The Sailor Instructing the Jailer on How to Say, 'Schroeder'

This morning, whilst walking Bella die schwarz Hund in die Aldenhoven fields, which are a part of the Aldenhoven Plateau, an important Paleolithic archaeological site, we came upon a dozen park benches, and I thought, there was a time, months ago, nay, weeks ago, back when I was closer to our Paleolithic ancestors than most modern humans, as I was living and traveling exposed to the elements, always hungry, grunting and scratching-- there was a time when I would have been thrilled to find such benches as these, though desolate, and exposed to the cold wind-- I would have been thrilled; a place to sit down above the ground, and a table to arrange a meal of bread and cheese.
Now, however, having already adapted to the comforts of a warm home, and having become soft, fleeing at the hint of rain, all I could do was shudder at the thought of sitting thus exposed.

On the other side of those desolate park benches, another three or four kilometers towards the Inde River, which is a tributary of the Rur, and the Rur not to be confused with the Ruhr-- on the other side of those park benches a pitched battle occured some 69 years ago between the soldiers of two armies, as US soldiers who had captured the village of Pattern raced across open fields to take the village of Altdorf, defended by German soldiers--  the  battle now long forgotten, and it's field now a hole in the ground, and the village of Pattern, having survived the war, now vanished in the hole, the hole being a strip mine for lignite, or brown coal, which is used to fuel the nearby powerplant.

Then, having pondered the Paleolithic Pilgrim I had been, and the fluffy philosopher I was now, and having pondered what had happened near here, and what was here now-- having pondered these things, I caught myself saying to Bella, "Let us take shelter on the leeward side of yonder trees, that I may partake of the third cigarette of the day," and as Bella could not object, we did, and I thought again, "Did I say the 'leeward' side? Ah, I am still a bit of a Squidly Diddley Swabby Sailor, even now,"
as I had used the term, 'Leeward', you see, a nautical term for 'down wind'.

And this takes me back a ways, a way back to '84, when I  was a U.S. Navy Signalman, on a frigate out of San Diego, a veritable Salty Sailor.

Aye, so, there I was, back in '84, or mebbe it was back in '83...

"...back in '84..."

Sigh...
My grandpappy used to talk that way...
Aye...

So, there I was...

The reader, if the reader has read much of this rambling, may remember
that I'd mentioned helping a Mexican jailer to pronounce my surname, Schroeder,
whilst behind bars in a jail in Ensenada, Mexico?

I'm glad you asked, reader.

So, there I was, back in those days, a San Diego sailor, and though but 23 or 24, a Salty one, having sailed most of the Seven Seas, even at that young age, and as I've said, there I was in Ensenada, Mexico.
A friend and I had driven down in my Subaru; Tijuana was getting tiresome, too many tourists, too many gringos, so Ensenada it was, this time, in Baja California, which, along with Gringo California, will someday be reunited as a single California, a Long island in the Pacific, but not yet.

So there we were, my friend and I, and we had alighted in a bar there, one 'Hussong's Cantina' which, though popular with the gringos from up north, was also popular with the locals, and which retained the true spirit of Mexico, a real Cantina, and with sawdust on the floors.

My friend, whose name may have been Michael, and me,
we
sat at the bar, starting in the late afternoon when the bar was nearly empty, drinking Tequila con limon y sal.
Then, suddenly, it seemed, as quick as a tequila shot, night had fallen, and Hussong's Cantina had filled, and when we turned at the sound of cheering to view the scene behind us, we were surprised to see a gringo girl dancing on a table, nude from the waist up. The Federales arrived to make her stop, but that did not alter the mood in Hussong's, which continued to be a loud and boisterous one. The Federales seemed to be the only melancholy ones in the place.

Here is an artist's impression of Hussong's Cantina, which, as I remember it, is an accurate one, or as accurate as can be perceived through the hazy filters of tequila and time:

Because of the sale y limon, the tequila was going down just a little too easily, and before I knew it, I was rambling around on the boardwalk through town. I had lost Michael somewhere along the way. There may have been another bar, no, I'm sure there had been, a bar no tourists went into; the locals stared, and did not lighten up despite my own cheery disposition. But I understand, I was a drunken gringo in their bar. So I left. And somewhere along the way, as I rambled and ambled down the streets of Ensenada, causing no trouble, as I recall, but without a doubt, wobbly-- somewhere along the way the Federales or policias decided to haul me in.
"Porque?" I had asked, but did not understand their reply. 
At the desk in the police station I quickly sobered up. I had spent a night in Tijuana jail-- another story for another time, though I will say now I really deserved it on that occasion-- and I did not want to spend another night in another Mexican jail. So as I went through the procedure of emptying my pockets on the counter-- a procedure I knew well back in those swaggering sailorly times-- sigh, so many stories to ramble on about-- as I emptied my pockets, and the wallet came out, I had a quick peek inside, and there was a 20 dollar greenback inside.
In Tijuana, though I had also been a wee bit wobbly when incarcerated there, I had been sober enough to remember having a few dollars when I turned in my belongings, and having an empty wallet when said wallet was returned to me.
So thinking the 20 dollars were gone anyhow, I thought I'd make an offer.
"Quieres dinero?" I asked, not very subtly. "Here, take the 20 dollars and let me go," I said, having removed the bill and waving it around.
"No, no," said the guy behind the counter, waving his hand just a little.
"No?" I asked.
"No," he said, but he was looking around when he said it. There was one other policia there, if I remember correctly, and he would have heard and seen too.
So I gave them everything in my pockets, including the wallet with the 20 bucks placed back inside, and I was taken to a cell.
I believe I must have sighed when the door was closed with a clank. In my cell were two or three others, one may have been asleep on a bench-- I don't remember seeing bunks in this cell, or even a toilet-- not like the Tijuana cell-- and a couple of other guys were just sitting, staring straight ahead. I believe they were all locals; not a gringo in the bunch.
I also sat and stared straight ahead, as I didn't feel like much of a conversationalist at that point, though in other jail cells I'd chatted quite a bit, but, other stories for other days.
So there I sat, thinking I'd be there for at least the duration of the night, and wondering how I could contact Michael.
Then, after just a few minutes, maybe ten or fifteen, the door opened, and there was la policia, the one who had said, "No."
Acting as if he had no idea, he called out my name, "Kaynet Scro-ey-dare?"
He knew I was Kaynet Scro-ey-dare, but he looked around the cell as if he didn't.
"Me," I said. "Yo."
Yo as in, "I", and not da gangsta 'yo', which hadn't been invented yet, I don't believe. I digress.
It was at this very point that I assisted in the pronunciation of my name, though, in retrospect, it may have been a confirmation rather than a lesson.
"Schroeder? Kenneth Schroeder? It's Schroeder. Si, es mi."
He did not repeat the name, because he did not care.
Then he gestured that I was to go out the door.
"Porque?"
"You lou-yair get you out," he said.
"My... lawyer?"
"Si, you can go."
And then, stupidly, "What? How?"
But pausing only an instant before wising up and departing through the cell door, and then to the counter, where I picked up my things, including my wallet which no longer had the 20 bucks in it, and saying,"Gracias," and them saying the same back, very cordially.

Ah, yes, them was the days...

Here is a photo of me behind bars in Ensenada, Mexico, back in '83 or thereabouts:

Well, okay, it's not really me, but it captures the spirit of the occasion. Aye, it does indeed.