Don Francsico (October 1, 1970) Page 6 Continuing...

We repeated the process. I became exhausted as much from cranking as watching the exertions of the old man. The poor man might have a heart attack. Jesus, that's all we needed, but he didn't even seem to be tiring.  Another fifteen minutes transpired working on the second tire, and we were ready.  "Remember, back the car up first.  Get the tires firmly on the laminas; then go forward.”

“OK?" "OK!”

I got into the car and obeyed my orders.  I went backwards just a little so that the front tires too were resting on the hard surface of the two short laminas he had placed behind the front tires.  I then put the car in forward, accelerated firmly but gently and off I went back on to the main road at last.

Finished at last I thought. Uh-Uh! Don Francisco didn’t think I could get out backing up so now we had to turn the car around on a path with the width less than the length of my Japanese car. During the next forty five minutes Don Francisco continued in command.

"Straighten the wheels.  Back.  Ayy. Corajo.  No. No. No. Straighten your wheels, now go slowly." The lamina slipped out and the back wheels began whirring.

"Stop! Stop! He yelled. He shook his head despairingly and shouted' very audibly: "Hija de puta. Hija de la chingada madre." (Daughter of a whore. Daughter of the fucking whore.)  A steady stream of curses followed each setback in our progress of turning the car around. He took the lamina and slammed it into the tire.  He stopped for a minute to look at his hand. Sure enough, he finally cut it on the rusted piece of metal. Pat yelled to come out and help him. He wiped off the blood on his shirt, and began shoving the lamina again under the tire.

"Get back into the car. Go slow. That's it.  Asi es.  Now cramp your wheels."

Pat came over to me and said: "You've got to get out and help him. He's going to die of fatigue.  What are we going to do with his cut?  He might come down with tetanus."

I got out but no sooner did I come out to help him fix the lamina when he was on the other side shoving it in place and yelling at me to get back into the car. Well, if the man had lived so long and was in such condition to be only sweating after all his exertions, he must be more than immune to tetanus. He probably was immune to death as well.

Al fin y al cabo.  The car at last was turned around and heading in the right direction. We threw the laminas in the back of the trunk; Don Francisco secured them by tying my half open trunk snugly over them.

We drove off back to the rancho of Don Francisco.  His hovel never seemed so welcome to our eyes.  We drove on past for about a half a mile and down a steep slope to the sandy plain below.  Don Francisco showed us where we could pitch our tent.  The water was not more than two hundred yards away; we could hear the waves lapping on the shore.  I asked Don Francisco if he wanted a ride back up the hill to his house.  No, he would walk back.

We pitched the tent on the long expanse of desert beach. With the tent up, it looked like the headquarters of Lawrence of Arabia.

In reality, it was the last redoubt of an old man homesteading his life at the edge of civilization on a picturesque beach called Punta Estrella—Star Point—in the nowhere evanescent world of peace, solitude and the rugged beauty of nature. 

P.S.  In forty years, the world has changed dramatically.  San Felipe then was a sleepy fishing village with virtually no tourism.  And Punta Estrella was nothing but a sandy beach bordering on the Sea of Cortez.  Forty years later I do not know if he is still alive.  But for Pat and me, this place will always be his: the old man with the milky blue eyes perched above the most beautiful beach in the world.  Long live Don Francisco!