big blue Novel (2024)

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Informed by actual events, Big Blue is set in a time of heightened anti-immigrant sentiment, deportations, and threats to close the U.S.-Mexico border. Unable to secure a rare medical device for his daughter’s heart condition because of the chaos, Bill Blythe, a California melon farmer, and his teenage daughter, Jocelyn, journey south to Tijuana, Mexico where her medical device is manufactured. Along the way, they seek the help of a Mexican family whose matriarch works for the maquila that manufactures Jocelyn’s medical device and whose sister – an undocumented migrant farmworker named María – is trapped in a game of cat-and-mouse with Bill’s chief rival, Ed Simmons, who wants to make her a scapegoat to avoid a federal raid on his farm, and Bill’s wife, Betty Jo, who blames her for her family’s unresolved past.

Will María evade Betty Jo’s vengeance and escape Ed’s attempt to turn her over to the Feds? Will Bill and Jocelyn obtain her life-saving medical device and make it back across the border before it’s too late? Will wrongs be righted, relationships mended, and the past overcome? Or will seasons change, but people not so much?  

Bill Blythe splashed water onto a block of polished Serpentine and dragged a white handkerchief across the epitaph etched in its center. A mix of sand and stone blew across the border of a neighboring field. Shielding his face with his arm, Bill peered beneath the brim of a straw Stetson’s Bridger at the cluster of ATVs scouting a field in the distance. One of the ATVs spun off and headed toward him. The unnerving music of a Mariachi band blared from a speaker clipped to its handlebars as if to taunt him or warn him or both. Bill reached behind his back and gripped the rosewood handle to a stainless-steel pistol stuffed in his jeans. He wiggled his boots deeper into the muddy bottom of the pool of rising water, bracing for a confrontation he had hoped to avoid.

The ATV slid to a stop in front of him and the rider lowered a black bandana beneath his chin and looked at Bill, then at the block of Serpentine, then back at Bill without saying a word. A female rider, who was seated with her arms around the rider’s waist, leaned forward and whispered in the rider’s ear. The rider glanced at the Serpentine block, then at Bill, then lifted his bandana over his nose and popped a wheelie before racing back to the cluster of ATVs waiting by a dry canal that ran the length of both properties.

Breathing a sigh of relief, Bill removed his hat and placed it over his heart. He read the epitaph etched in gold leaf letters on the block of Serpentine and paused in a moment of silence for the boy whose life had ended at this same spot seasons ago. Although some said the boy’s death was an unfortunate accident, Bill knew otherwise. After all, accidents like this just don’t happen. They’re the result of other issues – deeper issues that bubble to the surface, like unrepaired leaks in a buried irrigation pipe. 

In the distance, the blood curdling hoots and howls of the rider echoed off the canal’s concrete walls. Seasons change, thought Bill, but people, not so much. After draining the pool of muddy water, Bill repaired several leaks in a twenty-four-inch section of buried irrigation pipe and then spent the better part of the afternoon double-checking the rest of the pipes before returning home for a late lunch.

“How’s the drip irrigation working this year?” said Bill’s wife, Betty Jo, when Bill entered the kitchen.

“Better than last year,” said Bill, sitting at the table and opening a copy of the Palo Verde Valley Times.

“Last year was a nightmare. Thank God we Sonoran Desert farmers still have the All-American Canal at our disposal.”

“Not as much as we used to,” said Betty Jo. 

Betty Jo was referring to what many Blythe farmers viewed as an illegal water grab by Metropolitan Water – the country’s most powerful urban water agency. What began as a friendly water-sharing program between Blythe’s water-rich farmers and California’s water-poor cities had devolved over the years into state-sanctioned extortion. After buying up thousands of acres of Blythe farmland along the Colorado River, Metropolitan Water rented the land back to Blythe’s farmers with strict water usage limits. If farmers used more than their allotted share of water (often too small a share), a clause in their contracts permitted Metropolitan Water to charge higher rents and impose other sanctions. Such contracts drove many melon farmers out of business. They also redirected significant amounts of precious Colorado River water from small agricultural-based cities like Blythe to larger urban jungles like Los Angeles.

“Yep, it ain’t like it used to be, that’s for sure, our water, not our water no more,” said Bill, repeating a line once sung by migrants as they walked his fields’ furrows and ridges. 

“It’s no joking matter,” Betty Jo chided. “They’re stealing our water.”

Wishing to change the subject from a fight he’d long championed and lost as president of the Palo Verde Irrigation District, Bill turned his attention to the newspaper headlines: Seven Arrests Made Monday Night. Four More Apprehended Tuesday Morning. A Baker’s Dozen Taken into Custody Today in Yuma and Blythe. “Man, those border patrol boys at the Highway 78 Checkpoint sure have been busy.”

“What’s our country coming to, Bill?” said Betty Jo, pouring a bowl of soup for Bill and one for herself before sitting opposite him at the table. “It’s being overrun by Illegals.”

Bill read a text he’d received from the Blythe Police Department. “They’re calling a town hall meeting this evening,” he said. “Something to do with a new policy for Yuma and Blythe.”

“New policy?” Betty Jo gave Bill a puzzled look. “What’s that all about?”

“Don’t know,” said Bill. “I guess we’ll have to go to find out.”

***

The town hall meeting that evening was standing room only. Every farmer, politician, pastor, and businessperson from Blythe City and Riverside County were present. Also in attendance were a few out-of-state businesspeople from Arizona who were reportedly there to display cross-border solidarity, although everyone knew otherwise.

Standing behind a wood podium at the front of the meeting hall, Blythe’s Police Chief, John Wright, cut straight to the point: “Because of the significant rise in the number of individuals being arrested for immigration violations, the United States Border Patrol has begun identifying detainees for release into various cities throughout the region, including Blythe, pending their immigration hearings.”

“When’s this happening?” said Rod Huggins, a Blythe city councilman.

“Today.”

“Today?” said Anne Miller, the manager of Blythe’s only food pantry. “Are they crazy?”

“How many immigrants are we talking about, Chief?” asked Bill.

“Anywhere from twenty to fifty individuals daily.”

“Holy Hell!” It was Anne Miller again. “Excuse me, Chief, but there’s no way in you know where we can accommodate that many people. Is the government providing any funding and resources?”

“Anne, we’ve requested funding,” said district congressman, Hector Ruiz, coming to Chief Wright’s defense, “but there’s no guarantee we’ll receive it. Besides, we’re a sanctuary city. You know that. We’ll all have to do our part.”

“But what about our safety? Our kids’ safety?” said Betty Jo, walking to the front of the room and waving a copy of the Palo Verde Valley Times above her head. “Didn’t y’all read the headlines in today’s paper? They’re arresting Illegals for drug smuggling, saying they have ties to cartels in Mexico. And now the government’s just releasing these people into our community?”

Ed Simmons, a melon farmer and one of Bill’s staunchest competitors, had heard enough. Standing near the back of the room, he said, “Oh, come on, Betty Jo, don’t act like all migrants are drug smugglers and criminals. Hell, you and Bill used to hire them to work on your farm.”

“Used to, Ed, but not anymore,” said Bill.

“Well, la di da,” said Ed, glaring at Bill and bobbing his head back and forth as he spoke. “If only the rest of us were as fortunate as you.”

With that, the room went from a low rumble to a loud roar as side conversations broke out, peppering the room like land mines. Some in attendance agreed with Ed, others agreed with Bill and Betty Jo.

I have a bachelor’s in political science from Penn State University and a master’s in theology and intercultural studies from Dallas Theological Seminary. Having lived abroad, where I taught English and wrote for a regional magazine, I am passionate about using fiction to build bridges and foster constructive dialogue across the political, religious, and cultural divides.

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