Just Add Salt (2) by Jinx Schwartz

into international waters, or way offshore. Much further offshore than we’ll ever be. And,” I waved my hand in the direction of the yacht club, “that bar is home to some of the best sailors in the bay area. They’d jump at the chance for an all expenses paid cruise to Ensenada. We can put ‘em on a plane back here. So, let’s sign this Fabio up, at least, and then figure out how we’re gonna get this tub to Ensenada, okay?”
    “I guess. Why not?” She handed me the phone.
    Several clicks, buzzes and fade-outs later, I heard the distinctive double chirp of an international call.
    “ Bueno ,” a woman’s voice answered. I heard Mariachi music in the background and the clink-clank of glass. Fabio lived in a bar? My kind of guy.
    “Captain Fabio, please. Por favor .”
    “¿ Quien ?”
    “ Capitán , uh,” I looked at his resume, “Fabio Maria Jesus Jose Hernandez, por favor .”
    “ Momentito ,” she said, then bellowed, “Jose! Teléfono .”
    Static followed, then, “ Bueno .”
    “Is this Captain Fabio?”
    “ Sí . Yes, this is I, Capitán Fabio.” Good grief, he did sound a little like a bodice-ripping blonde.
    “This is Hetta Coffey. You talked to my friend a few minutes ago about taking my boat to Cabo?”
    “Yes. You receive my paper?”
    “Uh-huh. Are you familiar with the Californian motor yacht?”
    “Oh, jes. I have drive many. They are fine sheeps.”
    Sheeps? Oh, ships. “And you have no problem with an, uh, unseasonable, cruise?”
    “I do not understand.”
    “You aren’t worried about hurricanes that time of year?”
    “ Señora , it is you boat.”
    He had a point there. If some nutso gringa wanted to take her boat into harm’s way, why should he care? I outlined our plan, telling him we would somehow get the boat to Ensenada so he could take over. When I finished, he asked, “Do you have a fine mechanic for you sheep in Oakland?”
    “Well, not really. Someone was taking care of it, but he, uh, well….” I didn’t know what to say. Left me? Deserted me?
    Fabio saved me the trouble of explaining my lack of fine mechanic. “I will send my cousin. He live in Ah-lah-med-a.”
    “Alameda? Great.” I gave Fabio my location and boat name, and then we discussed his terms. When I hung up I was ecstatic. “Listen to this, Jan. This guy only wants twenty bucks a day, a dollar a mile and a bus ticket back to Ensenada from Cabo. He probably won’t set me back more than a couple of grand. Three at most. What do you think about that?”
    “I think you get what you pay for.”
     
    Cousin Ernesto showed up an hour after I hung up with Fabio, and two hours later he emerged from the engine room. “You know,” he said with little trace of an accent, “this boat is in very good shape. Someone has really given her a going over. I would suggest we change out a few belts, just to be safe. And install an extra set of Racors.”
    “Uh, of course. Go ahead. What do they cost?”
    “Well, it can be as cheap as a hundred for parts, but I don’t think you should cut corners on this one. What happens, if you get in really crappy weather, the fuel gets to sloshing around, stirs up junk from the bottom and plugs up the fuel filters. No fuel, engines quit. Now you’re rocking and rolling because you can’t keep the boat into the swell. And you gotta go down and change filters. It can get pretty ugly. With the system I’d like to install, you just flip a switch to a new bank of filters, the engines start and while you’re heading into the seas, then you change the other set in case it happens again.”
    “Ernesto, you wanna take a boat ride to Mexico?”
    “Nope. I fix ‘em, I don’t ride in ‘em. Get seasick. Sorry.”
    “Too bad, I could use you. Uh, Ernesto, is your cousin, Fabio, an okay guy? I hate to ask, but we are putting our lives, and my boat, in his hands.”
    “I only knew him when I was a kid. His mother is my mother’s second cousin. Never heard anything bad about