Free Just Different Devils by Jinx Schwartz Page B

spines make them hard to handle, so it's easier to pull the stubborn little devils out of their happy homes when you have two people working at it. Her job was to bag the lobster and fend off Po Thang, who thinks anything that moves underwater is fair game.
    The hole was about four feet down and we were only wearing snorkels and masks, making the aquatic creatures far better adapted to escape than us landlubbers are at chasing them. Mother Nature, however, didn't count on sharp spines getting tangled in pantyhose. Must be an evolutionary thing.
    We had a tug of war on our hands, but after ten minutes of working in shifts, Jan jerked a foot-long lobster from it's lair and I bagged it, pantyhose and all.
    Back on our rock we took a breather, put the lobster into a canvas bag instead of our net one. I'd learned the year before not to trail a net bag with lobster and bait behind me when a huge moray shadowed me back to the boat. Well, not all the way back because I shoved the whole danged shebang at the eel and swam for my life. Cowardice runs right strong in these veins.
    Halfway back to Raymond Johnson I heard the unmistakable rumble of a fast moving boat. Jan, also immediately on the alert, herded Po Thang closer to shore and I followed. There have been way too many instances of swimmers run over in the Sea of Cortez; when these pangas are running fast, they aren't always on a plane, and the driver can't see anyone in front of them. And, because we were hugging shore for the most part, we didn't bring the "diver down" red and white float flag with  us.  Dumb and Dumber strike again.
    Sure enough, a large fancy panga with a center cockpit and bimini shade roared by, streaking into the anchorage at a speed absolutely guaranteed to piss off every boater there.
    "Get ready for a wake!" I yelled at Jan. She grabbed Po Thang's harness and hauled him away from the nearby rocks, while I paddled for dear life in the same direction. A three foot wake hit us smack in the face, but at least we weren't whacked into a rock. Spluttering curses, we swam for the boat, only to get buffeted again as the A-hole streaked back out to sea.
    Masts rocked wildly, and even Raymond Johnson, as heavy and stable as she is , rolled in the mess created by the jerk. I never got a good look at the driver, but the panga was light blue, an unusual color, and if I saw it again, I'd recognize it, for sure.
    Back on the boat—we had to tread water until the swim platform settled down enough so we could safely board—we used the outdoor shower for ourselves and Po Thang, then settled down with sandwiches on the flying bridge while listening in on radio conversations, a cruiser pastime. The chatter in the anchorage was light, mostly people complaining about things that fell over when the wake hit them. On a boat, if it can move, it will move, something I always try to remember.
    We were playing a game of Baja Rummy when I heard another motor, and saw a panga streaking for the entrance.  "Oh, hell, here we go again. What's with these guys?"
    "Jerks. Hey, at least this one is slowing down, and it isn't the idiot who came through before. This panga isn't blue."
    As we watched, a white panga slowed and headed straight for us. "Looks like we might have company, Jan me girl," I said as I gathered the cards. I was losing, so the arrival of what I hoped was our guest was timely. Jan waggled the score sheet at me.  "We'll finish this later. No way are you gonna weasel out."
    Rats. Oh, well, at least now maybe our man of mystery would be revealed.
    Po Thang went on point, staring intently at the fancy white super panga headed our way. As a rule, he dislikes the high-end tenders and pangas, favoring rubber dinghies and old skiffs bearing what he perceived as other boaters and, thereby, dog-friendly. Mexicans, he has learned, are wary of him, and he plays that to the hilt, getting his macho in. Now he looked uncertain. He had a momentary tail wag of recognition, then