Tico Times excerpt,
Dedication,
A Chance Encounter
By edRogers
[Reviewed here on the novel’s publication day, October 6, 2018: “Coming soon to a Barnes & Noble store near you?”]
Photo on first page
Excerpt from The Tico Times, a Costa Rican newspaper
Article by David Boddiger, March 19, 2015
Two months after the world meeting on sharks on September 14, 2014, in late November, two companies – Hong Kong-based importer Yue Hing Shark’s Fin & Marine Products Co., Ltd., and Costa Rica-based exporter Inversiones Cruz Z, S.A. – requested a CITES[Convention on International Trade in Endangered Species]-approved permit to export the fins of two hammerhead species, Sphyrna lewini and Sphirna zygaena. In the permit request Inversiones Cruz Z sought to export 411 kilograms of hammerhead shark fins.
Costa Rica’s CITES Council of Scientific Authorities, known by the acronym CRAC-CITES, would normally review and approve or reject such a request. The council is made up of representatives from Costa Rican universities, the Biologists Association, INCOPESCA, the Environment Ministry, conservation groups, and others that serve as advisers on CITES-related issues.
On December 12, Antonio Porras, technical director of the Costa Rican Fisheries Institute, or INCOPESCA, wrote a letter to CRAC-CITES claiming the letter served as a “temporary” NDF [Non-Detriment Finding] to allow the export request to be granted.
The letter stated that documents provided by the exporter “show that the amount to be exported is the product of individuals [hammerhead sharks] captured according to current regulations, and at the same time, the quantities solicited to be exported will not jeopardize the species’ survival.”
But there’s no such thing as a “temporary” NDF under CITES.
Dedication
I dedicate this book to those who go down to the sea and find beauty.
From the very beginning, my motivation in writing this book has been to inform whoever might read it of the horrendous practice of shark finning, which I myself first heard of not long after my wife and I began living in Costa Rica in 2012. I heard of the practice on the occasion of the Costa Rican government’s putting out an arrest warrant on Captain Paul Watson of the Sea Shepherd Conservation Society. The article I read at the time said that “his team had problems with the crew of the fishing boat ‘Varadero 1’ in Guatemalan waters, during an alleged operation against illegal finning.” It was a big deal in Costa Rica for a long time. I watched a video recording of the collision and it was plain to me that the fishing boat hit Watson’s boat, and not the other way around.
At the back of the book is a list of conservation organizations, including Captain Paul Watson’s Sea Shepherd Conservation Society, that are dedicated to protecting sharks. I ask all readers to please help the cause by supporting one or more of these organizations.
As always, thanks to my family for putting up with my time locked within these pages. And thanks to those who care about our oceans, including my wonderful friend and editor, Morris Dean.
A Chance Encounter
The Red Rooster was an old neighborhood bar. It sat on the corner of 24th Avenue and Mable Street. The building had been there since 1921. It got its start as a speakeasy and for a brief time during the second world war it was a whorehouse. After the Texas Rangers closed it down in the early fifties it sat empty until Larry Brown returned from Vietnam and opened it as the bar it had become. It was nothing fancy, just a long bar and three booths and five tables. Larry had added a big screen TV the month before in hopes of bringing in football fans, but Charlie hadn’t noticed much difference in the customer count.
The Red Rooster was Charlie’s normal stop on his way home from work – to an empty apartment – and he had ordered a second rum and Coke, with a lime, when two men, both a little drunk, picked the table next to him to sit down. The three of them were the only customers, so why they picked that table was beyond Charlie’s understanding. The two men ordered beers and continued a conversation that seemed to have been going on for a while. To most people, this wouldn’t seem strange, but the Rooster wasn’t a jumping night spot, and strangers rarely came to the bar, or if they did, they didn’t stay. On some weeknights Charlie had the bar to himself – the way he did before the two men came in.
One of the men – the short, dark-complexioned one – looked to be close to Charlie’s age (33) and maybe Mexican. It was the first time Charlie had seen a Mexican in the bar. It wasn’t that anyone was refused service anymore, but the Rooster wasn’t a place where you’d find a Mexican.The other man looked to be in his forties, maybe 6' or 6'-1", reddish hair, and glasses. They made a strange-looking couple and seemed not to know or care where they were.
Charlie Blankenship had been married once and divorced once. He had no known children. He was 6' tall and still had a full head of light brown hair and a sparkle in his blue eyes. There had been a number of women in and out of his life, but none lasted more than six months. Charlie wasn’t much of a team player. A woman, or a wife, would get tired of his moods and pack up and leave. He didn’t blame them.
Writing seemed to be his only safe place, a place he controlled, not some outside force. His job kept him in better shape than the army had for the five years he had given to his country. He thought of that time as his wasted years. He called himself a writer of books, although he had yet to sell one. Hundreds of queries he had submitted for the couple of books he had written were still outstanding. Who knew but there was always a chance someone would read one of the manuscripts and like it. Or that was what he kept telling himself anyway. Charlie was like many other people – his dreams of success seemed to be always just out of his reach.
He had gone to West Point, like his father and grandfather. He became a Ranger and flew helicopters, but he failed at being a soldier, and his family never forgave him. He had always loved to write, so choosing to become a writer was easy, but he wanted it so bad now that a voice in his head was driving him crazy.
He made a living working nights at an oil terminal out from Port Arthur, Texas. The job paid the bills, and his writing for TV shows and occasional publications in little-read magazines stoked his pride. He had never been asked to come on a talk show and no one knew his name. He was, in fact, like most every other person in the country – living from paycheck to paycheck, hoping to catch a break.
Thinking life had passed him by, he had accepted his fate: no great novel, no book tour, just a job working at the terminal until he retired. Even having given up his dream of becoming a novelist, the need to write never really died, people still fascinated him. The two men at the table next to him had sparked his imagination the second they walked in the door. They were such an odd couple, he couldn’t take his eyes off them. They would make perfect characters for a book! He leaned closer to hear their conversation.
The short man was talking about investing money in something called “shark finning,” while his friend seemed to be having a problem with the amount of money involved.
Charlie had never heard of shark finning before and it provoked a daydream in his head. He both loved and hated these times. The moment an idea took over – even while he knew it was a lost cause – he had that uncontrollable need to write. The way a serial killer has to kill to quiet the noise in his head, Charlie had to write.
What the hell was shark finning? His good sense said mind your own business, but the writer’s curiosity got the better of him. Charlie leaned toward the men’s table and asked, “I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation. What is shark finning? I don’t think I have ever heard of it.”
The short man glared at him. “This is a private conversation, gringo!”
Charlie leaned back from the table, not wanting to start a fight. “I know, and I didn’t mean to butt in,” he said, “but you were loud enough to be overheard so it can’t be that big of a secret. Also, it sounds like you’re having money problems. Who knows, if I knew what it was, I might be interested in investing some money.”
Charlie could tell the Mexican was on the verge of telling him to go to hell, but the older man reached across the table and placed his hand on the man’s forearm. “Hold up, Rufi, the gentleman may want to buy into our little gamble.”
Charlie saw his chance and stood up with his beer in his hand. “May I join you?”
The red-headed man smiled and pushed a chair out with his foot. “Pull up a chair.”
Charlie stepped over to their table and put his hand out to the friendlier of the two men. “My name is Charlie.” At that point, he had no idea what he was doing or why he was doing it. That crazy writer’s voice in his head was guiding him he knew not where.
The man took his hand and said, “I’m Edgar, and my unhappy friend here is Rufino.”
Charlie smiled at them. “Glad to meet you both.”
Edgar finished his beer and leaned toward Charlie. “So, you’re interested in our little project?”
Charlie signaled for Larry the bartender to bring another round of drinks and placed a twenty on the table so they would know he was paying. “I would like to hear more about it. I’ve never heard the term shark finning. What is it, and is there any money to be made doing it?”
Rufino spoke up, “This is our deal. We don’t need partners.”
Edgar looked steely at Rufino. “Mi amigo, you came to me looking for more money, and it will take more than I have to get us going. So unless you have monies I know nothing about, we do need a partner. If not this man, then another, but we do need a partner.” Edgar then turned to Charlie. “Have you ever heard of shark fin soup?”
The drinks arrived and Charlie handed Larry his twenty. “I’ve heard of it, but I’ve never tasted it.”
Edgar laughed. “That’s because you can only get it in very upscale restaurants. It goes for around a hundred dollars a bowl.”
Charlie couldn’t hide his shock. “You have to be kidding, a hundred dollars for a bowl of soup!”
Rufino chimed into the conversation at this point. While he didn’t like Charlie, he was proud of his knowledge of the trade he had chosen. “You can make a lot of soup with one fin, gringo. And I have seen a room this size full of fins.”
“Wholesale shark fins go for around two hundred dollars a pound,” Edgar said, trying to take back control of selling the gringo on the idea of shark finning. Rufino knew the details of fishing for shark better than any man Edgar had ever met, but he was no salesman. “One fin goes for between a hundred dollars and six hundred and forty. One shark can net you over a thousand dollars. The average fishing boat will bring in, per trip, four to eight tons of fins. That is a lot of money, amigo.”
Charlie’s mind was doing cartwheels. The crazy voice was spinning storylines so fast he couldn’t keep up with them. He turned toward Rufino. “I’m guessing you have the boat?”
Rufino’s mood changed at the mention of the boat. The anger and cockiness were gone. He avoided Charlie’s eyes and took a drink of his beer as the bartender placed Charlie’s change next to him on the table. “I had a boat, but it sank off the Isla del Coco in Costa Rican waters.”
“Are you Costa Rican? I thought you were from Mexico.”
“You stupid Americans think everybody with brown skin is Mexican.”
“Sorry about that, but I’m not exactly sure where Costa Rica is. Somewhere between Mexico and Panama, right?”
Rufino growled and shook his head.
Edgar jumped in. He saw the conversation was going into a dark place that wouldn’t advance his cause.“Costa Rica’s between Nicaragua to the north and Panama to the south.
“Thanks,” said Charlie. “Well, what caused the boat to sink?”
“What difference does it make – the boat is gone and we need another boat. That’s where you come in, my friend. Here is the deal: we’re short twenty thousand dollars. You can buy in for a quarter share at that price. It’s a hell of a deal, you’ll double your money on the first fishing trip.”
“Hold on!” Charlie almost shouted it. What had the crazy voice got him into? “I’m not saying the project doesn’t sound good, but I would need to know a hell of a lot more about it than I do now before I’d be willing to shell out twenty thousand.”
Edgar could tell he had planted the seed, and sometimes it was better to step back and let it grow. He stood up to go to the restroom and said, “We are going to Costa Rica at the end of the month to look for a boat. Come with us and see for yourself. I’ll be right back.”
Charlie was thinking that if it was such a good deal why would they offer it to a stranger in a bar. The crazy voice shouted, Who cares, write the story! He turned toward Rufino. “What happened to your boat?”
Rufino began to peel the label off his beer bottle. “Bandits boarded my boat and stole my shark fins. They put me and my two crew members in the dinghy and set us adrift. Then they burned my boat.”
“My God! There are bandits in Costa Rica?” The voice said, See I told you, pirates.
“Where is money, there is always bandits, gringo.”
Charlie didn’t want to lose contact with these two men, but he had to think, and he couldn’t do it there. He pulled a small notebook from his back pocket and handed it, along with a pen, to Rufino. “Give me your cell number. I need to think about this overnight. I’ll call you tomorrow and let you know if I’ll be traveling to Costa Rica with you or not.”
Rufino handed him back his notebook and pen, and as Charlie was picking up his change, Edgar returned. Charlie put out his hand and said, “I have Rufino’s number, and I’ll let you know tomorrow if I’m interested. It has been a very enlightening conversation and I have a lot to think about.”
Edgar shook his hand but said nothing. Charlie turned and walked toward the door. From behind him he could hear Edgar’s raised voice asking Rufino what he had said to the guy. Charlie was torn between what he knew to be the right decision and the crazy voice that was demanding he write a book about the two men in the bar.
The night air had a chill even though it was April. Charlie lived three blocks from the Red Rooster and always walked. He lived a lonely life although he didn’t feel lonely. He had no real friends. The people he worked with talked football, fishing, hunting, and other things he had no interest in. He wasn’t sure any of them could read. Writing and reading filled his time alone and he was happy with it. Or he had gotten used it – he wasn’t sure which it was.
He wasn’t lying about its having been an interesting conversation, but twenty thousand dollars! It had been a long time since he had seen that much money at one time. And illegal fishing, pirates, large amounts of money to be made, and from something few people even knew about – in his head, the book was writing itself. The crazy voice had won, and at that moment he decided he was going to Costa Rica, not to fish but to write that best seller. After all, he convinced himself, he had three weeks of vacation coming, and what was a four-hour flight? He knew guys at work who flew down there for long weekends. Plus, it would be his last shot – if he failed this time, he would never write again.
| Copyright © 2018 by Ed Rogers |
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