A dreamy voice first thing in the morning told me that Chamula had returned. As much as I had tried not to, I had fallen in love with the captain of a cooperative shrimp trawler, Joven, from Guaymas, Mexico. We put it six months earlier in a small palapa restaurant at the mouth of the Mulegé River. For months, he had had the most incredible experiences. The morning of the dream, my sister and I talked over coffee, and I told him that I really wanted to go out with him on this latest expedition. However, Chamula could not promise when he would return and thought it best not to go. At that moment, Alisabeth’s boyfriend, Marcos, walked through the door, his fierce Indian Yaki face was even brighter today. Seriously, he reported that the Young had been robbed; The crew held at gunpoint by the Mexican mafia!

The story unfolded. Shrimp boats worked at night and rested during the day, the crew got a well-deserved sleep. They had anchored off the coast of Sinaloa, Mexico, and it was then that they were boarded by six armed men. Forced to remove all their clothing, they were thrown into the cellar. They took the 600 kilos of shrimp, their personal effects and money.

We ran to the boat and I will never forget the sight of them: bare-chested, tattered sweatpants, and no hats, squinting to protect themselves from the sun. At the time it would have been difficult to tell the difference between the bandits and the crew. They all seemed really tough. We were told that this was common, because of the wealth that shrimp represented, as valuable as gold, the Mexican mafia regularly took their part. Alisabeth looked at me with big eyes. “You wanted to be on this boat trip.” I looked at Chamula. He nodded. I couldn’t even imagine the horror he would have faced or the likelihood that he would not have returned.

Strong north winds kept the ship grounded for several days. Since the captain and crew were paid according to the amount of shrimp brought in, it was critical to get back to work and make up for the loss. He still couldn’t say goodbye to me and go back to the States, so when he asked if I wanted to go out again, I foolishly said yes. Alisabeth reminded me that it was a “once in a lifetime experience” and we both laughed at the old joke. Back on board, I watched the palm trees recede into the distance and the water catch the last golden rays of the sun; I already had serious doubts about my decision. Chamula had not told me where we were going or how long we would be away. I found him at the helm and that’s when I learned the truth. We would be driving for two days, and the first officer mentioned that we were heading to Sinaloa! What? Chamula timidly affirmed that it was true, he did not want to tell me because he did not want me to return to the United States. We were heading to the coast of Sinaloa, exactly where they had just been robbed!

“Stupid!” I responded angrily, cursing like a Mexican sailor. On deck, I dropped down and leaned back on the salt-encrusted nets. I was in shock. I felt like I had volunteered to be kidnapped. All this because I didn’t have the guts to say goodbye. Well, I had made the decision, and the decision put me here. Done. Now all he could do was stay angry or have an affair. As it was such a small world aboard a ship in the middle of the sea, I thought adventure was the best option.

Chamula followed me. I did not understand how he could put me in danger and I told him. His response was very pragmatic. He assured me that since all the shrimp were gone and the mob knew about it, we would be safe from the threat for a while. The seas began to rise the further south we went. I started taking large doses of Dramamine and went to sleep. When I got up, the waves had turned dark blue with deep channels and white tops. I brought Chamula coffee and asked him if he could show me where we were. I might as well learn something during my trip to hell. He was very happy to see that I did not hold a grudge. In the afternoon we had gone south to Loreto and then southeast across the Gulf for the night. Now we were close to the mainland of Mexico. I sat on the wheelhouse step, took a sip of coffee and watched the whales spit.

At 4:00 pm the roar of the engine fell silent. We moored at the stern of another cooperative ship in the middle of nowhere. Well, I knew we were in the Gulf, but I couldn’t see land. The sea was a constant and relentless movement. Worried, I asked the captain if we weren’t going to get closer to shore. No, he admitted, this was very different from Mulege. It was unlikely that we would see land, because the gulf was so shallow here that ships could anchor right in the middle without any problem. I thought ships might not have a problem, but I certainly did.

The next morning I crawled from the bunk and the movement of the Young Man threw my body against the wall of the cabin. “Shit!” Another storm surge day. I was wondering how many days I could stay drugged and asleep. It was then that I wondered if I could get Chamula to let me off the boat. When I asked him, he said he had a friend in Los Glorious, Sinaloa, who could probably help. And so the captain dropped anchor and we headed for the mainland. I felt horrible for being the reason everything was changing course. My brothers saw him as just another lark, an “adventure” at the time, and if you were a woman trapped in the middle of the gulf, his attitude had a lot going for it.

Once moored at Los Glorious, the wonders of Mexican transportation became clear. Everyone knew the young man and a panga was already coming out. The seas were rough. I literally jumped off the boat into the smaller boat below as they were both thrown. The fisherman driving the boat maneuvered through the breaking waves. And like a surfer, riding the loop, he would stop for a moment and then, at the perfect moment, use the force of the water to propel us forward. We would slide on the force until another wave caught up with us. We take advantage of the impulse to the beach.

After pulling the boat above the tide line, we entered the neighborhood of adobe houses. Chickens and dogs were loose everywhere. We stop for a cold drink in a small shop. The sun was hot and biting. Sitting in the shade of a tree near the Sinaloa River, old friends talked while a lonely gringa watched. In Mexico there was a time to visit and a time to go. You never thought of going when you visited. But when the time came we had to go back to the trawler to collect my belongings. We jumped back into the panga and roared through the mangrove trees, out the open mouth of the Sinaloa River into the crashing waves. The breaking waves hit the bottom of the boat so hard that we had to hold on with both hands to keep from being thrown. I knew Chamula expected me to be scared, but when he looked at me, he was grinning so big that we both must have looked like crazy people. I was “too crazy” for more! And that day I earned the title of “Pirate”.

Back on board the choppy decks of the Young Man, I went in to pack. Chamula wouldn’t let me go alone, so we both went to the beach to meet his friend. We traveled in the back of an open van to the Los Mochis airport. It was a tearful goodbye. My life had changed profoundly in these months. He had lived and loved life fully. However, I had to leave and it hurt. Looking out over the glistening waters of the gulf, I took my journal to keep the memories fresh. Like a giant backbone of ancient volcanic rock, the Baja California peninsula rose out of the water. I slowly closed the newspaper to prepare for the landing in La Paz.