Mexico: Baja And The Desert Tuna (cont.)

Our captain takes us several miles down the coast to the aforementioned Gordo Banks.  The sea is remarkably calm, casting a fiery reflection from the angle of the morning sun.  Seals rest upon the rocks along sheer cliff walls that stretch several hundred feet above the water-line.  Serenity pervades as if I am living in a post-card.  We slowly hone in on a patch of water where a few sea birds have taken an interest.

As we approach, it appears as if someone has turned on a hot tub beneath a fifty yard section of the sea.  The surface of the water roils, literally bubbling with a tremendous amount of unseen activity.  The captain cuts the motor, barks a few words into his CB, and jumps down to the deck to help get every available fishing line into the water.  Boats appear from every corner of the horizon charging full-throttle to converge on our find.

I’m handed a pole and a living, gasping, squirming bait fish to impale on a hook.

“In one eye and out the other,” the captain advises in English exponentially better than my Spanish.  “They live longer.”

I cast the line into the water and wonder what I’m supposed to do next.  I have about three seconds to consider this before I feel a sharp tug and watch the tip of the fishing pole bend like a bow.

“Set the hook!”  Everyone on the boat screams at me in unison, adding a colorful array of bi-lingual profanities to stress their point.  I pull backwards and feel the weight on the other end.  About a quarter mile of fishing line is instantly drawn out of the reel.  The battle has begun. 

I dip my knees, like I’m doing a squat thrust, then jerk to my feet while trying to reel in the two feet of precious line I’ve just won.  Dip.  Stand.  Reel.  Repeat.  I repeat about a thousand times.  Twenty minutes later my arms and legs feel as if I’m being drawn and quartered by a team of Andalusian stallions.  I have slowly, crank by crank, reeled in most of the line, but I’ve used an inordinate amount of energy in doing so.  Others on the boat have already pulled in several fish, mostly tuna with a spectacularly colorful dolphin fish (Mahi Mahi) thrown in.  My borrowed fishing belt, which provides leverage by supporting a fiberglass base to secure the end of the fishing pole, slips well onto my left hip.  Sweat is pouring from unexpected places on my body, such as my eyelids and ear lobes.  Just as my arms begin to quiver like a plucked harp-string, a shadow emerges off the bow of the boat, somehow connected to the end of my fishing line.

The first-mate dips a gaff into the water and extracts a 28lb yellow-fin tuna, which he brings flopping onto the deck.  While not the biggest fish of the day (a fellow fisherman on the boat later pulled in a 72lb monster), the yellow-fin is bigger than anything I thought I’d ever pull out of the depths, about the size of a rugby ball over-inflated to the point of exploding.  The fish thrashes on the deck in a display of primal panic that is both sad and exhilarating to behold.

A friend takes the pole from my hand and replaces it with a well-used axe handle. As the tuna is a predatory fish with teeth to prove it, removing the hook presents a bit of a problem while the fish is still conscious.  I’m told to deliver a blow to the head, in order to put a humane end to the proceedings.  Details aside, it takes two blows and most of my courage, to finish the job.  The mate dislodges the hook and hauls the fish to the cooler.  He flips the lid upward. The Mahi Mahi already inside, which was once a dazzling mix of saffron, turquoise and emerald streaks, has now faded to the shade of wet asphalt.

Four hours later I’m sitting with groups of fisherman from several boats on the rudimentary verandah.   Simple tables and chairs are all that is required.  The landscape provides ambience to spare.  The men sit around pulling beers from a bath-tub size bucket of ice, sharing the inevitably distorted reminiscences of fishing trips past and present.  Having no stories of my own prior to this very day, I sit back and sip what is perhaps the coldest beer I have ever tasted.

A waiter emerges from the kitchen, and the conversation drops as if a dignitary has entered.  While most of the fishermen have their catch filleted and vacuum-packed for transport back home, my friend and I have donated a portion of our catch for the enjoyment of all.  The waiter sets down an enormous tray containing twenty pounds of sushi-grade tuna prepared sashimi-style by the hotel’s chef. A handful of toothpicks complete the presentation.  My friend produces a tube of wasabi paste he has thoughtfully packed, and a somewhat orderly pre-dinner snack commences.

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