can take your helicopter and shove it—"
"Wait, Hetta, I'm sorry. It's a radio controlled helicopter. You know, a model airplane."
"Oh."
I was relieved Jenks was still alive. Honest. But as I tossed in my lonely bed—okay, maybe not so lonely, now that a golden retriever manages to take over way more than half of it—I became annoyed.
Jenks was living as a guest of Prince Faoud in Dubai. A Saudi prince who, by the way, was my friend first. Jan and I met him during the aftermath of a hurricane in Magdalena Bay the year before, a doozy of a storm that threatened both our boats, if you can call Golden Odyssey , the prince's two hundred and fifty foot yacht, a boat. Hell, the "little" boat he trails behind his yacht, just in case he wants to go big game fishing, is almost as large as Raymond Johnson .
So, here I was stuck at anchor in a Baja backwater while the two men yucked it up in the lap of luxury, and flew model airplanes that, knowing the prince's extravagant tastes and limitless pocketbook, cost more than my boat.
I stewed all night, then called Jan the next morning to vent. After listening to my rant, she drawled, "Lemme get this straight. You've got your panties in a twist because Jenks is letting you do what you want to do, instead of what he wants you to do, which is go live with him in Dubai in the most luxurious hotel in the world?"
After I hung up on all that logic, I decided to take Po Thang out for a beach party, so we could both cool off. I took a snorkel and fins, along with my light-weight Lycra neck-to-ankle, form-fitting, sea-critter-keeper-offer, bodysuit. It isn't the most flattering piece of clothing I own, and I rarely wear it without a tee shirt to cover up some less than lovely bumps, but Po Thang doesn't notice. He's too happy splashing around and trying to drown me on the occasional pass by putting his front feet on my shoulders and pushing me under. Luckily I'm able to fin him off.
I am the original chicken of the sea, but I love to putter around in shallow water and spy on fish and stuff. Unfortunately, I've been stung, bitten, and generally terrorized by more than one salty threat, and for some reason I think that sheathing myself in a thin layer of Lycra protects me from harm. Not logical, of course, but it works for me.
The water was clear and seventy-eight degrees, just the way I like it. My chosen reef, which was actually more of a pile of rocks, harbors myriad brightly-colored fish, some of them just tiny bright blue streaks, others multi-hued and larger. Itsy bitsy baby octopi, no larger than a fingernail, abound. I was hoping for a seahorse, but didn't get that lucky. Before I knew it, two hours passed and by the time I got back to the boat my outlook had lightened immensely.
I gave both myself and Po Thang a fresh water rinse off, poured a glass of wine, and went out on the sundeck to let my hair air-dry while I determined my next move.
Jan was right: Jenks had invited me to join him in Dubai, but I stubbornly refused because I am stubborn. He says my independence is one of the things that attracted him to me in the first place, although I think he may have rethought that a time or two.
I called Jan back. "I'm pissed off because I'm stupid, and that is really hard to fix."
"So fix it anyhow. Get that boat into a slip, jump a plane, and go."
"I just might. But the truth is, I'd worry about you. After all, there is still that Ishikawa/Lujàn thing."
"I'm touched. Okay, I'll come with you."
"What? You can't. You have to keep my dog. And speaking of which—" I went on to tell her about the GPS tracker chip Craig was shipping for Chino to implant in Po Thang. Somehow Po Thang sensed we were discussing him, and not in a good way, and frowned at me.
I told Jan and she giggled. "I swear, Hetta, that dog understands everything we say."
"Then why doesn't he mind better?"
"Cuz he takes after you."
Spaghetti and meatballs were on the dinner menu, along with a salad,
"Wait, Hetta, I'm sorry. It's a radio controlled helicopter. You know, a model airplane."
"Oh."
I was relieved Jenks was still alive. Honest. But as I tossed in my lonely bed—okay, maybe not so lonely, now that a golden retriever manages to take over way more than half of it—I became annoyed.
Jenks was living as a guest of Prince Faoud in Dubai. A Saudi prince who, by the way, was my friend first. Jan and I met him during the aftermath of a hurricane in Magdalena Bay the year before, a doozy of a storm that threatened both our boats, if you can call Golden Odyssey , the prince's two hundred and fifty foot yacht, a boat. Hell, the "little" boat he trails behind his yacht, just in case he wants to go big game fishing, is almost as large as Raymond Johnson .
So, here I was stuck at anchor in a Baja backwater while the two men yucked it up in the lap of luxury, and flew model airplanes that, knowing the prince's extravagant tastes and limitless pocketbook, cost more than my boat.
I stewed all night, then called Jan the next morning to vent. After listening to my rant, she drawled, "Lemme get this straight. You've got your panties in a twist because Jenks is letting you do what you want to do, instead of what he wants you to do, which is go live with him in Dubai in the most luxurious hotel in the world?"
After I hung up on all that logic, I decided to take Po Thang out for a beach party, so we could both cool off. I took a snorkel and fins, along with my light-weight Lycra neck-to-ankle, form-fitting, sea-critter-keeper-offer, bodysuit. It isn't the most flattering piece of clothing I own, and I rarely wear it without a tee shirt to cover up some less than lovely bumps, but Po Thang doesn't notice. He's too happy splashing around and trying to drown me on the occasional pass by putting his front feet on my shoulders and pushing me under. Luckily I'm able to fin him off.
I am the original chicken of the sea, but I love to putter around in shallow water and spy on fish and stuff. Unfortunately, I've been stung, bitten, and generally terrorized by more than one salty threat, and for some reason I think that sheathing myself in a thin layer of Lycra protects me from harm. Not logical, of course, but it works for me.
The water was clear and seventy-eight degrees, just the way I like it. My chosen reef, which was actually more of a pile of rocks, harbors myriad brightly-colored fish, some of them just tiny bright blue streaks, others multi-hued and larger. Itsy bitsy baby octopi, no larger than a fingernail, abound. I was hoping for a seahorse, but didn't get that lucky. Before I knew it, two hours passed and by the time I got back to the boat my outlook had lightened immensely.
I gave both myself and Po Thang a fresh water rinse off, poured a glass of wine, and went out on the sundeck to let my hair air-dry while I determined my next move.
Jan was right: Jenks had invited me to join him in Dubai, but I stubbornly refused because I am stubborn. He says my independence is one of the things that attracted him to me in the first place, although I think he may have rethought that a time or two.
I called Jan back. "I'm pissed off because I'm stupid, and that is really hard to fix."
"So fix it anyhow. Get that boat into a slip, jump a plane, and go."
"I just might. But the truth is, I'd worry about you. After all, there is still that Ishikawa/Lujàn thing."
"I'm touched. Okay, I'll come with you."
"What? You can't. You have to keep my dog. And speaking of which—" I went on to tell her about the GPS tracker chip Craig was shipping for Chino to implant in Po Thang. Somehow Po Thang sensed we were discussing him, and not in a good way, and frowned at me.
I told Jan and she giggled. "I swear, Hetta, that dog understands everything we say."
"Then why doesn't he mind better?"
"Cuz he takes after you."
Spaghetti and meatballs were on the dinner menu, along with a salad,
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