Wednesday, April 16, 1997
San Jose del Cabo, Mexico --
I went back to my little room to get whatever sleep could be salvaged before going fishing in an hour. Timmy was in much better shape - he had not been foolish enough to try to sleep. He roused me as the sky began to turn red.
On the promise of a week of non-stop fishing, Timmy had been able to squeeze into a winter that refused to go away, a second trip to Mexico. He was holding in his hands a stout five-foot pole, a yeomen Penn reel filled with new 20-pound monofilament. It was on an easy sea with the powerful Baja sun buffered by a sky of high thin clouds that we started to catch fish. Sierras. Lots of fish. We looked around to see the water boiling with fish. Every pass through the mass of slashing sierra yielded fish. Double hook-ups. Triple hook-ups. Our green and orange Rapalas were quickly beginning to look like the kind of chewed up lures you wished your tackle box was filled with. We long ago lost count of the number of fish that had been poured into the fish sack. Displaying the same well-documented behavior of walleye fishermen, the area was soon filled with other boats. Everywhere you looked, the poles of fishermen were bent over double. Fish being hauled over the sides. Birds swooping and diving for baitfish and ambient bits and pieces of fishing carnage. The thumbs-up signal replaced the polite wave as a greeting by the occupants of passing boats. Timmy’s Sea of Cortez fishing odyssey was off to a fine start.
On the ride back to Playa Palmilla the heat of the desert sun was beginning to sear. Tequila-tainted sweat was beading up on my forehead. Sleep deprivation was beginning to turn my saliva faintly metallic tasting. And those pale green eyes gazing back at me every time I began to nod. Eyeyeye eyes. Funny how when you’re catching fish, nothing else seems to matter. Actually, it’s pretty scary.