"Bobby, I'm gonna hit the beach. You ready?"
"No way. I'm down to my last two Lido patches and my skin is scalded. I better hang in the shade today." Robert T. "Bobby" Champion turned down
his host's invitation to the beach, slumped down deeper into the overstuffed patio furniture. The Baja California Mexican sun can fool you in early
June.
Bobby was not familiar with the scene. This was his first trip to Mexico. The year, 2042.
He'd been told. "First time? T-shirt, hat, all day. Sun block, 30 or better all over, as needed: tops of feet, knees, neck, nose."
"Cool. Chill here with Grampa Greg. Gramps, tell Bob-o the Pitt thing. Bobby, you'll dig it. Sci-fi Mexico. A trip. Later." Tony Waltham, Jr.
went through the iron gate, hopped on the quad, sped off in a cloud of dust straight for the bluegreen surf.
Grampa Greg rudely shoved the small black dog off the couch with his ample hip, put his feet up on the rattan ottoman, took a swig of his Pacifico
beer, grinned wickedly at the kid and said.
"Can you handle this? What grade are you in, same as Tony, nine, ten?"
"Yeah, same as Tony, tenth."
The old man queried kindly "You look awful. You want to sit in the truck? Turn on the air for a little while?"
"Naw, I'm Okay, just the fan, the fan is great." said Bobby. "What's the pit thing. Tony said you had a story about a pit, Mexico and a pit?"
"Not P I T, P I T T. Brad Pitt. The story's about some guys who saved the Sea of Cortez, he was one of em, one of the first."
"Was he one of those environmental guys? Last year, in my history class we read about some dudes who blew up nuke plants, booby-trapped forests. It
was dumb stuff. I got a 2.3 for the year."
"No, he was in the movies. You want to hear the story or not?" groused the oldster.
"Yeah, I'm gamed out and I gotta stay in the shade. Shoot."
"Okay then. The story is about this little sea here, the Gulf of California, how it was dying, how it got saved in some really strange ways. The
thing is big, 68,000 square miles of salt water. It's kinda trapped between Lower California, where we are now, and mainland Mexico. It's deep, very
deep, in some places over a mile. At one time it was the most biodiverse body of water on the planet -- that means it had the most species of sea
life, the most abundant numbers of such animals and plants, given its size, than all the other seas or bays."
Bobby took a sip of his coke, put some more cream on the backs of his hands, looked up again at the old man to indicate his continued attention.
"The way it's set up, it's like a trap. The fish that traveled all the seas, that just came to visit, swam into the mouth, down at the tip, Cabo San
Lucas. As they went north to feed and spawn they were trapped, caught, netted, fished out for food, cat food, fertilizer by big fishing companies
from all over the world. The Mexicans who lived along the shore, on both sides, caught the traveling fish, as well as the local fish with hook and
line, nets; ate some, sold some. For almost a hundred years sport fishing was all the rage. Guys with big fishing rods, big fancy reels rented
boats to go out and try a one-on-one with marlin that weighed up to 1,000 pounds or more. It was big business. Many of the big cities around here
started out with just a few shacks and some boats for these old-timey guys to rent." Greg lifted his ample belly aloft, pushed off the couch, went to
the kitchen for another beer, yelled out to Bobby, did he want another coke. The return trip was long and tortuous but in time Greg's butt was again
at rest, beer in hand he was ready to go on.
"It didn't happen over night, there were some who tried to slow the process, set some limits on the catch but the money was too big...tens of
billions of dollars each year. So, the fish had to go. Pretty soon they were almost all gone. Not nearly enough public knowledge, attention,
outrage to do much about it."
Bobby kept up his end. "When does the Pitt guy jump in?"
"How'd you do in Attention Span 101? Hold tight, we're almost there. You can't go to the beach today anyway." another grouse from the old
man. "You ever hear of fly fishing?" asked the old man.
"Flies? Flies? Nuh uh." is the almost unintelligible reply from the teen.
"Well, they made a movie about it, about a river and flyfishing, back in the early 1990's. This famous movie star was in it. It started a whole fad
thing. The way it works is you take this real skinny, real long fishing rod, a reel that looks a squashed coffee grinder, lots of light line, whip
the whole thing back and forth till the line goes out farther and farther. On the end of the line you tie on a tiny little hook you can hardly see.
You wind sewing thread around the tiny hook, glue some small feathers to it so it resembles some little insects the fish like to eat."
Bobby interrupts. "The insect is a fly I bet, it looks like a fly, the hook thing."
"Mind like a proverbial steel trap, my lad. You got it. It looks like a fly. The first ones were made to look like the kinds of flies that
inhabit small freshwater lakes and streams -- mayflies. The fad took off like a wildfire in a Georgia pitchy pine forest during a ten-year drought.
Nobody saw it comin'. Times were changing. Men were gettin' away from all the manly tough stuff, wrestling went belly up, boxing, the rugged
red-necks with the big rods and reels lookin for the big marlin, tuna started crossing over. People were becoming more sensitive, more in touch with
their feelings, in touch with nature."
Another interruption. "The guys with the fly things caught fish too, just like the red-necks didn't they?"
The old man finished off his beer with a flourish. "You're right on point today kid. If this were a history class I'd be giving you a 3 something.
The big difference; the fly guys did catch fish ---- they let em go, threw em back, every one of em.
Pitt wasn't the only one. A bunch of guys on T.V., you do remember T.V. I hope, guys with even longer and skinnier rods, bigger reels, big old lures
made out of bird's wings started flyfishing in the ocean. Well, the fad on ocean flyfishing was wilder than the freshwater stuff.
Pitt was one of the pretty boys, skinny, with deep blue eyes, long lashes, looked like a girl. The salt water guys on T.V. were fatter but still had
that girlish look about em. The manly types were being replaced by these sensitive guys. Pretty soon this whole area around here was full of guides,
schools, special resorts, special tours, how-to classes. It wasn't just around here either. These new sensitive types had a world more money than
the rednecks ever thought of. The fad was spreading world-wide at the same exact time we were in the center of an economic updraft. The big factory
ships were dragged off to rust at the dock. Quotas were starting to be set, catch limits enforced, the sea began to have the time to heal. Mother
nature will bounce back with a vengeance if you just ease up a bit."
Bobby has a chance. "The dorado, the fish we caught Tuesday, were they going away? Did he save them too?"
"They were almost all gone. Now they're back in record numbers. When Pitt died way back in the thirties they made a big deal of his death but all
the publicity was about the movies; hardly a word on any of the ‘nets about what he started, what he did for this ocean and all the others." The old
man added.
"I had a friend who used to flyfish. He lived over in Los Barriles. Luther Kutcher. Died eight years ago. He was the biggest, meanest looking guy
you ever saw, hands like hams. Amanecer, that's Spanish for dawn, I'd go down sometimes just to watch him. A mountain dancing. That's the
impression I got. All that mass, muscle and jiggle almost prancing above the water, just where it hit the sand, whipping that thin wand back and
forth like the devil's whip. He didn't like the Pitt guy, the movie. Caught his share of the shore fish but he let em all go. If he wanted fish for
dinner he bought it off the dock." Greg took a long sip of beer, looked out at the ocean.
Bobby's turn. "Is that it? That's the story?"
"Yeah, that's it."
Bobby wants more. "Are there any of those fly fish guys still around? Around here? Could Tony and me see em?"
"The thing's died out mostly. Occasionally I see some guy on a quad flingin the fly down by the lagoon. Still lots of roosters and jacks down
there. Before you go back, you got four more days, you might run into one of them down on the beach. If you do, if you see them down there, best
stay way back away from them if they're whipping those things about. They're sensitive, sometimes a little touchy. And they're proud. I guess they
got good reason."Iflyfish - 3-31-2007 at 11:21 PM
I love this!!!
I love to read your writing.
IflyfishCapt. George - 4-1-2007 at 04:40 AM
Osprey, keep em coming.
mi casa es mi casa cap'n gGeoRock - 4-2-2007 at 09:57 AM
Very entertaining, you are an excellent writer.
I must differ with you, however, in your assessment of Brad Pitt's looks. He is far from girly. I think he is a hottie, much like a younger Robert
Redford. Iflyfish - 4-2-2007 at 10:03 AM
Hotty guys are girly looking.
IflyfishandamgirlylookingbutnotgirlyasingirlymanDianaT - 4-2-2007 at 10:15 AM
Quote:
Originally posted by Iflyfish
Hotty guys are girly looking.
Iflyfishandamgirlylookingbutnotgirlyasingirlyman
Ah, always a matter of perspective.
Osprey, I always enjoy reading what you write. You do dialogue VERY well.
