Reflections in the mind of George Crocker

Our intrepid friend, George Crocker, continues his tale detailing his arrest and subsequent escape from a Mexican jail, describing his journey home along the Baja Peninsula.

March 1, 2013

Crocker and his two new hippy friends launched early the next morning and headed west across the narrow strip of water between the island and the Baja peninsula.  George finally had a chance to enjoy the view, his memory of the previous days at sea nothing but a groggy fog.  He let out a stifled cry when he heard a loud snorting sound behind him, followed by an impossible rain shower on this bright, early spring morning.

“What in the world is that?” George asked.

Pedro pointed off the starboard side of the kayaks.  “Gray whale.  Look at them breaching!”  George cast his eyes in that direction.  It was a beautiful sight, but to George, the beauty was lost in his fear.

“Holy swimming elephant, Batman!”  For the first time since his arrest, George was beginning to feel like, well, George Crocker.  “Dude, where did they come from?”

John laughed loud and long.  “Georgie, the Sea of Cortez is full of them.  Consider yourself lucky.  People will pay big bucks to go out in boats looking for these whales.”  He turned towards Pedro in the other kayak.  “Hey ‘Dro, I think we’re being followed by that one over there.  Check out the notch in his fluke.”

They waited a while before the largest of the pod, a group of maybe five whales, surfaced, snorted out a plume of water and submerged once more, flukes flipping out of the water slowly.  “Yeah, I think you’re right, John.  You know, George, some of the local natives would say that to be followed by whales is good luck.”

George sat in the kayak behind John watching the whales rise and fall, leap and breach.  “What, are you guys, whacko or something?”  He paused for a moment, thought, then continued.  “Never mind.  Don’t answer that.  Don’t you think they could come up beneath us and flip us over?  I hear that in Africa, the hippos will do that and then attack the people in the boat.  Man, I don’t want to be whale chow.”

“Relax, Georgie.  Dude, I’m telling you, it’s all good.  You didn’t even know they were there before we got to the island and all was good.”

George just turned and stared at them.  “Listen, Captain Ahab, I have no intention of having ol’ Moby Dick over there eat me up like I’m Pinocchio or something.  Let’s hit that beach over there for a bit.”

Pedro and John tried their best to reassure George that it was “all cool, dude”, but Crocker was adamant, so they angled towards the shoreline and came ashore.  By now, it was midday, and John started a small fire to cook up some of the sierra they had caught while watching the whales that morning.

After lunch, it was decided that they would part ways.  Crocker had no intention of getting back into the kayaks as long as the whales were out there.  Pedro gave George some more sierra for dinner and pulled out his map while John killed the fire and repacked the kayaks.  “So if you head north,” he pointed up the beach to be clear, “you should come to a small village called Los Burros.  You might be able to catch a ride there.”

“If not,” John chimed in, “just keep the sea to your right.  Eventually you’ll come to San Felipe, and then it’s a short ride to the border.  But dude,” he stood and walked over to George, “whatever you do, be sure not to go to Mexicali.  Walking across the border there is rough.  Go to San Luis Rio Colorado.  They’re real lax there.  That’s what we plan on doing.”

The three said their goodbyes and parted ways, Pedro and John heading out to sea and the breaching whales and Crocker going north along the shoreline alone… but not for long.

George didn’t travel very far – perhaps two, maybe three hours – when he came across a young man fishing alone on the beach.  Not far from him, a car pulled out onto the beach, a convertible with the top down.  George was never too into cars as a kid; he was all about baseball, of course, but he knows enough to realize that it’s a “totally sweet ride”.  “What’s it? A Chevy?  Late 60s?”  The kid – George realized as he got closer that he was really just a kid – looked up and saw George approaching.  He was fairly tall, thin, with a ball cap perched on his head.  Just as he opened his mouth to call out, George noticed that it was a Duluth Warriors cap.

“Hey!” the kid shouted.  Then, as George got within “sand throwing” distance, the kid’s eyes opened a little wider and a small smile spread across his face.  “What took you so long, George?”

Crocker stopped dead in his tracks.  He’d been through a lot over the past two and a half weeks, but to suddenly have this person call him by his name?  Why, he didn’t remember taking any “Hay Hootee” today, nor last night, for that matter.  “How’d you… I mean… where’d you…”  George shook his head.  “Who are you?”

The kid just stared at George for a moment.  Then he bent down to pick up his fishing gear.  “Give me a hand, will ya?”  He straightened up and looked Crocker straight in the eyes.  “You cover the Sovereign League.  Do you think the Warriors have any chance this season?”

George just stood petrified.  He wished he had stayed with John, Pedro and the gray whales.  “Ah… well… not really?  I mean… come on.  Between Aurora, Crystal Lake, Bakersfield and Tempe, there ain’t much room in the playoff hunt.  That’s not even counting Fargo and Omaha in the Great Lakes…”  George closed his eyes and shook his head again, but when he opened them, the kid was still there.

“Yeah, agreed.  No starting pitching other than Semblano.  I tell ya, you’ll wanna keep an eye out for that kid we got from Aurora, Elmore.  Rule 5 guy we nabbed off of Jersey’s roster?  He’s going to have a breakout season.  Mark my words.”

“Ah, I’m… not so sure about that…?”  George looked around, thinking, “Is this one of those Candid Camera-like shows?”  “Who are you?”

“No matter, but we gotta get you out of here.  You’re heading for trouble if you keep along this path, and that just won’t work for baseball.  You’ve more work to do for the game.”

Crocker just stared at the kid.  “Okay then.  What do you suggest?”

“Well, first we eat.  When it’s dark, we’ll drive west of here.  The cops are waiting north, about ten miles as the crow flies.”

The kid went to his car, “Man, what a sweet ride!” was all George could think when he looked at it.  Soon the kid had a nice fire going and was grilling some fish.  George asked the kid a few questions, but he was quiet and non-responsive, seemingly in a trance.  He stood from his fire, walked to the car, produced a pair of beers from a cooler in the back and headed back towards George.  “Whatcha you call her?” asked Crocker, referring to the car as most men do: in the feminine.

The kid uttered something kind of low but, just as he did, the fire let out a loud “POP!”, partially obscuring what he said.  “That’s nice,” he replied to the kid’s response.  “Fanny.  I like that.”

The rest of the early evening was silent as the kid tended the fire, grilled the fish and produced from “Fanny” some beans and tortillas.  They ate in silence, cleaned up in silence and packed the car up in silence.  All along, the kid was totally preoccupied.  Finally, he got behind the wheel and motioned towards George to get in.  Crocker obliged, not totally sure why, and looked at him.  The kid readjusted the cap on his head, looked at Crocker and said, “José Reyes.”

“José Reyes?” Crocker questioned.

“Yeah, José Reyes.  Smart move by the Borealis.  You’ll see when you get home.  He just needed a good D behind him.”

“Yeah… José Reyes… gotta be better than ‘Pep’.  Where we going?” asked George.

“You’ve got a boat to catch.  Get some shuteye.  You’ll need the rest.”

George nodded, got his phone out, sent a post to his Facebook Wall, then closed his eyes, finding sleep came surprisingly fast.

‎George Crocker 3/1/2013 – Met this fisherman dude who tells me he’s a huge PEBA fan.  Chillin’ on a burrito and a brew.  Loves Duluth, of all teams.  Tells me he can get me on a boat!  I may be home before spring training is over!  Wooo-hooo! Bogota teams will be screaming for George Crocker’s services!

March 5, 2013

“Fanny” lurched as it rode over a particularly rough patch of the dirt road the kid was driving along.  Crocker’s sleeping body rose sharply in the air and then slammed back into the seat, waking the slumbering ex-ballplayer.  “Huh?  Where are we?”

The kid didn’t answer at first, negotiating the dirt road as if he’d been driving it all his life.  Finally, “El Frijol.”

“El Frijol?  Bean Land?  We’re in Bean Land?  What, black beans?  Refried beans?  What do you mean, El Frijol?”

Once more, the kid remained silent at first.  “Strange dude,” Crocker thought to himself.  Then, “Just El Frijol.  We had to change plans.  We were going to Constitución to pick up the highway headed north, but the police are there, so change of plan.  Now we head to Puerto San Carlos.  The boat will be there.”

“So we’re just going to drive across the desert?”  George looked over at the kid.  There was something weird about him.  It was kind of like a quiet confidence about him, as if he knew exactly what was happening.  Spooky.  George longed to be capsized by Monstro on some beach right about now.

“No.”  Then nothing.  “That’s it?” George asked himself.  “You gotta be kidding me, dude!”  The car stopped.

George had no idea how late it was, nor what day it was.  It seemed like just yesterday he boarded a plane with Georgiana for a ballgame in Cabo.  Then, well, his world just kinda imploded.  Now this.  Some whacked-out kid in the middle of nowhere who has come to save George, and why?  Because he has more baseball work to do?  Now it was George’s turn to be lost in thought.

He was jolted from his deep contemplation by a loud whistle.  The kid.  Then the world was awash with lights.  George froze.  “I’ve been set up!” he thought.  He prepared to leap out of the car when the kid spoke.  “No need to run, George.  These are friends.  They’ll take you the rest of the way.”  He got out of the car, walked around the front of “Fanny” and opened the door for George.  “Come on.  My work here is done.”

George got out of the car and looked at the kid, who motioned towards Crocker’s left.  George took three steps and turned, only to find the kid back in the driver’s seat, ready to turn the key.  “Thanks, dude.”  The kid raised his hand and flashed a peace sign at Crocker.  George took another couple of steps and turned once more.  “Dude, what’s your name?”

The kid stared forward for a moment, then shook his head, turned towards George and smiled.  He opened his mouth, just as he started the engine, obscuring the single, two-syllable word that rose from his lips.

“What?” George hollered, but to no avail.  The car’s wheels spun.  It slid and then drove off in a cloud of dust.  George stood there, staring through the dust until it was all gone and all he saw was darkness.  No headlights, no taillights, no nothing.

“Señor…” a voice called to him, and George turned.  “Yeah?”

What followed was lost on Crocker.  Three men appeared with four horses and motioned George up onto one.  Everything they said was in way-to-fast-spoken Spanish.  George had no choice but to follow their pantomimed instructions.

They rode slowly over the next four days, following the contour of the land, staying away from the ridges of the low mountains and hills.  Occasionally one of the riders would ride to the top of a hill and scout the countryside.  Once, they backtracked and took another route.  George guessed by the excited tone of their voices that there were people they didn’t want to see there.

Finally, on the fourth day, as the sun was setting over the Pacific, they climbed a ridge and below them was the deep blue ocean and the town of Puerto San Carlos, complete with the a port and a rather large ship.  “Señor?”  The man who clearly was the leader called George, then waved his hand in the direction of the boat.  George got the message.  “Dos días mas.”  Two more days.  George understood that, as well.  They all dismounted their horses and sat on rocks, waiting for the sun to set.  Crocker reached for his phone, turned it on, saw that he had 25% battery life left, typed out a brief message and turned it off.

George Crocker 3/5/2013 – Man…  my butt hurts!  Get me on a boat, indeed!  We rode horseback up to Puerto San Carlos, where I have to lay low for a few days.  They assure me that there will be no problemo getting on a boat to the States.  They’re not saying where, but do I care?  Hey! That rhymes!  George Crocker, poet master!

‎ March 7, 2013

Los Tres Amigos, as George had come to think of them, led George to a ranch house outside of town.  The building was clearly old.  Its dilapidated state and lack of any repairs suggested that it hadn’t been inhabited in quite some time.  They took turns riding about the surrounding land, keeping watch.  Fortunately for everyone, it was quiet during their two nights there.

It was cool and misty early the second morning at the ranch house before the sun really had even thought of showing itself.  They rode towards town and down to the dock.  Here, a small ramshackle hut with a beat-up “Fishing Charters” sign above it sat dark and silent.  One of the riders hoped down off his horse and looked inside.  George could hear low voices, and then the rider came out and motioned them all into the shack.

Inside were another three men, making it very tight and cozy within.  Unlike the Three Amigos, these three were of some “Asian persuasion”, George thought to himself.  The leader of the Amigos reached into his pocket, brought out an envelope and handed it to one of the others, who opened the letter and read.  His eyes widened a bit.  He reached into his pocket, pulled out a lighter and set the letter on fire.  Whoosh!  It was gone in a matter of moments.  He looked at the Amigos and nodded his head yes.  With that the Amigos turned and left.  Crocker was left behind.

George stood dumbfounded.  He turned as the Amigos left, mouthing something that he couldn’t make out.  Crocker then turned towards his new Asian companions and stared at them for a moment.  Finally, words did come to him.  “Now what?”

“Now,” began the individual who must be the leader because he was doing everything, “we take you home.  Back to Usa.”

A smile slowly spread across George’s face.  For the first time in nearly a month on the run, he felt as if he was going to make it home.  “U.S.A.?  You’re taking me to the U.S.?”

“Yes, we take you to Usa.”

George looked up at the ceiling of the shack, threw his hands upward and did a little jig, as only George Crocker could.  He looked at his companions and reached out to hug and kiss the leader, but he just ducked under George’s attempt at an embrace.  “Come.”

He led the way out of the shack.  The sun was just peeking its head over the foggy horizon.  He walked the length of the dock to an old, sea-worn ship that was about 50 yards long.  When they arrived at the ship, he called out and another man appeared.  They spoke shortly in a language that George did not understand but thought to be Chinese.  The man on the ship motioned George to climb aboard.  “Permission to come aboard, El Capitán?” George called up to the man on the boat.  The group’s leader just put his hand on George’s back and shoved him up the plank.  “Okie dokie, George Croaker can take a hinty-winty!”  With that, he climbed aboard.

The captain led George to the stern, where there were a number of large cargo containers, one of which was still open.  They paused in front of the open one.  George turned and looked confused, but all the captain did was put out his hand, indicating for George to enter the container.

George turned and looked inside.  There was a bed and other amenities that made it look… almost cozy.  George stepped inside for a closer look.  “I guess this’ll do,” he said as he turned towards the captain.  But instead of the captain, he was confronted with the huge, heavy door of the container swinging shut.  George moved towards it, putting his hands out to stop it.  “Hey, what are you…” but the rest of his thought was silenced by the slamming bang of the door.

Once the echoing died down within the container, there was silence.  Darkness, too.  George reached into his pocket, pulled out his phone and turned it on.  It’s light illuminated the space so that George could see a small lamp.  He turned it on and it cast long shadows about the container.  With his phone still out, he hit the Facebook app and typed out a message:

George Crocker 3/7/2013 – Well, that’s it!  Getting on the boat and heading on home!  Whoo-hooo! Weather is really sucky right now, but it’s sunshine in my heart!  U.S.A., here I, George Crocker, come!

Then he turned towards the bed and lay down.  “Well, George Crocker, if this is what it takes to get home for Opening Day, then full steam ahead!”  He folded his arms behind his head and crossed his feet.  Then Crocker began to sing.  “Heigh-ho, heigh-ho, it’s off to work I go.  Here I come, Marky-Mark, on the way, heigh-ho, heigh-ho!”