Just north of Ensenada, the needle on the dashboard temperature gauge creeps dangerously close to the bright red H. In a few miles, my truck will overheat. There is nothing to my right except hillsides, and nothing to my left except ocean. AAA Roadside service will not rescue me here, 50 miles from the border.
I turn on the heater, roll down the windows and thank whoever’s in charge of weather that the day is cloudy. I watch the needle drop briefly and then begin to rise again.
I consider panicking, but discard the idea. What if panic raises one’s body temperature? The car will heat up even more.
I sigh in relief when I see signs for a scenic area ahead. I know this rest stop; a few stands selling coconuts and slices of mango, a bathroom that is free to enter but will set you back five pesos if you want toilet paper, and most importantly, a concrete well that has “AGUA” painted on it in giant letters. I pull off the highway and pop the hood.
I’m not mechanically inclined. When I was 21, I bought my first car, a green 1974 Ford Pinto. I didn’t know how to drive it. After two weeks of burning rubber at every stoplight in town, I finally mastered manual transmission, and then I could drive anywhere — as long as it was flat.
As a blooming feminist, I figured I should know how to change my oil or a flat tire, but I also knew that boyfriends and Jiffy Lube could solve those problems. Because it was an old car, I became an expert at checking oil, filling the radiator, and putting air in the tires. The only thing I actually learned to fix was a tiny butterfly valve in the carburetor that would come unhooked. I popped the hook back into its little hole on a regular basis, and felt accomplished.
That’s the only car repair I ever learned.
I park next to the square concrete well. I peer down at the water; it’s at least four feet below the surface. My fingertips dangle helplessly over the edge, a foot away from even grazing the water. Gingerly, I lay across the concrete wall, balancing on my stomach. I lift my feet a few inches off of the ground, hoping to reach the water, before I’m seized by an image of toppling headfirst into the well. If it’s shallow, I’ll fall on my head and break my neck; if it is deep, I’ll drown. Either way, if I don’t put my feet back on the ground, I will die headfirst in a well on the side of a highway, alone and annoyed.
I remember there’s half a bottle of drinking water rolling around on the floor of the truck and pour it into the coolant reservoir. It makes no difference. I need a jug or a bucket.
I walk toward the vendors, asking to borrow a bucket. The coconut seller hands me his. “It’s full of chile,” he says. “You’ll have to rinse it before you use it.” I wonder what will happen if I dump chile into my radiator. I don’t know if it will damage the car, but it certainly won’t help. Even armed with a bucket, I can’t reach the water.
Finally the bathroom monitor comes to my rescue. Between charging customers, he finds a jug and fills it with brackish water from a barrel. Gratefully, I press a few dollars into his hand and scuttle back to my car.
I try to pour the green water into the coolant reservoir but the bottle is heavy and wide-mouthed, and I am on wobbly tiptoes, so the first splash misses the opening entirely. No matter; I’m in full problem-solving mode now. I grab a multi-tool knife, and cut a funnel from the tiny water bottle I’d already emptied. People glance at me as they walk by on their way to the food stands, and I stand up proudly from time, putting on my best “That’s right; I know how to fix things” face. I stare for a moment at the knife in my hand, because I’m pretty proud of myself for even having it in the car.
I crawl home slowly, the heater blasting, stopping frequently to add more hazy water through my makeshift funnel. I keep my eye on the temperature gauge more than the speedometer.
Getting an overheated car home from Ensenada isn’t an amazing feat, compared to people who run marathons, build entire cars from scratch, or cure cancer. Still, as I coast home, I bask in my newfound feeling of competence.
Perhaps expensive car repair awaits, and it will sting, but being able to rescue myself is priceless.
