Dear Reader,
Happy December! We’re still sans snow here in Bozeman, and this week has seen highs in the lower 60s (rumor has it folks are going water skiing instead of snow skiing this weekend). From a convenience standpoint, it’s been more enjoyable than most of our previous five Decembers in Montana, but we’re ready for some snow to fly to bolster the Montana “awful winter” reputation (we need a hard freeze to keep the mosquitoes and Californians at bay - kidding).
Here are a few emails in response to last week’s “My Black Friday Shopping Wish List” post:
“I sort of always knew the world rages on, but these days it seems harder to separate yourself from the rage. I can’t say I’m willing to go alone with all the raging, especially with Jesus in view. Just want to say I appreciate your style and thanks for giving me some lighthearted reading about some raging subjects.”
I get the tension, which is what caused me to write in the first place (truth be told, I had a hard stopping, it was so cathartic). Without humor and hope, we’re dead.
This reader resonated with my request for some profanity-cancelling headphones:
“Profanity is not just ‘more prevalent online and in society.’ At the library last week, I saw several books that used swear words in the titles! Really?! We have to use profanity to sell a book? I’m with you. Our language is so full of wonderful, expressive, and descriptive words that aren’t introduced to our children and don’t even make it onto junior high spelling lists for the week anymore—words that would do way better than profanity at describing anything! It’s painful to read these days.”
It’s been a while since I’ve been to the library, but I’ve seen the same or similar books at our local bookstores. I feel bad for parents and their young kids learning to read as they make their way to the children’s section. I’m sure there are interesting conversations along the way.
Thanks to those who wrote in and shared your thoughts with your fellow readers, many of whom can relate. I’m glad to include your emails and always look forward to hearing from you.
As always, thanks for reading.
Craig
P.S.: As mentioned above, you’re welcome and encouraged to email me directly with feedback, ideas, links, etc. at cmdunham [at] gmail [dot] com. Just know that, unless you specifically tell me not to, I may quote you here (though it will always be anonymously).
Hot Takes
Skipping Hot Takes this week for some more interesting stories below. With regard to Ghislane Maxwell, Jussie Smollett, and the brothers Cuomo, I’ll refrain from dunking on them and trust the process. In the meantime, join me in praying for the Supreme Court to rule in Dobbs vs. Jackson in a way to eventually repeal Roe vs. Wade.
That’s all.
Running (from) Drugs in Sinaloa
As promised (and in response to many positive comments and feedback - writers love that stuff), I thought I’d include another excerpt from the memoir project I’m helping a friend write. The book is tentatively titled, Mako’s World: A Memoir of Calculated Adventures, and having begun in early July, we’re hoping to finish the manuscript by the end of the year.
“Sharky” was the first excerpt I posted back in mid-October while on a long weekend trip to California researching and interviewing. In this week’s offering, I’ve included two separate excerpts - the first from the book’s introduction explaining more about Mako and his name; the second from one of the later chapters chronicling yet another potential life and death story.
Happy reading.
Mako
I used to have a pink tank top from Catalina Island with a big shark mouth emerging out of an airbrushed ocean on the back with text that read, “Mako My Day!”
I loved that shirt.
I remember taking my wife to SeaWorld in San Diego and wearing that shirt when a pelican flying overhead pooped gigantically on my shoulder. My wife will tell you I was more concerned about the shirt than the stuff on my shoulder. My two children—both now in college—grew up hearing the story of that shirt and seeing me wear the faded version of it to their soccer games years later, so “Dad” eventually became “Mako.” To this day, that’s what they—and their friends—call me.
Mako.
A mako shark is the fastest in the seas, clocking up to 31 miles per hour. Very aggressive and with a powerful tail and hydrodynamic nose-down head (the 1961 Corvette was based on the mako’s profile), “Mako Mako” comes from the Maori language, meaning “man eater.” Makos have the persona of being calculated adventurers, going after fish in the open ocean rather than merely cornering seals against the shoreline like a Great White or Tiger shark does.
Makos also tend to swim solo, which is probably why I’ve always admired them. I grew up without a father from the age of 10 and with a mother who was rarely present physically or emotionally for the remainder of my coming-of-age years. And, though I didn’t start out particularly aggressive, I had to learn to be so—whether in junior high or as a junior executive—just to survive.
Makos, of course, live in the ocean, and the ocean has always been a haven and harbor (quite literally) for me. The waves and foam have been a refuge and retreat to which I’ve returned multiple times when my world on land hasn’t always made sense or made nice. The familiar sounds and salty smell are so permanently embedded in my consciousness, even (and often) permeating my dreams.
I’ve never feared the ocean, but that’s only because I’ve always respected it. Growing up and coming of age near and in the water, I never knew a time when I didn’t give the ocean its due, and it has rewarded me accordingly. This is not to say I haven’t had a few close calls, but they have all been ones I walked away from—grateful for the adrenaline rush of the experience, thankful for the lessons learned, and always appreciative of life and the fact that I was still holding onto mine.
As author William Finnegan, who grew up close to where and when I did, wrote in his Pulitzer prize-winning memoir, Barbarian Days: A Surfing Life,
“Waves were the playing field. They were the goal. They were the object of your deepest desire and adoration. At the same time, they were your adversary, your nemesis, even your mortal enemy. The surf was your refuge, your happy hiding place, but it was also hostile wilderness - a dynamic, indifferent world.”
Even today, before I enter the water, I kneel in the sand and say a prayer (to Whom I’m not always sure and still figuring out)—that I would respect the waves and be vital—the latter of which can only happen if the former does.
Having always believed in working hard and playing hard (and making sure the two always go together), in 2008, I planned to go on a surfing trip to Mazatlán in Sinaloa, Mexico. Sinaloa is a Mexican state on the western side that borders the Gulf of California (also known as the Sea of Cortez) and is directly across the gulf from La Paz and Cabo San Lucas. The water is warm (it was 84 degrees when we were there) with good waves, so the area is semi-popular among surfers.
It is also a prime route for Mexican drug cartels moving cocaine from Mexico to La Paz, north through Baja to Tijuana, and into California. In recent years, cartel wars involving shootings and decapitations had increased, with American tourists at times getting caught in the middle. The cartels had so much power that they would actually taunt Mexican authorities (often funded by the United States Drug Enforcement Administration (DEA)) by draping giant sheets across their anti-drug billboards with messages that read, “Send your paper soldiers. We have lots of bullets.”
My wife was not particularly thrilled with the trip idea and issued a reluctant condition: “You can go, but you have to take out two more life insurance policies.” I already had one, but I could tell she was not joking, so I took out two more policies. I also invited my brother Mike to go, as I thought having him along might make her feel better (not to mention that it had been a long while since we had surfed together and I was looking forward to spending time with him). Mike flew down from Seattle and joined our group, which ended up being a UC, Santa Barbara, reunion, and we flew out of LAX to Mazatlán.
Mazatlán
Mexico is a different place from when I was a kid; then, no one really messed with “gringos,” but now Americans are an easy target for extortion. Because I didn’t want to get into trouble and risk indefinite imprisonment—something even the best life insurance policies don’t cover—I had extracted promises three to four times from each member of our group that they would not smoke pot on the trip. All agreed, which made me feel a little bit better as our plane touched down.
We boarded a bus that drove us from the airport through the desert to a remote enclosed compound about an hour north of Mazatlán. Pulling up to the gate, I noticed that the walls were topped with serpentine wire and there were guards out front carrying automatic weapons. The security seemed a little overkill for the lone worn-down brick building within the walls, but I confess I was glad for it.
The first day of surfing at a long left-hand point called Patoles was good, but when we came back to the compound, I was unnerved to see two blue-and-grey-uniformed Federales holding Uzis and having a smoke on the balcony outside our room. Surfing on the second day was even better—especially for Mike, who surfed so well that I couldn’t hang with him—but when we got back to the compound, our room was filled with pot smoke and our travel companions who had broken their promises to abstain. To make matters worse, a giant brick of pot lay on my bed.
I felt panicked. I couldn’t believe my friends had gone back on their word. I went to Malcolm, the coordinator from Orange County who ran the trip, and asked him to have the camp leader, Javier, announce at dinner that there was to be no pot smoking on the premises. Malcolm was reluctant, so I went to see Javier myself.
Built like a fire plug and wearing a tank top shirt, Javier had gold-capped teeth and wore a thick gold chain with a cross around his neck. When I asked him to help me curtail the pot smoking, Javier just smiled and shook his head slowly.
“Señor,” he said in somewhat broken English,” you a very nervous person. You know firearms illegal in Mexico.” He then lifted one side of his tank top and unholstered a nickel-plated .44 revolver and laid it on the table with the barrel pointed directly at me.
“You think I could drive around town if I didn’t own everybody? I own mayor of Mazatlán. I own judges of Mazatlán. I will have the same Federales deliver you a kilo of pot and cocaine tonight.”
That’s when I flipped out.
“I have to go home tomorrow,” I sputtered.
“No,” Javier slowly responded, putting his hand on the revolver still pointed at me. “No, Señor, you think about it.” He then picked up the gun, re-holstered it, smiled, and then turned to walk away.
“I thought about it,” I said. “I have to go home tomorrow.”
But Javier just kept walking, as if I hadn’t made a sound.
Getting Out of Dodge
I started to hatch a plan to leave. The problem was that we had no cell service or even access to a landline, and there was a desert that lay between the compound and the airport. The odds of getting out successfully without a vehicle, dying of thirst, or getting kidnapped were against us, but I had to come up with a plan to try.
I walked back to my room and told Mike what had just happened and that we had to leave first thing the next day. Mike, who is a more experienced traveler in third-world countries than I am because of his work with Honeywell, told me to relax.
“Any trouble is usually just a matter of money,” he said. “I’m not leaving early, but if you want to, this might help.” He then reached into his duffel bag and pulled out a satellite phone.
Dumbfounded, I grabbed the phone and called Alaska Airlines. I bought two tickets—one for Malcolm and one for me—but the problem still remained: how to get to the airport?
The next morning, I went surfing with everyone else to avoid sitting in my room waiting for Federales to deliver more pot or arrest me for not accepting it. Our boat driver was named Jose, and since Malcolm and I still didn’t have a way to the airport, I asked Jose if he had a truck.
“Si,” he said.
“Could you take Malcolm and me to the airport?” I asked.
“Javier won’t like that,” he said.
“Please, Jose,” I pleaded, “I’ll give you a hundred American dollars to take us to the airport.”
He reluctantly agreed.
When we got back to the room, I begged Mike one more time to go with us, but he refused, saying he was having a good time and that I was overreacting. However, just before we left, he said,
“Hey, on Wednesday next week, call my house to see if I made it back.”
“And if you haven’t?” I asked.
“Then send lawyers, guns, and money,” he replied, smiling.
Too Close to Home
Jose drove us to the airport in Mazatlán and we got checked in, which is always tricky with surfboards. Sitting in the waiting area, I started to relax a bit, but then I noticed four Federale cars parked on the tarmac and facing the walkway to our plane. Sitting up in my chair and looking out the window, I began replaying the events of the past 36 hours in my head.
Did Javier let us leave? How else did Jose get out of the camp to drive us? Did Javier plant cocaine in my board bag? Am I an unwitting mule for a drug cartel? Was I about to be arrested? If “any trouble is usually just a matter of money,” as Mike said, how much was this going to cost me?
Thankfully, we boarded the plane without incident and it took off. Though I worried all the way to Los Angeles, we made it through customs without a hitch and my board bag had nothing but surfboards in it. In addition, Mike got home on Wednesday the next week as planned, so all was well.
Three weeks later, however, I received a phone call at my office that turned my blood cold.
“Señor, this is Javier,” the voice on the other end said. “I’m in Long Beach and want to talk about next trip to Sinaloa.”
Javier? How did he get my number? Of course, from the Sinaloa camp paperwork.
“Thought I’d stop by house to get deposit for family to rent in Cardon,” the voice continued.
How did he know where I lived? Same paperwork. He was going to my house!?
“Uh, that’s okay, Javier,” I stammered, reaching for my keys and running down the stairs to beat him home. “Why don’t you come by my office since that’s where I am?”
“No, I meet at your house,” the voice responded.
By now I’m equal parts frantic and manic as I burst through the lobby doors into the parking lot. Calculating in my head the mileage and time of day of the two drives, I knew it was going to be close.
“Oh, and Señor?” the voice said.
“Yes?” I responded, opening the door to my car.
“Gotcha.”
It was Mike impersonating Javier.
Look for Mako’s World: A Memoir of Calculated Adventures to be published in Spring of 2022.
Post(erity): “Go Greyhound”
Each week, I choose a post from the past that seems apropos of something (of course, you’re always welcome to search the archives yourself whenever you like).
The contents of this week’s Post(erity) Post may be familiar to some, as there were literally tens of people following this saga one long weekend in June 2020. The story has six parts - one, two, three, four, five, six - and documents a very memorable bus trip my third daughter, Katie, and I took from Bozeman to Colorado Springs. While we weren’t threatened by drug lord wannabes or concerned about being arrested as narcotics mules, neither would have surprised us by the end of this trip. An excerpt:
“If this was how Greyhound was going to play it, game on. Katie and I got off the bus again along with the other two Denver passengers (Cesar and Antonio - two young Mexican brethren whose English was about as good as our Spanish) and together we formulated a plan. There were four rental car agencies in town, but three were closed on Saturdays; that left local Priceless Rental, which was two miles down the road from the Gillette bus stop/gas station. I asked the Greyhound driver if he could drop us off before turning the other direction and heading for Sioux Falls, but he said he could not deviate from his route, so Katie and I left our stuff with Cesar and Antonio and got our steps in for the day.”
Read all six posts (one, two, three, four, five, six) to relive this epic journey of journeys.
Picture of the Week
Fresh & Random Linkage
“Quest Begins to Drill Antarctica’s Oldest Ice” - I don’t know if these folks have ever seen John Carpenter’s The Thing (the 2011 prequel to which was surprisingly good as well) or watched “Ice,” the eighth episode from the first season of The X-Files, but drilling in Antarctica never seems to end well.
“St. Paul Theater Company to Stage ‘Star Trek’/‘It’s a Wonderful Life’ Mashup, Performed in Klingon” - The show title? “It’s an Honorable Life.” Road trip!
Until next time.
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