Growing up in the landlocked state of Iowa, I was always fascinated by ships. Big ocean-going ones, not the aluminum Lundcrafts we used for duck hunting and bass fishing. During harvest season I used to perch in the combine from dawn until dusk until dawn again, gobbling up endless rows of corn and soybeans, imagining myself at the helm of a transatlantic ocean liner in the middle of a watery nowhere. The fantasy never got particularly realistic. I just hovered in that escapist vision, which was based on Love Boat reruns and the blockbuster “Titanic”. Later in high school I almost — almost — enlisted in the Navy, which would’ve gotten me the hell outta Clark County and off the farm, but dropping out to join the armed forces was no way to spite my father. He’s been there, done that, got the tattoos. Excelling in the abstruse world of academia and getting a Ph.D., now that’s the kind of thing that spites my father.

During my first visit to Mexico, a summer-long college roadtrip from Iowa to the Guatemalan border and back, I was drawn to Veracruz by the towering container ships and its legendary port. This was the Fort Knox of the Spanish empire, a place where the vast plunder of the New World was warehoused until armadas convoyed it across the Atlantic. But I keep coming back for the contrasts of Veracruz. The jungle overlapping the city overlapping the Caribbean. The bustling ultramodern port that hasn’t lost its sleepy colonial charm. The Mexican dive bars catering to dockworkers and the UN-style dive bars catering to the international multitude of sailors.

Right now I’m eyeballing some of those sailors from the bathroom window of our hotel room, which overlooks a broad rope-strewn dock. A Liberian freighter is tied up and encased in cranes. African crewmen descend a gangplank and stroll down the dock, flashing teeth, opening their mouths in laughter. 300 years ago they would’ve been slaves destined for the sugarcane plantations that blanket the coast. Today they’re headed for a waiting string of Mexican hookers, colorfully posed along the dock’s chainlink fence, and then a cheap flophouse like this one, maybe.

Nooshin’s voice drifts into the bathroom. “I think it sounds like an Asian language this time. What do you think?”

I peek into the hotel room, cellphone clinched to my ear. The bed is queen-sized, but she’s precariously balanced on an edge, naked and caramel-skinned and trying to get as close as possible to the struggling air-conditioning vent. A singsong exchange is carrying through the thin walls, along with two softer Spanish voices. A couple foreign sailors and their “dates”, doubling up on a room to save money.

“Yeah, definitely Asian,” I agree. “But not Chinese or Japanese. Maybe something like Malay.”

The singsong exchange dissolves into laughter, then the relentless whack-whack-whack of headboard-slamming. Nooshin and I make eye contact — or as much eye contact as we ever make, considering her crooked right orb is still focused on the TV. Something brief and amused and glowing passes between us. We’re not complaining. We just finished a couple hours of headboard-slamming of our own.

Then the ringtone in my ear becomes a voice. The UCLA health insurance ombudsman. I wave off Nooshin with an apologetic gesture — nature calls, sorry — and close the bathroom door. In hushed tones I ask the questions that need to be asked, describing her plight. No health insurance, no money, no nothing. Pregnant. Due in October.

“So if I’m understanding you correctly, she’s indigent,” concludes the helpful voice in my ear.

“Indigent,” I echo in weary shock.

“It means — ”

“I know what it means,” I say testily, cutting him off. “Just tell me how the fuck she gets health insurance, okay?”

“Uh, yes sir. Does she meet California residency requirements?”

“What do you mean?”

“Has she been living in California for at least one year?”

A migraine is suddenly spreading across my bald spot. I try to rub it away with a palm. “Nah. She used to live in Kansas City, and someplace like Philadelphia before that. Now she lives in Tijuana.”

“Then she isn’t eligible for Medi-Cal.” When I’m silent, the ombudsman turns apologetic. “She isn’t eligible for any insurance coverage from the State of California. Not without residency.”

There’s a long dragging pause. I can hear Nooshin flipping through the Mexican TV channels, cranking the sound louder to drown out the headboard-banging from the other room. I let the pause drag even longer. The background noise increases in volume. Finally I cup my free hand over the cellphone and my mouth and whisper, “What if I marry her? Can I add her to my health insurance as my spouse?”

“Sir? Hello? I’m losing you…”

I repeat it in a louder whisper. “What if I marry her? Can I add her to my health insurance as my spouse?”

“I can barely hear you, sir.”

“Hang on,” I say, and symbolically flush the toilet before rushing out of the bathroom.

Nooshin is watching me with both eyes now, still naked, one hand clasping the remote, the other draped across her swelling tummy. “Who are you talking to?” And when I pause at the door, “Where are you going?”

“I’m still talking to the dealership,” I say, already twisting the doorknob in my sweaty fist. “I just need some fresh air. Be right back.”

She’s staring at me like I’ve got two lying mouths instead of one. “Fresh air? It’s 100 degrees out there.”

“Like I said, I’ll be right back.” I escape into the hallway and slam the door behind me, fleeing toward the elevator. “You there?” I say into my cellphone.

“Yes, sir. But I missed what you were saying before.”

The elevator doors squeak shut and I stab the 1 button. “What I asked was, can I add her to my health insurance if I marry her?”

“She doesn’t have coverage right now?”

“No! That’s what I’ve been telling you, dude. She’s uninsured.” The elevator doors open again, revealing a lobby that only a foreign sailor — and his Mexican hooker — could love.

“Then the prenatal care and childbirth wouldn’t be covered. However, if you were married, you could add the child as a dependent.” The ombudsman coughs briefly, a clarifying gesture. “Well actually, you can do that even if you’re not married. You just — ”

“So basically…” I’ve arrived on the sidewalk outside the hotel, a scalding humidity with a view of cranes and masts. “…what you’re telling me is that we’re screwed.”

“I’m sorry, sir. I’m just giving you the facts. That’s my job, you know.” There’s another cough. “You mentioned that she used to live in Missouri? If she still qualifies as a Missouri resident, she could apply for Medicaid there. Sir?”

I feel like hurling my cellphone into the Gulf. Instead I snap the clamshell shut and take deep cleansing breaths. About a hundred of them. There’s no fucking way I’ll let Nooshin go back to Missouri, because that means going back to her husband. Back to her in-laws. Back to everything she already ran away from.

More deep cleansing breaths. So I’ll have to come up with $2,000 some other way. So fucking what? I sleepwalk through tougher shit than this. Raising money is cake for a dude like me. I’ll call my friends, call my profs, call my family. The Nick bank, making a withdrawal. That’s all I need to do.