The cab driver frowned.
“Sunday is the worst day to take the ferry to La Paz,” he said mournfully like an undertaker ready to inter the cadaver. “Sunday it’s impossible to get on at the last minute.” Considering we had, in a heroic and highly unusual feat of organization for us, managed to arrive at the port in Topolobampo fully twelve hours before the ship was scheduled to sail, I thought his attitude was corrosive and unnecessary. I cut the van tour short and as he ambled away I turned to my now frowning wife.
“We’re retired,” I said brightly. “ we can book the first available space, maybe in two weeks like the ticket lady said and enjoy the beaches here in the interim.” I was rowing against the tide and Layne remained glum so we settled down to enjoy someone else’s misery as a young Inspector Morse got hung out to dry as his colleagues stuck numerous knives in his back. A misery shared is a misery halved.
Rusty continued to snore in the dust under the postal van parked next to us in the vast spacious ferry parking lot.
It was six o’clock when a nice lady in a high viz vest knocked on the open side door. They had promised to call if they found room but she showed up in person presumably to deliver the bad news which seemed rampant around the docks.
“We have room. The ship loads at seven. Be there.” I scrambled to get myself in order to run (at my age! at my girth!!) to get the precious ticket. I’m pretty sure someone felt sorry for us after watching us wait patiently all day, because they only charged us 4,750 pesos (US$263 approx) for our trip. I had expected three times that. I handed over my Visa card with joy in my heart.
I don’t want to say I ever exceed Mexican speed limits but it’s possible I was driving faster than the 10 kph speed limit on the docks as we fell over ourselves to get in the all important loading line.
Seven o’clock came.
And went. Eight o’clock was the new seven o’clock according to a nice man also wearing a high viz vest who also carried a clipboard denoting High Authority on the dock. He kept checking it off with a yellow Sharpie. He must know what was going on.
Eight o’clock came and went.
A man in greasy orange coveralls came up and we allowed ourselves to hope…
“You can board…” Yay! “…on foot…” Huh? “… and have dinner. We start loading vehicles at ten.” We tip toed through the bowels of the ship we had so far only been able to stare at from the dock. This was where we would park, sleep and be transported to the mystical shores of distant Baja.
Dinner was splendid, chicken stew, rice beans and corn tortillas and I felt myself becoming a rugged, Devil-may-care, Mexican truck driver. No feeble camper van for me, as I munched myself into a macho Walter Mitty fantasy.
Years ago I did get a Teamster job driving large trucks around San Francisco and Silicon Valley, fulfillment of a childhood fantasy. I failed alas to macho myself in that job as you might expect. One night I managed to enrage a real truck driver so badly I found myself running for my life through the pallets waiting to be loaded with him in hot pursuit screaming he was going to kill me, a threat backed up by a large steel bar and a severely crazed look in his bloodshot eyes. I was saved by his cocaine fueled frenzy running him out of stamina before he caught me. After he came out of rehab I gracefully accepted his apology as I was still alive plus it made a good story, a fact I never told him lest that set him off again. I never, even now, drive past the Richmond Ford parts distribution center without thinking of that memorable night.
There was no drama on the Topolobampo docks. I put our recliner out and threw Rusty’s bed next to me. Layne napped in the van. Rusty and I watched the loading process which involved stevedores in specialized tractors grabbing trailers and maneuvering them into the bowels of the ship where we had walked, they at twice the speed of light with much macho revving.
I wished I had been as slick at backing as they were. Then nothing happened for 15 or 20 minutes at a time.
Ten o’clock came.
And went.
I started to get sleepy and took a nap.
“Listo!” Mr Orange Coveralls shouted pointing to the little truck next to us. Then us. The little truck backed up the ramp so I made a circle and checked my mirrors. If they can do it…up we went, backwards. Piece of cake.
If claustrophobia afflicts you this may not be the ship for you. We were wedged in, all of us, trucks parked inches from each other. We went nowhere and slept pretending we were in a Pemex truck stop. The ship left at two am as I was momentarily awakened by the lurch and checked the time. I slept.
Sunshine woke me and I left Layne in bed nursing an aching back put out by a nasty Tope on the road to the docks (I was not speeding! Much).
To get to breakfast I had to figure out a route through the maze. I ducked weaved and tripped and doubled back and found the stairs at last. 
Breakfast was delicious scrambled eggs and beans let down by Nescafé coffee which we mixed individually in styrofoam cups.
The shower. Let us pause for a moment of silence in honor of the perfect stream of hot water in a large, difficult to lock chamber. Aside from the startled interruption by a well built truck driver who winced and pushed the door shut, the shower was prolonged and perfect. I wriggled like a double jointed snake to make my way back to GANNET2, not easy for me, and told Layne, she of the still aching back, breakfast was vile and the shower cold. She made herself a smoothie. I took Rusty for a walk.
He wanted no part of the ferry experience but he enjoys sitting outside so he sat and waited patiently as we chugged to shore. Various lost truck drivers appeared crawling under assorted trailers. I happily showed them the route I had discovered to get to breakfast.
They were as lost as we were.
And then we arrived at 11:30 and the wedge of trucks unraveled in perfect order with no drama and then we were free. Except we weren’t. We drove all over the place in a long line of fierce truckers. First we paused to pay harbor fees.
“Money!” The ticket taker laughed as I dropped our document case and Layne scrambled for 180 pesos. We waited for our official receipt which no one cared to look at on our way out.
Then we had the military inspection. Another line. The Ejercito Mexicano has all sorts of bizarre duties but checking offloaded vehicles has to be their weirdest least appropriate official duty. We got a nice young kid who enjoyed inspecting our home ( I try to cut them short by showing the officials, with great pride, our porta potty in its compartment. They usually recoil in horror and leave in a hurry). He warned us agriculture would confiscate our limes and avocados unless we hid them. “Let’s get out of here,” I said using a rude word for emphasis. I was tired of lines, deadlines, inspections, tickets and documents. The agriculture inspector was asleep in his pick up so we tiptoed by and I thought of those people who first come to Mexico eager to inflict themselves on authority figures unasked. Never volunteer, never be pro-active, go while the going is good is my mantra.
We were in Baja finally and Rusty enjoyed his first walk, in no hurry to pee but rusty to wander off and enjoy the desert.
We sat and looked at the turquoise waters and wondered how we could cram the whole peninsula into the next six weeks before our official documents run out.
