Don Francsico (October 1, 1970) Page 3 Continuing...

"Don Francisco. Don Francisco," I called a little louder. Now it couldn't be later than 7:00 pm; certainly he wasn't asleep yet. A grumble came from the house:

"Quién es?"

"El Americano who was here before," I said.

"What do you want," he complained.

"Lo necesito ayuda.”  I need your help, Don Francisco. I can't get my car out from the sand.  (The word for stuck escaped me; I only wished my car might escape as easily from my predicament.)  The door of the shack opened; in the broad swath of moonlight stood Don Francisco Gutierrez clad only in his undershorts and tee shirt.  He slammed the door shut cursing unintelligibly. He hadn't expected the presence of a lady.  We waited.

Within five minutes the door reopened and out stumbled Don Francisco groggy from sleep and hopping on one foot trying to the obstinate sneaker on the other—without socks of course.  He approached us and I could see the tough wrinkled hands with the large protruding varicose veins grappling with his foot and shoe.  He stomped on the heel and finally got the foot to fit into the sneaker.  In the meantime, his worn blue denim pants were slowly slipping down from his waist. With due haste, he grabbed the two ends of the rope cord and tied them together forcing the large excess of cloth into several irregular, pleats.

I held the lantern throughout the operation so he could see what he was doing.  Now that he was put together, he looked steadfastly up at us.  Two milky blue eyes stared out of the craggy sockets of a magnificently sun burnt face furrowed with the lines of fatigue and old age.  A sparse grizzled stubble covered the hollows in his cheeks. His body was lean and athletic; he could not have been more than 5' 2" in height and his weight, well, I doubt he topped 100 lbs.  As I looked at him, I couldn't help but think that Don Francisco was a veritable apparition of Don Quijote who after so many unsuccessful exploits in Spain, had come to the New World to retire--homesteading on a deserted lonely stretch of beach.

"Pues, que paso?”  he asked again.  I tried to explain again just what had happened. Pico snarled at one of Don Francisco's dogs as it got too close to him.  Don Francisco retaliated by kicking the dog aside and cursing him. The poor dog squealed and ran away with his tail tucked tightly between his legs.

"How far away is your car from here?" he asked. I thought it must be at least a mile since it had taken us close to fifteen minutes to arrive at the shack.  I pointed to the signs at the entrance and waved my hand to indicate that we were on the other side of the arroyo.  He understood.

"Vamos a ver."  We will need a shovel; do you have one?