Till We Meet Again, Timo. Wep!

I met Tim Means for the first time in 2001, when he was driving in to Marina La Paz in his dilapidated blue-and-white truck that had a bumper sticker Bush is a moron on the back. I uttered a polite greeting, but I don’t recall him answering back. My first impression of Tim, or Timo as he was fondly called, was that he did not give a rat’s ass about me. Maybe it was true in the beginning.

I was broke when I came to La Paz, in the same year I met Timo. Wanting to recover a bit of my economy, I worked as much as I could in whatever job I could find. (I even did a stint of modeling, but that’s another story.)

One morning, after having worked for 6 months straight, he stopped his truck outside the marina and made a slow wave.

“Wep! What’s up?” He greeted in typical Timo fashion.

“Well, nothing much. Working here and there…” I always felt like I talked too much with Tim. He didn’t talk much, but he acted.

“Why don’t you come by the office when you’re done today,” he suggested.

I did and that day I got my first work with Tim Means, which paid better in comparison to the other jobs that I had before.

A Conservationist

There is a lot to say about Timo. I used to call him the Grandfather of Ecotourism in Baja and, for sure, one of the saviors of Espíritu Santo Island. He was fundamental in making possible the purchase of what used to be a privately-owned island and ensuring the protection of its plant and wildlife habitat. It was declared a World Heritage Site by UNESCO in 1995.

He ran Baja Expeditions for about 40 years and was one of the first to offer gray whale watching tours in Magdalena Bay and San Ignacio Lagoon. Before the other liveaboards started operating in the Sea of Cortez, I had the honor of working aboard Tim’s wooden boat Don Jose before it got retired. Tim was the one who introduced me to the owner of Nautilus Explorer and set the scene for me to join the crew when it first came down here in 2004.

Tim Means was very influential within the community and he had a lot of connections with people in high places. Yet he preferred to stay in the background and work behind the scenes.

I remember one time when he stepped onboard Nautilus Explorer. He was sporting a biker’s mustache, his silvery longish hair going in every which way and his Hawaiian shirt unbuttoned all the way down. A guest looked over to me with wide eyes, “Who is that bum?!”

A Prankster

What I know is that Tim helped me to get work and get started in La Paz. He helped my wife to get her first job when she moved to Mexico. I know that he listened even if you thought he didn’t.

I also remember a time when I wasn’t feeling well and I was expecting a package to arrive. A friend had sent a DVD of the TV series Sons of Anarchy to Tim’s place in San Diego, and he was bringing it down with him to La Paz. I was eager to watch the DVD when I finally received it. Curious about the separate disc that fell out when I opened the package, I put it in the player to see what it was.

It was PORN!

I wrote to my friend who sent me the package and asked him, “Did you send me porn??”

“No!” He vehemently denied.

I found out that Timo had slipped the extra DVD inside. He winked at me and said, “I thought it would cheer you up.”

There are many stories about him, such as the time when he filled up a car with concrete…

An Optimist

I often passed by his house with a couple of beers or a bottle of wine, and we would talk. His house was full of his odd collections—whale bones, roots, shells, a piano with the lid closed and a hand sticking out.

One day I helped him up to the balcony, where he liked to sleep, because he had broken his leg.

I asked, “How are you, Timo?”

“Great!” His answer was always ‘great’ even if he was in a shitty state. Broken leg or sick, it was always great. He had diabetes and he didn’t take care of himself. That reminds me of myself.

A Friend

As we moved out of La Paz, the frequency of the visits became less and less. You always think there is a next time. The last time I saw him was when I went to La Paz on my motorbike to pick up a dive tank from a friend. I swung by Baja Expeditions and there he was, rummaging through a plastic bag filled with old mobile phones. He looked up… it took a while before he saw who it was. It was not a hearty welcome, but I recognized the Timo greeting—a pinch in the stomach like a seal of approval. We had not seen each other for almost 2 years. I told him I would be back up with my wife and we would invite him to dinner.

He said, “Yes, do so and come by the house.”

Two months later, I had just arrived in Vancouver and went online to check my emails. I learned that Timo had died. A big hole of emptiness was left in my stomach. A very good friend had left and I blamed myself. Why didn’t I go and see him more often when I could?