only moments now before he lost control of the twirling mass of femininity. He was somehow able to lower her to the floor where she continued to spin. He collapsed, gasping for breath. The crowd was going berzerk. Yes, it was an evening steeped in rich cultural heritage.

On the way to the airport the next day, our taxi caught fire. The driver calmly stepped out and hailed us another cab.

“How much do we owe you for this far?” I inquired.

“No problem, amigo, when will you visit us again?”

“Soon, my friend, very soon...”

 

The lack of Thanksgiving in Mexico

by Steve Church

 

It had been a wt, miserable morning under Lonsome Bob’s skirt.

Trailer skirt, that is; it seemed that the other local contractors were too busy or simply not equipped to handle a job of the magnitude of Bob’s skirt. Bob was forced to call us.

We’re Church Bros. Construction, where no job is too small, no bill too big. Theproblem was, I hadn’t figured on the snow. Even though I’d only been on the job for three hours, I knew it was time to re-evaluate our estimate. When Bob wasn’t looking, I slipped off to Kochevar’s to rework the figures.

I was staring at a bag of pork rinds listening to my feet drip, when an old employer (and still friend), Joe Rous, approached. Joe didn’t say a word as he dropped a brochure below my frozen nose. A stunning sun-baked blonde floated in a crystal-blue pool. Swaying palm trees lined the pool’s edge, offering shade to a serenading Mariachi band. A beaming Latin waiter stood knee-deep in water, balancing two pina coladas on a silver tray. The blonde, obviously lonely, was staring directly at me!!

I looked at Joe.

Joe said two words: “Free room.”

An hour later, on Bob’s time, I bought a ticket to Mazatlan. $240 round-trip from Denver, free room.

Locally-famous bartender and family man Rob Quint would join us.

Rob and I agreed that we would need a reason, an excuse for this venture. As loving and liberal as Rob’s wife Lynn is, Rob didn’t think she would take extracting kids and cars from snowbanks all week while her other half lay on the beach extracting pinas~ from coladas.

“Dear, I’m off to Mexico, change the oil in the Trooper while I’m  gone, will ya?”

“Of course, love, if you’ll bring me back one of those little soaps, from the hotel, I love those little guys, they’re so cute.”

Rob didn’t think it would go exactly like that...

I’d need a reason for my editor, Mr. Lee Ervin, a better reason than the brochure bombshell staring at me. I couldn’t even show Ervin the brochure, he’d think the girl was staring at him!

That’s the kind of guy he is...

“I know; we’ll go after Marlin!!” I told Rob.

“Who’s Marlin??” Marlin Davis?? Marlin the Magician??”

“Marlin the fish, the biggest game fish in the world, the one with the sword...”

“Hold it,” Rob cut in, “I don’t like fish, Lynn knows this, especially fish that are larger than me and armed...”

“Ok, I’ve got it, why do people go on vacation?”

“Because it’s there...??”

“No. Two reasons: number one, you go to escape your all-too-familiar surroundings; number two, you go to immerse yourself in totally unfamiliar surroundings, so you’re given a new perspective on your old familiar surroundings. We’ll go ‘cause there’s no Thanksgiving in Mexico, WE’LL GO ‘CAUSE IT’S NOT THERE!!!”

Rob stared at me as if he’d just realized he’d been carrying on a conversation with a cabbage. He backed quietly but quickly away...

It had been 20 years since I’d been to Mazatlan... 20 years since that horrible accident...maybe they’d forgotten by now...maybe it was safe to go back...

It was the dead of winter when we, myself and another long-haired reprobate, decided to go to Mexico. It was midnight, we had $200. By dawn we had purchased a 1964 Ford Galaxy for $100, exumed it from a snwbank and filled it with “trade items” for our neighbors to the south. We Americans have always had this pesky little habit of wanting other cultures to experience the wonders of a more advanced society such as ours.

We can’t travel to exotic lands without bringing something to impress the locals. Something like the Warthog Missile or a good case of smallpox will generally get their attention.

Our visit would be no different, we would bring the finest acheivements our culture had wrought thus far: eight-track Neil Diamond tapes, polyester bell bottoms, Playboy magazines...

 

 

Bear Facts

It was 4:00 in the morning when the sofa went berserk. The sofa, that’s what we call our 140-lb. malamute, who in size, energy and intelligence resembles a large piece of living room furniture. The sofa was ensconced in a vicious barking frenzy, unusual for a dog that hadn’t uttered a word for year. He didn’t bark when ten of Garcia’s horses flattened the front yard, he didn’t even squeak when we neutered him But something had his full attention now.

I opened the door, stepping onto a moonlit porch. The sofa shot past me, an anxious look on his face as he bolted for the bedroom. Peering into the shadowy aspens, my imagination ran rampant. What was that dark and silent form floating through the trees? A wayward elk? Ruth and Eric Roemer playing one of their silly nocturnal games? I strained my one good eye. but just couldn’t be sure. Things were generally pretty quiet here on the No Hope Goat Ranch, no need to worry. I returned to bed.

“What the matter?” mumbled Jean from a deep sleep.

“I’m not sure, something big and black.”

“Bo Jackson?” She sat bolt upright. Now what had she been dreaming about, I wondered.

“What would Boi Jackson be doing going through our garbage at 4:00 in the morning?” I asked.

“Well, maybe he’s hungry,” she leaped from the bed. Yeah, I thought, never overlook the obvious.

The three of us crept out onto the porch. “Yo, Bo?” whispered Jean. Suddenly, to our total amazement, from around the corner and not five feet away, appeared a bear, I kid you not, folks, the size of a Volkswagon. Having been raised around animals, maybe some of you know my brother, I know a few things about behavior in these situations. Never, never get the beast agitated, which is exactly what we accomplished by throwing our arms in the air and screaming, “HIIUUAARG!!!” which means, ‘There’s a bear the size of a used car and the length of his lips away, and we’re standing like so many Pillsbury doughboys” The second rule of thumb is never, never run, which is an incredibly stupid rule, obviously written by someone who has never stood naked in front of a bear in the middle of the night.

We ran.

The malamute was the first to gain the bed and barely rustled the covers as he dove under them, and there we huddled like the three little pigs, blankets under our chins, eyes like frisbees, as the bear rampaged outside. This was no Disney character, this was no Booboo, this was another can of worms altogether. The beast reared on its hind legs, blocking the moon from the bedroom window, saliva dripped from glistening fangs, Freddy Kruger-like claws raked the glass well alright, not exactly on his hind legs, but ... well, ok, he wasn’t exactly pressed against the window, however, he did glance at it on his way past. This is when we got our first good glimpse of the beast. Sure, it was dark, but there was no doubt about it. Erectus Americanus, the Americanblack bear, shoulder height 3 1/2 feet, weight 500 lbs., mature male bear... or  three-month-old female, one of the two.

The vicious had gained entry to the tool shed; luckily both tools were on a job, but he had discovered a brand new 25-lb. bag of Kibbles and Bits, which he now commenced to consume with bone-crunching enthusiasm. Since the bedroom wall is the other side of the tool shed wall, the sound was morally devastating. We banged pots on our side of the wall, we screamed, the beast was unperturbed. It’s always disheartening to encounter a wild animal that not only outweighs you but is not the slightest bit afraid of humans.

Then it hit me, FIREWORKS! The creature can’t be used to fireworks going off under his feet. I still have a small but tasteful arsenal of Chinese fireworks left over from a boisterous Snow Clam party, the ones Carol Ann Brady intercepted before ignition. Selecting a 100-pack of firecrackers, aptly named The Uzi-cracker. The small part of me that pays attention was working overtime now. I lit a match, held it to a frighteningly short fuse, it fizzled and went out. The bear quit chewing. I fumbled for another match to a now shorter fuse. It sputtered and caught just as the wary bear emerged from the shed, aroused by the scent of sweat and sulphur. The Uzi-cracker bomb landed at its feet. I really can’t say I saw the bomb go off, as I was busy focusing the camera at a dead run in the opposite direction, but the expression on that bear’s face when the old Uzi-cracker bomb went off was pretty priceless, as above photo has amazingly captured.

It was good and morning, I mean bright, when we again ventured out. The dog, still extremely edgy, peered out of the door. Then, incredibly, his body stayed in the door but his face stretched out down the porch and around the corner at the tool shed. A distance of six feet or so his neck was stretched while his body was safe in the house. It was a special moment, one to be taken advantage of. “Boo!” I grabbed his ribs and yelled. His face slammed beck into his body so hard I was afraid it may carry right through, thus inverting him. The dog’s a mess, no doubt about it, but to Jean and me, the bear’s visit brought back the romance of the old west, not to mention some excellent photo opportunities.

 

The bear facts: Part 2

by Steve Church

 

The bear had developed a nasty little dog food addiction. Grubs and berries had taken a rear seat to his new fondness for Kibbles ‘n’ Bits. Just mosey down to the Goat Ranch and chow down.

CRASH!!! We screamed and jumped like fleas on a skillet. The dog, frayed from no sleep for the past week, was barking hysterically. You could hear the first strains of complete mental collapse in his voice. The house stunk of dead fish and rotten meat; it was 2:00 in the morning.

“He’s back, and he’s pissed,” I mumbled, weary from nightly attacks from this beast. In an effort to discourage the bruin, we had taken down the bird feeder (sunflower seeds), the hummingbird feeder, the BBQ, cat food, dog food, everything that might remotely catch the bear’s interest. The Kibbles were in a trash can in the tool shed behind a locked door and the bear knew it. He stood on his hind feet and side-stepped along the building, groping with his front paws for the door. His piggish eyes glowed with demonic intelligence. He was six feet tall if he was an inch. Locating the door, he swung his ping pong paddle-sized paw, the door splintered into sawdust and hinges. We watched in horror from the bedroom window as a stored color TV rolled out into the dirt. Terrible, expensive crashes rang out as the beast searched for dog food. This little wilderness experience had gone far enough. I leapt from bed and studied my pitiful arsenal: a 22-caliber rifle, good for slaughtering coffee cans, and a 20-gauge shotgun (large grouse laugh at this gun). The 30-30 had been borrowed and never returned. I selected the 20-gauge, put in two #4 birdshots and went forth to do battle.

“Be careful, you dummy,” encouraged Jean.

I stepped into the crisp night air.

“HEY, VOLCANO BREATH!!!”

The stinking brute emerged from the shed, bits of Kibbles dropping from his fearsome face. I aimed two feet over his head and pulled the trigger .... KA BOOM! Flames shot from the barrel, smoke and wadding filled the air. The bear kept on chewing. KABOOM!! Another shot shattered the night. This time the bear reacted, his ears went flat his upper lip curled into an enchilada, he emitted a short hissing sound and he charged....

“HOLY SHITE!!” I screamed, groping for the door. I leapt inside and slammed the door, heart pounding.

“Did you kill him??” queried an anxious Jean.

“Not exactly, my dear, but I was thinking, it’s only dog food, I mean, you know, cheap, dog food really. Let’s just let him eat his fill, eh?”

“Whatever you think is best, Bwana.”

For the next two hours, the enraged beast circled the house throwing patio furniture, raking the siding and windows. The three little pigs huddled inside. The magic of this bear encounter was gone.

“Hello, Department of Wildlife, this is Melody.”

“Melody, I have a little marauding bear problem; tell me, if I shoot this bear...”

“Don’t you dare shoot that bear!”

“Melody, you don’t understand, we’re not talking about a spotted owl here, this is a fearless, 500-pound, salivating, reeking killing machine, he’s outgrown dog food and he’s coming after the family unit, tonight!! I can’t shoot this beast if it attacks us?”

“When he makes the first move, when he attacks and your life is threatened, then you can shoot.”

That was the governmental policy in Vietnam also, as I recalled.

“Ok, what do we do?”

“We’ll trap the bear, tag him and relocate him.”

“How many bears do you relocate every year?” I inquired.

“Maybe about 200 in the state,” she replied.

Somewhere, gentle reader, in this state, is a very dangerous section of woods literally jammed with delinquent bears. Think about it.

“I’m sending two of our best men. Don’t do anything.”

“Thank you, Melody.” I hung up and did nothing.

An hour later that guilt-inducing truck of the Wildlife Department, the one with all the whistles and bells, pulled down the drive. Officers Tom Spezze and Wayne Brown introduced themselves and began investigating the scene of the crime.

“First of all, Steve, you’ve built your house in an ancient bear meeting ground. See these old claw marks on certain trees here? Bears mark their territory and leave messages on the same trees year after year, kinda’ the Bear’s Bulliten Board.”

“Tell me the good news, Tom,” I asked.

“Well, it’s a male, maybe 300 pounds, good sized for Gunnison, Colorado.”

“How can you tell if it’s a male?”

“Well, Steve, you look between its legs, and if there’s a...”

“No, no, I mean now, you know it’s a male?”

“The size of the stool.”

“Oh.”
“I thought only sick or wounded bears would approach humans,” I offered.

“Bears do exactly what they want to do,” Wayne explained.

“Tell me then, just what should a person do when confronted by a bear?” A stupid question, I knew what to do - run!

“Never, never run, Steve. Do not wave and scream. Avoid eye contact and slowly back away. Bears are very strong, even a yearling can kill you. One this size could tear a car door off.”

“Might this bear come into the house after food?” I asked.

“Very well could, Steve.”

“I find this discouraging, Tom.”

“No worries, we’re going to trap this guy.”

Not noticing a trap, I ventured another stupid question, “When?”

“Well, unfortunately, all our traps are busy right now, but maybe tomorrow. You’re on your own tonight.”

“You realize this beast is getting more aggressive every night. You’ll notice this is a very small house, and we’re dealing with a very large bear here. We’re feeling like the three little pigs,” I ventured.

“I understand,” said Tom.

“I may have to shoot this bear,” I said.

“Don’t miss,” said Wayne. “A  bear’s skull is very thick, a direct shot could bounce right off his head. A bear shot in the heart could live five minutes or more, and in that five minutes, he’ll flatten this house and everyone in it. Only if he’s coming through the front door shoot him and only a side shot, right below the ear, will stop him. Don’t miss.”

“If I do have to kill it, can I keep the pelt?”

“Nope, property of the state, we don’t want to encourage this shooting at all. If you do shoot him, call us immediately, even if it’s 2:00 in the morning, we’ll be up at dawn to determone whether it was a self-defense.”

“I understand,” although I didn’t.

The Napa Auto Parts store of a pick-up pulled away, we walked into the cabin, weary at the thought of another sleepless night with the bear from hell. And we’d thought that pack rat had been a problem...

-To be continued

 

The bear facts: Part 3

by Steve Church

 

“Hello, Bob? Bob Brazell? Famous photographer extraordinaire? King of Kodachrome? High priest of video voodoo, exalted...”

“What do you want now, Church?”

“Well, Bob, I’ve got this bear...”

“Forget it.”

“No, wait. This is great stuff national exposure, this bear, ya see, has been hanging around my house. The Wildlife Department shipping the beast to bear reformatory tomorrow. But in the meantime the bear returns and we’ve got a dummy of our illustrious mayor, Jim Deli, waiting with the key to the city. However, the mayor is dripping in honey and our furry friend tears His Honor to pieces as the cameras of Bob Brazell capture the grizzly event. Think of it ‘Mayor mauled to mincemeat,’ or ‘Schmidt bit!! film at 11:00.’ How about ‘Deli in the belly’ ... 9 News...CNN...”

“You can’t do that, Church.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s not the truth, didn’t happen... and it’s probably illegal.”

“Details, details. Look, Bob. I’ll be right behind you with the old 30-30, if he charges. I’ll shoot you, no pain, no problem, no...”

“Call me if you get a bonefish up there.” Click.

I needed a picture, some proof... I’d get it myself, picking up high-speed film and the Time-Life book of night photography and throwing together a cheap imitation of Saddam Hussein holding a roast chicken named “Freedom.” Figured George Bush could use a shot like this in his re-election campaign:

“We’re bearish on America.” The bear didn’t show. The next afternoon, rattling down the drive appeared warden Wayne Brown and the beartrap. four-foot culvert pipe on wheels, end welded shut, the other a guillotine-type door. The bear enters the pipe, pulls on a bait, wham! the door slams shut. Boxed bear. We crawled into the freshly steam-cleaned trap (the bear won’t enter with another bear’s scent in it). He then prepared a feast of gastronomical proportions. The first course, spread about the ground, consisited of rotten peaches and pears, followed by appetizers of day-old doughnuts, a tasteful garnish of lettuce heads perfectly complimenting the entree of bacon a la trigger device, all covered with honey and

baked with a propane torch to a golden brown. Wayne explained that one has to be most alert about placing the safety latch before playing with the trigger mechanism. More than one embarrassed ranger has found himself trapped inside the trap, sometimes for days at a time with nothing to eat but sour jelly doughnuts. It doesn’t aid in his rescue, the words DANGER, LIVE BEAR, and STAY CLEAR!! plastered over the exterior. Wayne then explained that whatever the bear
had wrecked, I could get back by filling out the Wildlife Damage Report BGD-3.
“You’re kidding.”
“No.”
“Our government pays for damages done by its bears?”

“Yes.”

What a country. I was in awe a country where I can’t afford to buy health insurance has its bears fully covered. The TV! The Kibbles! Warden Brown left us with the baited trap and the instructions “Do nothing!”
At 2:00 in the morning, tired of doing nothing, we jumped each...just kidding... the bear returned. For an hour, he circled and banged on the trap. It was too easy, he didn’t like it. Dog food was an unexpected delight, but a banquet? One minute
we’re shooting at him, next we’re having dinner catered? Finally, the honey soaked bacon was a prize worth any mortal risk and in he went. Wham!! The door slammed shut... things were very very quiet, then things got very, very loud as he
realized his blunder. As if not comprehending the fact there was no escape, the caged bear crashed and moaned pitifully. He hissed, grunted and snorted his disgust at his own greed, it was a sad and restless time for all. Then the poor
beast seemed to be talking directly to me. “Hey, pilgrim! Hey, milktoast in the house. Have I got something wrong here? Is this not the ancient bear meeting place? Am I not the only bear here?” The dumb animal continued, “lt seems to me you’re the one who ought to be relocated. You and your Kibbles ‘n’ Bits!” He raved till dawn, bear babble...

Warden Brown arrived at dawn. I asked to accompany him on the indoctrination of the bear, partly a journalistic quest for the truth, mostly guilt.

As we waited for the tranquilizer to take effect, Chief Warden Tom Henry told me a few bear facts which I’d like to misquote at this time. Fifty bears (Tom figures) inhabit the valley between Gunnison and Marble. Hard to count, being nocturnal and all. The population has been stable for 40 years or so, but he worries with the present moratorium on the spring hunt and the influx of more people, bear encounters will become more prevalent. The only sure way to tell you’ve got too many bears is when they’re running rampant down Main Street.

“He’s out,” ventured Mr. Henry. “Climb in there and turn him around, Wayne. You’re stronger than I am,” he added diplomatically.

“Yeah, Wayne, climb on in therre,” I added, always willing to help.

The beast looked wide awake to me, eyes open, teeth bared.

“Find out the sex, Wayne,” Tom continued.

“It’s a male,” stated Wayne, without even looking.

“How do you know it’s a male?” I asked bewildered.

“You look between it’s legs, if there’s a ...“ Mr. Henry explained.

The bear was ear-tagged, lip tattooed, age and weight estimated, then driven to that “secret” relocation location. He will be given two more chances to behave like a bear should. At least, how we think he should.

 

When Pigs Fly

Excuse me while I kiss the sky

—Jimi Hendrix

 

It was Gifford’s idea. The usual assortment of contractors and constrictors had gathered at Kochevar’s, drinking heavily

and bemoaning our mundane lives that the pursuit of paychecks was responsible for, when suddenly Gifford’s eyes lit up like a two year old at Christmas. “Let’s go skydiving!” is what he said. A pregnant silence followed as this settled into his inebriated associates. “GOOD IDEA!!” rose the cheer from a dozen Bud-soaked threats. Good idea? Sliced bread, the swivel bar stool... these were good ideas. Jumping out of a perfectly good airplane is considered, in most cutles, exactly the opposite of a good idea. “It’ll clear out the cobwebs, blow out the pipes, grab your attention,” Cifford went on to say and we all agreed this was probably true.

Now we have to wonder, restless reader, just why on earth a bunch of middle-aged, middle-income, mortgaged and married men would suddenly have the urge to kill themselves, just when things were finally going well. These same guys who had only this morning screamed like scalded apes upon the discovery of a gray hair, now thought it a “good idea” to chance being splattered across the earth like so many bugs on so many windshields.

Was it peer pressure? Maybe, but even sheep don’t jump out of planes. Was it the Budweiser? It was, of course, possible we were just slaves to our seemingly fearless mouths. But of course these are not the reasons, and I think we all know what is. That’s right, testosterone... the dreaded and often deadly testosterone buildup, that’s what.

According to Webster, testosterone is: “the male hormone responsible for stupid behavior in otherwise normal men.” Since the beginning of time it was testosterone that continually got men into dicey situations. Picture if you will, Neanderthal...

“Throg, darling?”

‘Yes, my little Musk Ox?”

“I’ve got my heart set on a stegosaurus steak tonight, love.”

“Uhhhh, my sweet, uhhhh, we’re out of mammoth?”

“Oh, you big silly baboon, that mammoth is a month old, I want something FRESH!!!.., sweet thing you, c’mere you big ape...”

Only a man high on testosterone will attack a stegosaurus with a rock.

Or the Middle Ages, if you will:

“Lancelot, darling, you are such a stud. I know this, but the girls are talking, they say you’re afraid to slay a dragon for me. Say it isn’t so, Lance?”

“Uhhhh, Gwenivere, my tender flower, speaktng of Lances, remember the one I just had removed last week, received while jousting for your honor?”

“Let me put it this way, Lance, you get me that dragon, or you’ll be sleeping with your horse.”

Feature this: a 60-foot, fire-breathing, man-hating lizard and you’ve got a two-foot sword. Kinda like fighting a Kuwait oil fire with a squirt gun. Only a man with testosterone stampeding through his brain like millions of tiny buffalo would consider such an encounter.

Or take the modern day Massi in Kenya. At age 14, a boy must kill a lion to become a man, with only a spear, without Budweiser. This is probably were cross-dressing originated.

There are some tribesmen, somewhere in Borneo...I think... (professional journalism here, folks) that actually tie vines to

their ankles and dive from 60-foot-tail towers. The guy whose nose comes closest to the ground is the bravest man. Not dumbest, mind you, bravest.

Now we have to wonder why women aren’t compelled into attacking lions, with kitchen utensils, or why they don’t feel the urge to leap from trees, betting on who can pop their faces inside out and still drink. No testosterone, that’s why. This tiny little hormone is responsible for most wars and virtually all tractor pull events.

So here we were, the supposed highest form on the evolutionary ladder, receivers of braces and bail money from confused parents, products of the finest educations student loans could buy, being swept along like so much flotsom on a sea of hormones and Budweiser. It was a timeless war, really, but this time ol’ Testosterone would take on one of its oldest and most feared opponents... GRAVITY!!!

Now most of you, like myself, probably thought that Sir Isaac Newton invented gravity, so it’ll come as some surprise when I tell you gravity has been here long before even testosterone, and you can take that to the bank. Webster defines gravity as such: a serious situation or problem... as if that wasn’t clear enough it goes on to say... the gravitational attraction of the mass of the earth for bodies at or near its surface... in other words, skydivers.

For an entertaining example of gravity, try this simple experiment. Get a cinder block and your average-weight house cat. Take them to the top floor of the Grande Butte Hotel and throw them over. Which will hit first? Simple, the cinder block. The housecat will be firmly attached to your face. Even a cat understands the physics of gravity.

But for us, like so many laboratory monkeys, our fate was sealed, the proverbial ball was rolling, like Lemmings to the sea, we were about to follow each other to Skydiver School.

 

To be continued

 

When pigs fly: utter consternation or paralysis

by Steve Church

 

“Boy, only two things fall from the sky, bird poop and fools.”

-Dad

 

The boys were bailing out like rats off a burning boat. As Jump Day got closer, all types of strange and exotic excuses arose. A few claimed that going skydiving would interfere with work, Work?? Were these the same guys that only last week admitted that work was the curse of the drinking class? A local bartender, who last week thought skydiving a “good idea” and begged to go, suddenly had to go to Alaska. No one suddenly goes to Alaska. Oue fellow even said his wife wouldn’t let him go. WHAT?? Mast relationships I know, the wife would gladly see her spouse leap into space. Might even help pack the chute.

Yep, they were backing out left and right. For a list of these spineless jellyfish, send $9.99 to “Wimps Among Us,” S. Church, Box 905.

A few guys were committed, though. Brock Smith would jump, but then so would you if you were Brock Smith. At 6 foot, 4 inches, 230 lbs., the man is indestructable and knows it. A little thing like a 4,000 foot fall doesn’t worry Brock Smith. Roy Kasining would also jump; Brock had promised to “kill Roy” if he didn’t jump. So KillRoy Kastning” was caught between Brock and a hard spot. The editor and chief himself, Mr. Lee Ervin, swore on a pile of Bud bottles. he would jumpalso. In his own words, “Why not? Live fast, die young, leave a million bills.”

The King of Kodachrome, Master of the Motordrive, Dab Brazell, would come to capture the sorrid event on film. Being a prudent man, Bob was vehemently opposed to leaping from a plane, but I was convinced once he witnessed the excitement on our faces, we’d be hard pressed to keep him on the ground. Myself, I had to go, I’d already published this stupid story... but I could always make it up... a distinct possibility.

There were, of course, other reasons than wives and work not to jump. One in particular, the one that keeps most people from skydiving: fear of dying. Fear of returning home in a pizza box. Let us examine fear. Fear, according to Webster to have a reverential awe of (I think a 4,000 foot fall fits into that description). It goes on to say: to cuase grave distress of mind, a startling quality that induces utter constrenation or paralysis.

“This pretty well sums it up. But fear is not a bad thing, some of the most frightening moments in life are also some of the most memorable. Said Rodney Dangerfield: “I’ll never forget the first time I made love, it was dark, I was scared, I was alone.”

Your second trip to the dentist was memorable, The first trip to the draft board (did your purse and shoes match?). How about the first bank loan, where you sat sweating bullets behind a pile of fabrications and forgeries that was your proposal, hoping thet if you didn’t get the loan, at best you wouldn’t get 5 to 10 years for lying. Fear is probably the only reason the species survived, what with testosterone running rampant and all.

But what did we actually have to fear? What exactly are your chances of surviving your first skydive? I decide to get it from the horse’s mouth.

“Hello, Marana Skydiving Center, this is Mark.”

I introduced myself and said, “Mark, I have two questions.”

“Shoot, Steve.”

“Will you take a post dated check?”

“No.”

“Second question and you probably get asked this a lot, what are my chances of survival?”

“We’d like to think that if you have a death wish you wouldn’t come to see us.”

“No, Mark, exactly the opposite, I am very much interested in living through this.”

“Then your chances are good.”

“How good, Mark? I want odds, figures ... follow me? JUST THE FACTS!!!”

“Well, Steve, we run 2,500 jumpers a year through here and have not had one ‘serious’ accident...”

I didn’t want to ask whether that had been in the last year or the last five min..

“Tell me, Mark, what is a ‘not serious’ accident in skydiving?”

“Oh, you know, broken ankles and the like.”

“Why heck, Mark, broken ankles?? Why, I break my ankles just for fun, why you hardly get your money’s worth out of a sport unless you break your ankles, ehh, Mark??” He could hear the strain in my voice, but he probably gets that a lot. “Okay, Mark, sign The Flying Swine, Crested Butte Chapter, for the 24th of October.” I hung up and immediately felt ill.

Who thought up this stupid sport anyway? How long has this been going on? I suddenly needed to justify this skydiving as more than just attempted suicide.

Well, it turns out that old devil Leonardo Da Vinci invented the first parachute in 1495. Leonardo, being nobody’s fool, did not try it, however, this being pre-Budweiser days, could not induce any friends or family to make history. Experts to this day contend, “We have every reason to believe da Vinci’s parachute will work.” But still no one wants to try it. By 1545 there were actual attempts with other designs and these usually gathered huge crowds, as the first attempt was frequently the last. Early parachute test pilots were 99% testosterone, 1% brain, real men’s men. A dying breed.

It was 1785 before someone actually survived the sport. Jean Pierre Blanchard is credited with the first parachute jump from a balloon. He broke his leg, but that’s nothing in this business.

Not until l9l9 a maniac by the name of Lester “Sky-High” Irvin was the first to free fall. He broke his ankle — the sport was progressing.

“Sky High” Irvin coined the ever-popular skydiver phrase, “It’s not the fell, it’s the sudden stop.” A real funny guy, this Irvin. He was killed by a bus in 1966.

I don’t know about you, but to me it seems every social function I attend lately there are two questions on everybody’s mind: How high was the highest free fall, they ask, and how low was the lowest? Here are some free free fall facts, no charge:

- 102,800 ft. (about 20 miles) was the highest survived jump. Captain Joe Kittinger took 13 minutes, 45 seconds and reached speeds of 614 mph in the thin air (closer to earth you fall “only” 120 mph).

-Nick Piantanida tried to break the sound barrier (750 mph) with a jump from 123,000 ft. His face mask blew out, he died of lack of oxygen 20 minutes before he hit the ground.

- The lowest jump goes to Lieutenant BD MacFarlane, whose jet lost power on takeoff fropt the aircraft carrier Albion. He crashed in front of the carrier, which promptly ran over him. He ejected somewhere under the ship and popped up in its wake, unhurt.

These survival stories were cheering me up; I investigated further.

- Ed Dickson from his Navy jet in 1964. Ed’s chute never opened in the 1,000 foot fall. He hit a snow drift and bounced 50 feet in the air, landing unhurt. Then, noticing the still-packed chute on his back he pulled it out and wrapped himself up in it to stay warm. The funny part? This being Ed’s first bail-out, he assumed this to be routine.

- Russian mechanic G. Ochepkov fell from a helicopter with no chute. He opened his trenchcoat, assumed the flying squirrel position and glided to a landing. The chopper landed, Ochepkov climbed back in unhurt.

- In WWII, Col. I.M. Chissov ejected from 23,000 feet, he passed out, his chute never opened. The Col. woke up lying on a snowbank unhurt. He was then captured by the Germans and shot ... just kidding, he’s actually still alive.

I was feeling better now, this was just like falling off a log, what could possibly go wrong???

 

(to be continued...)

 

When pigs fly: Part 4

by Steve Church

 

“If man were meant to fly, he’d have a first-dass ticket.”

—Jim Brophy

 

“Everybody want to go to heaven, but nobody want to die.”

— Bob Marley

 

I was fear flypaper, fear was on me like my hair. Part of me, the part that does the laundry and pays the bills, was saying, “You know, Steve, jumping from a plane is not exactly the smartest thing you’ve ever done...” while the other part, the evil anti-Steve, the part of me that set fire to the neighborhood at age eight, the part that drag-raced my father’s new truck at 15 (might have won, too, had I not shifted into reverse at 60mph) was now saying, “Capital idea, Steve! You’ll be such a richer person for the experience.” Anti-Steve was about to throw the rest of me right out of a perfectly good airplane.

Kill Roy Kasting felt pretty much the same way. Roy was fairly sure he would die. He had gone to see his folks for the last time, he’d sold his truck for $200 cash, he’d quit paying bills, he’d quit sleeping and he’d started drinking ... ardently. Roy is a gifted artist and a sensitive guy; he thought that by staring into the jaws of death, life would seem so much more vibrant.., or some weird artsy-fartsy thing like that...

Brock Smith, on the other hand, couldn’t wait. It was scary. Brock is the kind of guy you’d like to go through Vietnam with, or behind, actually, and now Brock was chomping at the bit to leap from a plane. He worried me.

The forth Swine, an old friend from Vail, Karl, would rent the car. Karl is a good faller. He fell off a train in Peru (facial lacerations), fell out of a palm tree in Mexico (two broken arms), dove into six inches of water in the Grand Canyon (cracked skull), fell from his balcony to the parking lot in Vail (smashed neighbor’s BMW) and fell through a picture window at a cocktail party .... backwards

naked ...(buttocks lacerations). Karl already had a lot of air time; he was a natural skydiver.

The Wimps had thrown us a going-away party the previous evening. They all brought pizza boxes for our return postage; each wimp had his own parachute disaster story to relate. It was a warm and special evening and when Roy willed his table saw to the waitress, it brought tears to our eyes.... I found out later Roy doesn’t even own a table saw.

We left the main office (Kochevar’s) Thursday afternoon and hurdled south. By midnight we were somewhere in the Navajo Reservation doing 100 m.p.h. The navigator, Karl, having personally consumed a bottle of Captain Morgan’s Rum, now hung from his seat belt like limp pasta. Roy and I crashed from side to side in the rear seat. Mile signs were flying by like a picket fence.

“We’re making good time behind this guy!” Brock yelled over Mick Jagger. He was clenched to the wheel and had a strange glint in his eye that I didn’t like.

“That’s because it’s an ambulance, Brock, that’s what those flashing red lights are!!!” We were so close you could see the gold fillings of the Native American on the gurney inside.

By morning we had reached the town of Globe, AZ, a burg of 5000 nestled at the base of a five-mile-long, 2000-foot-high pile of glowing tailings. Green and orange slime oozed from this mountain of toxic muck. A gusty wind kicked up a green dust that filled the air and covered the town. Abandoned buildings and dead trees added to an eerie post-nuclear holocaust atmosphere. Near the end of town at the entrance to the mammoth, open-pit mine, a huge sign swung in the green wind. Magma Copper, Building America’s Future, the sign said. We tore across the Apache Reservation. The Apaches seem to have done much better than the Navajos in terms of quality of land.

“I don’t suppose we’ll be buying any rubber tomahawks this trip?” Roy yelled over the screaming engine.

Finally, 12 miles from Tucson, a sign loomed on the right: Marana Skydiving Center next right. Roy and I looked at each other and screamed. I felt clammy, my hands started to sweat, like fire hydrants. The bottom of my feet tingled, the tops sweat. My knees went to jello. Roy looked like a Malaria victim. We pulled into a hangar-type building. Four paint-less ancient Cessna 182s squatted behind the building. What resembled a Beech 18 slumped in the corner. A tiny loudspeaker blasted rock and roll, while small children and huge dogs frolicked on the lawn. Parachutes dotted the sky and alighted about us. Then I looked up just in time to see three tiny forms fall from a speck of a Cessna. The infamous freefall. Hold the phone!! These guys were not in any sense of the imagination, soaring. They were plummeting to the earth like plucked mallards. Brophy was right, man cannot fly. Man soars like a cinder block. As they streaked towards the earth, my stomach went into a Cathy Rigby routine.

Their chutes popped open 1000 feet above a local tortilla factory.

“Far out!” yelled Brock, which would not exactly have been my choice of words. We entered the building. Four grown men in lycra lay on mechanics creepers (large skateboards) rolling around the floor into different freefall positions. They’d hold hands, then spin around and grab each other’s feet. I was starting to feel extremely uneasy about this sport. A group of pre-pubescent juvenile delinquents were busy repacking parachutes. I looked closely for signs of drug abuse. A Far Side cartoon said, “Although he was nervous about his first parachute jump, Roland knew nothing could go wrong as long as he had his lucky anvil.” We approached the head office and introduced ourselves as the Flying Swine, Crested Butte Chapter. He seemed unimpressed.

“Be here at 10:00 in the morn with $85 apiece ... cash,” he snapped. I had the feeling this was going to be a very special

vacation.         

to be continued

 

When pigs fly: Part 5

by Steve Church

 

“Going down, Mr. Church?”

- Stomach

It was a particularly beautiful morning, the sky was vibrant, birds chirped, the waitresses smiled. It was especially good to be alive, it was Jump Day.

The other Swine and myself were attacking the breakfast buffet on the Sheraton’s veranda when a malarial-looking Roy approached. “Did the Governor call?” Roy quavered. Brock then informed us that Roy had first gotten up at 4:00. Since that time, he had showered four times and shaved seven different times. KilIRoy Kastning could not wait much longer.

Then a funny thing happened on the way to the airstrip. The weather fell apart. An apocalyptic black cloud spewing sheets a rain and king fingers of lightening was charging its way across the desert, headed directly for the Marana School of Skydiving. Bad omen, I mumbled to myself.

The school was a beehive of activity birdpeople of every size and age jammed themselves into lycra jumpsuits and Marquis de Sade-type harnesses. My fellow Swine had opted for the full jump class, 5-10 static line jumps (the chute opens on its own in the event the student is paralyzed with fear), then a horrifying 10-second free-fall when one pulls his own ripcord.

I personally knew deep in my heart this was not a sport I would have a buming passion for. I chose what they call a tandem free-fall, an exciting little event whereby the hapless student dives from a plane at 12,000 feet without a parachute. As weird as this may sound, the student is wearing an instructor and he’s wearing the parachute. This way, the first-time jumper can experience the “thrill” of free fall without actually understanding anything about the sport. Perfect for me. I inquired whether I could just set in on my fellow Swines’ class, strictly journalistic interest. Not without coughing up another 85 bucks, they informed me. As this was about double what my editor was paying for the entire story, I declined.

The Swine entered class; I went outside to await my turn at the tandem free-fall. The desert storm had hit, turning the Marana School of Skydiving into a war zone. Rain pounded on the metal roof, 25-knot winds blasted sand and litter through the air. The wind socks stood straight out, as if dipped in epoxy. Student paratroopers, dangling like pork sausages, were being blown into the distance, diappearing in sheets of rain. Experienced jumpers were cavorting against the blackening clouds. Lightening bolts shattered the sky as they fought the wind, desperately trying to land at least north of the Mexican border. A terrified, librarian-looking woman landed 20 feet from me. A tremendous amount of relief had just crossed her face when suddenly her chute filled with wind and off she went, straight up in the air, diappearing into the dusty horizon. Other students were being dragged face down across the cactus-infested desert. A Cessna pilot’s voice was broadcasting over the loudspeakers: “Base!! BASE!! The Furs hitting the fan up here!! Should I release the jumpers?? SHOULD I RELEASE??” The radio man came streaking out of his office, looked at the chaotic scene and raced back to his radio,

“GO AROUND!! GO AROUND!!” blasted over the speakers.

It was then when I noticed a tandem jump land. The student, dangling in front, smashed into the

ground. His instructor, safely. perched on the student’s back, whooped in delight as they were dragged 50 feet on the student’s face. Suddenly someone slapped me on the back and screamed in my ear, “READY?”

“Isn’t it a bit breezy?” I asked the orangutan-sized instructor.

“Borderline,” he offered.

“I’m Leroy, your instructor. Follow me, you’ve gotta watch an introductory film before you jump,” he started off.

“Ah, Leroy, aren’t you kinda ...uh...small to be attached to a big fat guy like me?”

I knew immediately I’d made a horrible mistake. He spun around to face me and growled,

“We put ‘small’ guys like me on fat guys like you so there’s less weight. so the parachute doesn’t blow apart

“Good idea” ... this was a situation that hadn’t even occured to me.

Leroy, without a word, sat me in a locker roon, turned on a TV video and left. A stern-faced serial killer appeared on the screen.

“What you are about to do, the Tandem Parachute Jump, is not sanctioned by the American Parachute Association or the FAA or anyone else for that matter. Why? Because you’re out of a plane without a parachute on! That’s why.” For 20 minutes, he droned on about this sport resulting in injury and death and should not be taken lightly. By the end of the film, I’d pretty much resigned myself to the fact that I’d be killed.

Leroy then led me to an office where I was forced to sign approximately 25 different releases. No—I didn’t have a heart condition; no — I wasn’t high on drugs, or drunk; no — I would not sue no matter what. This was getting extremely discouraging. I was then led to a room and forced to hand over all valuables, watch, wallet, etc. They then jammed me into a jumpsuit and trussed me into a harness that went around the shoulders and between my legs.

“Make sure that’s tight,” offered Leroy. “We go from 200 m.p.h. to a dead stop, so it has to be comfortable.”

Comfortable is not a word that I would have used when describing a 200-m.p.h.-to-0 stop all absorbed by one’s crotch. A leather helmet and plastic goggles completed the ensemble. Looking in the mirror I looked as aerodynamic as a cucumber. The other Swine had emerged from class and were about to enter Phase 3, the phase in which they keep your money, the phase when they tell you about the 20-30 malfunctions that can occur — inconveniences, as they’re called. They laughed at me and offered words of discouragement I was led to an ancient Cessna. My mind could still not grasp the fact we were actually going through with this. Consequently, I was not responding well to my surroundings.

“NERVOUS?” the adolescent pilot yelled over the engine.

“BLFUNFTR,” I yelled back.

“Wait till I open the door, that’s when the butterflies come in!!” he howled.

Was that a joke? I couldn’t tell...It didn’t seem very funny...

Then I noticed the only gauge in the stripped Cessna — the gas gauge - vibrated violently on E. The kid saw me gaping at it ... “Fuel’s too much weight!!” he shouted. The fact that I was the only one in this flying bucket of bolts without a parachute seemed inconsequential by this time.

The earth dropped away; I triad to conjure up scenes from Little House on the Prairie. Finally, the 12-year-old pilot yelled, “HERE WE ARE!!” and threw open the door. A howling. freezing wind hitme in the face. Leroy pointed to the door. crawled to the shrieking opening. Leroy climbed onto by back and buckled himself on. “READY??” he screamed in my ear an incredibly stupid question given the situation.

“FLLHOIBTY!!” I yelled back, mesmerized by the earth 12,000 feet below. I shut my eyes and we dove into space.

As we hurtled toward earth, a pizza-sized drag chute deployed, causing a slight tug. This chute keeps the tandem jumpers flat and level and keeps their speed at a “reasonable” 200 mph; any faster the main chute would blow apart upon opening. I opened my eyes. The earth was spinning towards us, the wind was increasing rapidly from a howl to a jet engine scream. Within seconds, it would become unbearable. The goggles were being pressed into my face (it surely would take a plastic surgeon to remove them). My face was now taking on a splitting wedge effect, with cheeks pushed back below the ears and my two front teeth the leading edge of a 200-m.p.h., 350-pound hurtling mass of humanity. We had become a “meat”eorite. I was seconds away from blacking out — the noise, the pressure —when suddenly we stopped accelerating. It had taken 10 seconds to reach terminal velocity and we now were going so fast a cushion of air had formed under us; like lying on a waterbed, the air suddenly had texture! The monkey on my back locked arms and legs with me. We dipped our right arm and raised our left, swooping down and right like a jet fighter. Then to the left, screaming into a spiral towards the earth. WE WERE FLYING!!! Straight down mind you, but flying nevertheless. Now another dilemma surfaced; my ears were exploding every three seconds with the rapid change of altitude. Having broken both eardrums in prior fish pursuits, the thought of a reoccurence dismayed me. I opened my mouth to clear the ears; my cheeks inflated like Dizzy Gillespie’s. For 20 more long seconds we tore about the sky, my mind trying to cope with the rush. Suddenly another horrifying possibility arose: what if the chute opened and I just continued without it. After all, I knew Leroy wasn’t crazy about.... I felt a slight tug then... KABOOM!!! We came to a dead stop.

“AAYYIUYIA,” was knocked from me, a primal scream, an escaping rush of relief, a blowing out of cobwebs.

“How’d ya like that?” Leroy asked in the sudden silence.

“AYYIAIBLA.” It was no use, my mind had been blown... and so had my jumpsuit. It seemed that the stop had been so abrupt my stomach had continued on, blowing he suit’s zippers into shreds.

“I’m going to release a couple pins back here, don’t panic,” said Leroy I suddenly swung forward, connected only by the shoulders.

Mexican Thanksgiving

Note: The names have not been changed, as there are no innocent. However, tiny infractions of fact may have occured due to translation. Feel free to sue...

The door opened wide on Mexicana flight 916, a sultry wave of Mazatlan’s full-bodied air washed over us. After the frozen sterility of Colorado, this air was  a compost heap of tantilizing aromas. The flight fom Denver had been a little over two hours and had transported us to an entirely new world. Our snow-weary eyes consumed palm trees and bouganvilla with greed, our highly-sensitized noses were being bombarded with the Third World. Emissions, Vegetation, fermentation, perculations, pollinations, urination...life.

The Three Amigos had landed.

The customs official eyed us without suspicion...sad really...must be getting old.

“Push the button, por favor,” he directed.

I pushed a paint-peeled button, a green traffic light said go.

“Go,” the official said.

I assume, if you’re together enough to push a button, you’re in control enough to enter Mexico, a country where the drinking age is 1, and there is a lovely lack of rules.

We enlisted a cab, and headed to town. The trunk flew open at 60 mph. “No problem,” yelled the cabbie, between bursts of volatile name-calling at fellow motorists. We sped up past the prison.

“University of Mazatlan,” offered the driver, while throwing an universal obscene gesture at the offending donkey cart.

We arrived at the Torres Mazatlan, a lush beach-front resort in which Joe Rous had maintained a condo for the past 12 years.

The staff greeted him with great affection, inquiring about Cathy and Jessie. Joe introduced Rob Quint and myself, as temporary roommates until the arrival of his wife and daughter. The Mexicans are very family oriented and it was obvious they had their doubts about this whole Tres Amigos stuff. A burly life guard approached Joe, who introduced him as Jesus.

Jesus had saved over a dozen lives on the beaches of Mazatlan over the years, and is somewhat of a celebrity.

“What can I do for you, Jose?” asks Jesus.

“We’re after Marlin, we need a boat, amigo,” said Joe.

“Done,” said Jesus, turned and strutted away.

The back of his shirt said, “Jesus Saves.”

Early next morning, we headed to the marketplace. The normally-nocturnal Rob Quint was dangerously confused at this unholy hour, but the early bird gets the bean in Mexico.

Mazatlan, in the state of Sinaloa, reaps the benefit of being in one of the most agriculturally productive states in Mexico.

It also happens to sit at the point that the warm waters of the Pacific hit the cold currents of the Bay of California. This provides an ideal nvircmment for billions of

dinner for millions of exotic fishes. Which, in turn, provides dinner for Mazatlan’s 468,453 (approximately) inhabitants. You’d be hard pressed to fled a marketplace anywhere in the world with the freshness and

variety of Mazatlan’s. Huge red snappers lay flapping their tails and gasping for au~, attesting to the freshness of the catch. Tubs of shrimp, crabs, octopus and shark lined the floor.

“Try the blowfish sandwich,” offered Joe.

“Blowfish, isn’t that poisonous?” I asked.

“They have a special way of preparing it.”

“I’ll pass.”

Great hunks of beef, horse-meat, goatmeat and pigmeat hung from hooks. “Put Some Pork on Your Fork,” the sign read.

Mangos, oranges, bananas and limes were piled to the ceiling.

Dark-eyed mothers balanced their fat, brown babies in fruit scales in a daily weight gain competition. Each stall was a family-run operation, with three and four generations represented.

The young men strutted as the girls giggled. Mexican girls are extremely feminine, which in turn puts the “macho” in the men.

We returned to the condo to be greeted by Jesus and a smiling accomplice. “Amigos, meet the finest boatman in Mazatlan, Gabriel.”

“Sit,” commanded Gabriel. We sat.

“So, chew want to go fitching,” began Gabriel. “I have the finest boat in the fleet.” He carefully extracted a dog-eared photo of a fishing boat and gingerly handed it to us as if it were the Mona Lisa. “The Venus, $240 per day, chew guys look bery, bery good in dis boat,” Gabriel frothed the air with his hands.

“Dis bery good price for dat boat,” offered Jesus.

“I don’t think we need a good-looking boat. We need a fast boat,” said Joe. It was 25 miles offshore before you even started fishing.

“Oh, Meester Joe, a fast boat gonna cost chew more money”

“How much more?”

“How fast chew wanna go?”

“Does this boat have a fish finder?” asked Rob.

“FITCH FINDER!!” Gabriel leaped to his feet. “RADAR?? Chew want radar, chew gotta go fitching with the US Navy. Chew don’t need no stinking fitch finder, why?, ‘cause your captain he bery, bery smart, I mean, don’t talk to him about Bill Clinton or nothing, but chew wanna talk about fitches, he knows all fitches, beeg ones

“You buy the beer?” asked Rob, “and we’ll give you $190.”

Gabriel grabbed his heart as if Rob had thrust an ice pick in it. “Dat bery good price for dat boat,” Jesus said to no one in particular. “I provide cooler and ice.”

“How big is the cooler?”

“Beeg.”

“You buy lunch, Gabriel, we’ll give you $200.”

“AAYYYIIIEE!!” Gabriel screamed and sweated, squirming under the sound financial beating the Three Amigos were inflicting on him.

We finally agreed on $200, we buy the beer... a good price, according to Jesus. Gabriel slumped down the beach, we retired to the shade of the palm tree (poor man’s sunsaeen).

“I like it when the shadows cross your eyelids,” mumbled Joe, “you know you’re not dead.”

“Jose!! Como esta?” a portly vendor approached. “Chew wanna go fishing?” He held up a photo of the Venus.

“Domingo!! Como esta?” Joe sat up. “How much?”

“$160. I buy the beer,” grinned Domingo.

“Jesus? Gabriel? Domingo?? Palm trees?? Maybe we were dead...”

 

To be continued...

 

Thanksgiving in Mexico, Part3

by Steve Church

 

“You won’t find any damn gringos down here,” said Joe, as we stepped over a blind beggar, into a slippery pile of what I hoped were rotten bananas. It was authentic Mexican food night and Ihad no doubt in my mindJoe was right about the other gringos as he led us through the narrow dark maze that is old Mazatlan. Seventeenth century lxii-conies looked down on the bustling night street scene. Naked kids wrestled in dirt alleys; third world dogs, all mange and ribs, sniffed the gutters. Huge smoke-belching buses, their massive grills adorned with lights, crucifixes, dingle balls and dice, wove impossible bulk through minute spaces. Old men played sedate dominos, as old women strolled with available daughters. Metal tables, chairs and food stands lined the sidewalk.

“Here, try this, it’s delicious,” Joe would offer.

“What the hell is it?” I’d counter.

“I’ll eat it, you wimp, I love these things,” Rob would stuff whatever it was in his mouth.

We stepped through a hole in the wall into what appeared to be a Bolivian prison cell. A fly-spotted chalkboard menu was the sole adornment. An elderly sefiora waddled from the “kitchen” (a huge frying pan over an open fire in a dirt courtyard); “dinner” was clucking, scratching for bugs in the corner. It was authentic all right, but Joe made me swear not to divulge the name, in hopes those “damn yuppies” won’t discover it. I personally think he has little to fear. Joe ordered the entire menu. She waddled off to catch it.

“Now we go to another place to get the beer,” he said and started 6ff. We came to another hole in the wall, a swinging door askew. The blasts from an extremely loud and disjointed Marachi band, accompanied by berserk screams, erupted from the opening.

“This is where we die,” Rob and I said. We stepped in.

Picture, if you will, Kochevar’s Bar with 20 patrons in it, only the male patrons are wear ing lipstick atid earrings, and the females sport mustachios. Now picture, if you will, a sweating, swaying, 20-piece Marachi band lined up directly behind the 20 patrons, their beaten, tarnished horns blasting at head level and not two feet away. Everyone was hammered. It looked like a Fellini movie. I was totally smitten by th enthusiastic if not chaotic band (ii was a musical train crash).

It was a wonderful night a we out bravadoed each other wit] exotic food and drink. Authentic Mexican food night.

or gringo row. When I had last visited Mazatlan 20 years prior, there had been one tourist resort, the stunning Camino Real.

It now sits in the center of five miles of lavish hotels, every one more impressive than the last. The El Cid, for instance, has a pool that winds for 1.4 miles under waterfalls and buildings, around islands and bars. The beach was a carnival of watersport and craft venders. Gringos baked in the sun, desperately trying to brown, Mexicans sat in the shade, coveting lighter skin. The gringos spoke Spanish, Mexicans spoke English. The results were Spanglish, a language neither understood. I approached a jet ski vendor,

“Como esta, amigo?” I demonstrated my command of the lingo.

“Why, I’m fine, thank you, and yourself?” he answered. I hate that.

“Cuanto cuesto esto?” I pointed at the jet ski, sounding like the village idiot. “That particular machine, sir, rents for $15 per half hour; have you ever ridden one before?” The guy was getting on my nerves. “Si, si amigo,” I lied, “a snowmobile, lo mismo.”

He was not sure what a snowmobile was, but he was sure it wasn’t the same as a jet ski. “I’ll ride alongside, till you get the hang of it, it’s very rough today.”

I tore out to sea and immediately lost control. A little rough? The machine would explode from a five-foot wave, soar through the air, me flapping behind like dirty laundry. It would crash into the trough, I’d crash into the machine... hard. It was exactly like being tied to a mechanical bull, stuck on high speed, with someone throwing 25 gallons of seawater in your face every two seconds. I was getting pummeled. The instructor was frantically gesturing; I headed towards him. It was my intention to race toward him, putting on the skids and gently sliding alongside his machine. I guess I was 10 feet away, still going like a Texan on ice, when we both realized that wouldn’t happen. The wave under my machine lifted me high above the horrified instructor. He screamed and jumped into the ocean, as I came crashing down onto his machine.

Fortunately, I came down directly on the other machine’s seat, sparing major damage. The instructor came out of the water like a soaked cat. “Do you know what happens if you crack the hull on these?” he screamed. “THEY SINK!! You stupid, crazy gringo, you could have killed us both.” He ranted and raved all the way to shore... in perfect English. I needed a beer. We lay in the shade in a place called Joe’s Oyster Bar. It was a manly place full of manly men doing manly things. Guys were chugging beer, then doing furious chin-ups, guys were arm wrestling, what looked to be a platoon of Marines played volleyball and did pushups... simultaneously.

Rob and I lay in the center of this testosterone frenzy, like beached Beluga whales. Piles of Pacifico bottles surrounded us, a compost heap of tortillas and shrimp carcasses engulfed us. It looked as if two garbage barges had collided.

“May I join you boys?”

We looked up at a dark-eyed Latin beauty.

“PHHLLEB ... US??? Of all the guys in this place, you wanna join us?” Unless she was blind or a nurse, this didn’t make sense.

“I hate ‘macho’ men, that’s why I chose you guys.”

Her name was Laura, she was from Chicago, in Mexico with her parents. She was bored, she was Italian.

We watched the sun sink into the sea, Laura, Rob and me. I asked if she’d care to join us for dinner, not wanting to leave the poor dear in this den of testosterone.

Joe was preparing garlic shrimp and ceviche upon our arrival.

We set a table in the sand under a moonlit palm.

“So what are you guys doing down here?” Laura inquired.

“Well, we’re on assignment, doing a story on Marlin fishing for the Crested Butte Chronicle & Pilot.” That sounded pretty good, I thought to myself.

“Never heard of it, you guys aren’t actually going to kill one of those beautiful fish, are you?”

“Of course not, strictly

catch and release. Too bad, though...”

“What’s that?” she asked. “Well, we’re down doing a story on Marlin and we won’t have the proof.”

“Nobody believes a thing you write anyway, Church,” offered Joe.

“Still, Joe, we need a story, we need to catch something... something like a... mermaid!!... yeah, ‘The Three Amigos Land Mermaid in Mazatlan’... now that would be a story

“I’d do that,” said Laura. “You’d hang from a meathook in Mazatlan’s harbor?” I was just kidding.

“Sure, why not?” she said. The Three Amigos stared at each other, greasy wheels turning “I’ll bet you $50 you won

do it,” said Joe.

-To be continued