Did we experience pristine beaches against mild turquoise waters splashing against buxom babes in slim bikinis? Hell no. We motored directly out of the rough swell in the Gulf of Mexico and into the Puerto Del Altamira, so straight we could have been a WWII landing craft storming a Jap-held beachhead.

We arrived early by three hours, only to find out that we would be pulling out in four hours and the town of Tampico was an hour away, "if" we could find a taxi. I was so disillusioned that I had to find a drink to soothe my anxious aching-to-be-home heart. In fact, I was a tad relieved and encouraged that we would be on the move soon. I craved a return to the coast and home like a young sailor in love, after his first stint at sea. Besides I couldn't find a bar in the harbor.

I paced the bridge as we meandered on calm, nearly clear, turquoise waters into the recently built port. It wasn't a large, sprawling industrial port, but it already had the feel of pure concrete-based industry, stacked with containers, mounds of coal, and rusting abandoned hulls surrounded by beds of lowland salt reservoirs. The dead reckoning into the port was nearly due West. I liked the sound of that word, West, which means so much to a So Cal biker. I couldn't wait to find out when we were departing as the ship faced a due south turn into the sole channel, was spun by the blistering tugs, and shoved against the dock.

I itched as the officials came on board, but there was no sign of anxious stevedores storming the decks to unload the five chunks of power plant generators. Our crew moseyed around the corroded decks preparing the cranes at a leisurely pace. There was talk of the lottery pool for arrival in Houston and it was as if the crew had created an alliance to support a late arrival, first-line-on-the-dock time. The sun felt good and the nature of the land and the people was laid back--brown skin in a heated desert environment, but I was anxious to roll.

Slowly, as the cracked asphalt streets exuded the southern warmth, longshoremen arrived in no haste, wearing nothing in particular, no uniforms or overalls, just denims, Western shirts, and T-shirts. They all wore Levis of one sort or another. An ambulance pulled onto the dock and a one-man EMT crew set up a stretcher off the back of his white and pumpkin-orange vehicle and waited for someone to be maimed by a crane or whipped by strained lashings. As the afternoon sun faded, two forklifts rumbled onto the dock as generators the size of small apartments were lifted out of hold number five. They were lowered to the dock where waiting lifts moved each element deeper into the port.

The pilot finally strolled on board at 2000 hours (8:00 p.m.) and pulled out of Altamira. Originally, the captain said that it would take 24 hours to reach the Houston pilot station, which is actually in Galveston. The trip up the river gobbles an additional six hours. Later he vacillated on the time to Houston by four hours and leaned closer to 28 hours. Either way, that put us alongside building 16/17 Turn Around Dock, at around 0800 on Wednesday morning.

I wish I could have kicked that bastard up to 30 knots, steamed into Houston in 14 hours, caught a plane, and been in bed with my babe and an icy glass of Jack on the rocks before the sun set on Tuesday. A man can hope. Okay, snivelin' won't do me a damn bit of good, so I will humbly bow my head, do my duty, and write the fuckin' report.

The port of Altamira was not as poorly maintained as some, and not as organized or pristine as Korea or Japan. I've pounded this drum until I'm Pacific blue in the face, but here is yet another grand seaside that looks like a 50-year-old industrial complex on the edge of nowhere. I hope, fuck, I pray, that the public wakes up someday and forces ports to share the area with the workers and retail for a rounded environment that would benefit everyone.

As this trip around the world draws to a close, I'll harp on one more item that has surfaced like a bad apple on so many occasions that it has become predictable and an almost daily expectation. At times it's as if business is not a people function. Like my boss, Joe Teresi, told me from behind his small but ornately carved Italian desk several times at Easyriders when I brought up the feelings of the employees, "They're employees and they get a regular paycheck. I have no other responsibility to them."

I disagreed then, because we were working in an entertainment industry. To him, filling pages was no more than stamping out hubcaps. The bottom line is that all business is for people.

The shipping industry is losing people left and right. There's got to be at least a quarter of this crew who is looking for a way out. Like the factory assembly line, and CNC machines that eliminate people from the job equation for higher profits, the shipping industry is forcing people out by reducing the number of crew on ships. The limited crew is forced to stay aboard ship, because there are no watch changes, no back-up. They can't leave the ship in ports, can't see their families, satellite phone calls are cost prohibiting, and they don't make enough to enjoy most ports. It's tough.

Even the captain performs the tasks of three or four people and rarely leaves the ship. He's the radio man, the navigator, the accountant, the negotiator, the ambassador, and the captain. On top of that, if anything goes wrong on the ship, he's responsible. He has no XO, like naval vessels have.

So why enlist to be a merchant marine? Where's the excitement of being a wandering seaman?

A couple of days ago, the blonde of blondes said to me something about how much she had gained from the voyage on the rusting Leon and it got me thinking about what I had learned. The more I contemplated, the longer the list became. I experienced writing lessons from Michael Crighton, WEB Griffin, Beryl Markum, Francis Chichester, and the list rolled on. I experienced the shipping industry firsthand and economics globally. I learned of my mother's travels and worldwide reflections. I learned a taste of navigation and weather patterns the world over. I bit into my own sordid past and faced some of my own personal demons. I wrote like a man addicted to salt spray.

As we entered Galveston Bay at 2 a.m. and I stood on the bridge at the final port of entry, I pondered the future as if I had graduated from a lengthy educational process or divorced another wife.

I was nervous about the future. I wanted the world to be simpler, more romantic. I have tremendous tasks ahead. Yet maybe it will all come together. Who knows? The conflicting question always in my mind is whether to kick ass or be political and understanding. As the Romanian said, "To be a business owner you must grow in that culture." I guess that it's a matter of knowing when to be dog-eat-dog and when to be romantic, considerate, and understanding.

Has the world changed--will it ever change? Behind 9/11 and people I know who are members of warring motorcycle clubs, will man ever go beyond his fierce, combative instincts to appreciate and care for the world, or continue to make every effort to kill all that stands in his way?

As we pulled into the river leading inland to Houston and passed the Battleship memorial, I remembered reading about all the countries that Japan attacked and wondered what the hell they were thinking and who allowed them to make such foolish decisions. Yet it was a blessing in disguise that they attacked Pearl Harbor in their unrelenting desire to control the Earth. It was the first card they drew in their final hand. It was an ace of hearts for all of the Asian community, and Japan lost big time only to be forced back to their battered shores to begin life again.

Hitler played similar cards in the same game on the other side of the table. If ego, history, and hate hadn't pushed him beyond his means to play one more round, Germany could have taken all of Europe and grown to be a powerful nation. Instead, he borrowed on an empty bank and played another round, taking on England, Russia, and finally the mighty U.S. He lost big time.

It was almost 8:35 a.m. when the first nylon line, almost 5 inches in diameter, was thrown ashore in Houston and various agencies clamored aboard. We were docked in exactly the same location as we departed from 139 days prior.

There were guys from immigration, customs, and port agents storming up the wavering gangplank. I felt at home immediately. The customs guys were three black men who were jovial, helpful, and outgoing. I sensed how the U.S. differed from the rest of the world. They performed the same job functions as men in every port, yet with a friendly air that indicated confidence and support. Then Immigration arrived and they were highly curious of our journey because very few ships arrive with passengers in their port, almost none. Again they were friendly, "cowboys" as the Captain described them.

We said our good-byes and left the ship with a taxi contact through Coco, a woman who has worked with the editor of Tattoo magazine, Billy Tinney, for 20 years. A taxi waited on the dock. The chef, and our steward Antonio, helped us with bursting bags off the narrow, always greasy gangplank. Natch, the cab driver was not an American, but a Jamaican who spoke broken English, yet knew his way around, sorta.

We left the ship, jamming to get home, like a couple of inmates finally freed from a war camp, or a couple of crew members from a naval ship after a lengthy service in the gulf war. We slid down the gangplank without looking back and jumped into the waiting van/taxi. I often regret the good-byes. This was a good crew of people, and I dislike good-byes, and more so after the fact. There's always something more I would like to add, some experience I would like to share or reflect on to make someone know that my thoughts were of them.

So to the crew and the officers of the Leon, I would like to give my very best for an experience few will enjoy, on a ship that's not long for the seas. They were men simply doing their jobs, yet they afforded us the experience of a lifetime, insight into their industry, time to write my best works, and their knowledge to share. I will never forget that time, except to remember it as 139 of the most special days of my life.