With an unwavering voice and steady eye, Dr. Reza Neil spoke
across his desk saying,
”
Mr. O’Neill, you have cancer. You have had it for some time.
”
With an unwavering voice and steady eye, Dr. Reza Neil spoke across his desk saying, “Mr. O’Neill, you have cancer. You have had it for some time.”
Sitting forward, I looked at the detailed picture on the desk and asked what he proposed.
“A delicate operation,” he said. “Your prostate gland must be removed. That requires three weeks to store a quantity of your blood. We can schedule for early February. Is there a problem?”
“Yes. My friend and I are prepared for a two-week trip to the Bay of Whales in Baja, California.”
“Please note that I hesitate,” Dr. Neil said. “But I think you should go. Call when you return.”
As I entered the house, my wife motioned me to the phone. “Bud King,” she said.
“Hey, man,” I said. “I got troubles, but it’s all systems go. Let’s leave at six in the morning.”
We drove the three-fourths ton, 1971 Ford pickup with an Alaskan camper down the back road to Coalinga and were in Bakersfield by 11:30 a.m. After refueling the truck, we crossed the great, scenic Tahacipie Mountains and had a late lunch in Mohave.
By nightfall, we were bedded down in a lonely campground nine miles from the Tacate border where coyotes howled past midnight.
The road from Tacate to Ensenada is paved but narrow and twists for all its 65 miles. After traveling it, we needed to stretch so drove to the wharf and had Pismo Clam cocktails, the very finest.
We wanted to make the 160 miles to El Rosario by dusk. That was a hard drive for a plodding old camper on an imperfect road. ‘Twas close but we did it. The only business there belonged to Mrs. Espinoza, an Italian-Indian lady whom I knew from earlier trips.
She had a gas pump, a lunchroom and some cabins. She was a keen and gracious lady. We availed ourselves of her three products: gasoline, lobster supper, good night’s sleep, eggs and abalone breakfast with instant coffee. Nothing fancy.
The distance to Scammon’s Lagoon was now about 230 miles. We determined to leave about 50 of it so we could be with the whales in early morning.
The road flared eastward away from the coastal hills. The air grew warmer. Desert vegetation flooded the landscape: caroons, boogums, elephant trees, yuccas and agaves – the plant that dreams are made of.
As the day ebbed toward dusk and vision blurred, we noticed where the land slopped away from the road toward a little creek. As if by instinct, Bud King coasted to a level spot and shut down the engine.
I jacked up the camper, went inside and fixed a double Jose Querva with ice and soda. Bud, who was on the wagon, said, “Give me room. I’m going to prepare the best pot of Dinty Moore stew you’ve ever eaten.”
He did, too. He added onions and hot chilies to it. Geez!
Jose Querva and I inspected the little stream which nourished a variety of flora plus frogs and odd insects. Its smooth, bright rocks gave it an eternal aura. What a quiet, peaceful place.
The approach to scammon’s Lagoon was a curving alley through white sand dunes. An ubiquitous fog hung above the placid waters allowing shafts of sunlight to penetrate in an odd and eery fashion.
A number of Americanos were milling around with cameras and binoculars, but I think to little avail. We went onto a dock where a narrow boat with three double seats was moored. We went down a ramp and were invited aboard by the pilot. Three others had preceded us.
A quiet motor pushed us through calm waters in a westerly directions. Soon, we began to see whales floating at rest with little showing above the surface.
Disappointing at first, but as we moved into OJO De Liebre Lagoon, we saw grey whales at play, breaking the surface with fantastic power and returning to it in a roar of terrible turbulence. We watched the sport of giants for more than an hour. At times, shafts of sunlight through the fog created rainbows on the crests of splashes.
Historical note; Captain Charles Scammon, a whaler, discovered the lagoon in the mid-1800s and returned annually to his private trove.
Eventually, other whalers found the lagoon and nearly wiped out the species. Finally, the governments of Mexico and the United States put restrictions on whaling and made the California Grey Whale a protected species.
Bud King is a big-rig cowboy so I told him to get us back on the road. Being low on fuel, we must drive into Guerro Negro. He did it with skill, taking a private road through the largest salt company in the world.
Meeting no obstructions like an armed guard, we slithered into town and parked at a gas station. The beads on my forehead were sweat.
There was a fine seafood restaurant near the crossroad leading out. Needing a tranquilizer, I ordered a Jose Querva and coke. Fried clams were on the menu, our favorite.
What an excellent meal to begin the trip home, which was without incident. Ready for the scalpel now.
Gene O’Neill is a Hollister resident and contributes regularly to the Free Lance.
