Osprey - 1-23-2010 at 10:02 AM
Here's a part of a chapter in my book about the cave painting of Central Baja.
Deathblow
He was trapped in the bow of the little boat with the thing. The thing had him. The beak, the terrible beak was snipping, tearing, crushing the
skin and bone of his toes, his feet and ankles. Cam’s screams of agony drowned out the sound of bones and sinew being cut and ground by the great,
powerful beak. The head of the slimy parrot was electric blues and yellows on one side, on the other, black from the ink that filled the bow of the
little boat. Cam lashed out with the gaff but the big hook was turned the wrong way; the gnashing, snipping beak inched forward crushing toes,
spewing blood — the blood mixed with the ink, made a gorey pink soup sloshing as the boat rocked with Cam’s flailing. Talons and suckers held his
ankles fast, he could not move. The parrot was going to eat his feet, his legs — if only he could tear away, make it over the side of the small boat,
swim away from the killing beak, swim toward the distant shore. He kicked out, lashed out, ineffectively with his only weapon, the gaff. His screams
grew more frantic, louder, he woke up.
“Thank God. Thank God. Thank you God.” Cam gave thanks as he tried to regain control. It was a dream. It was all a bad dream. He was safe.
Safe in the little room in the bungalow at Serenidad. Now sitting up on the edge of the bed, staring into the darkness his number one job was to get
his breathing back to normal, his pulse back to slow, strong, steady. After several minutes the coppery taste of adrenalin left his mouth, his heart
rate slowed. He turned on the light, took a coke from the cooler, sat back on the bed, took time to dispel the nightmare, relive the day, relive the
real world.
Cam had been up early and had time to get a cup of coffee. One of the cooks had made a pot of coffee, was back in the kitchen lighting stoves,
warming up beans, making fresh salsa. The smell of fat and fish and spices floated out to the patio. Clouds to the southeast announced the sunrise,
gray one minute, flaming pink the next. Bob was right on time, made a sweeping turn with truck and trailer, began to back toward the boat ramp. The
student held the painter, the small rope attached to the bow, when the boat was floating free in the river, his host pulled up and away, parked the
truck well off the end of the little airstrip next to the access road.
“Just grab that paddle there on your left Cam and help me move this thing out into the channel. It’s not a real low tide right now but it’s still
too shallow here by the ramp.”
The sun popped up just as they motored past the lighthouse and out into open water. Bob headed the boat north, eased the little boat up onto a
plane. Cam could both hear and feel the chit, chit, chit of the keel ticking off each little wave like some counting machine. In the bow Cam had
plenty of room for his long legs, his big feet in the space between the bow seat and the center seat of the aluminum boat.
Bob slowed the little boat, put the motor in neutral. He handed Cam a rod; on the end of the line dangled a big silver jig, a heavy metal strip with
a big treble hook at the bottom. The captain showed his passenger how to release the brake, send the heavy jig into the depths.
“Just let it go all the way to the bottom. When you see the line go slack, just do as I do, reel a little, jerk way up, wait, reel some more til’ we
find the right depth. Guero told me some big Humboldt were around here. If they’re still here, if I’ve lined up right from the lighthouse to Punta
Chivato we’ll have some good bait.”
Cam did as he was told, copying Bob’s movements. Suddenly something began to tug on the line bending the rod.
“Jerk up hard Cam. That’s it, that’s it, you got him on. Now just reel steady. Don’t let up, just keep reeling. Watch me, just pull the rod up
without reeling then let it down while you reel like crazy. That way you’re keeping pressure on him all the time. That’s it, that’s good, keep
pumping and reeling. I’ll bring my lure up, give you a hand.”
Cam said “What is it? What’s a Humboldt? It must be big, it’s pulling back hard.”
“Squid, big Humboldt squid. Great for bait. Dorado love squid, marlin love squid, everything loves squid.”
The novice fisherman said “Squid, like they serve in fancy restaurants, the things you eat in seafood restaurants?”
“Yep, the same, only these are big guys. Some go over 50 pounds. We don’t eat many of these big ones, too much ammonia taste. He’s comin’ up.
When he gets near the surface just stop reeling, bring the line over here so I can reach it, when he’s through inkin’ I’ll gaff him, bring him in.
Just hold the rod steady. I’m gonna drop him up front with you for now where there’s plenty of room.”
Finally the creature appeared just below the surface. It was forcing huge amounts of water through its funnel, pulling the rod down as it tried to
get away. Just as Bob grabbed the line the squid expelled a cloud of black ink that stained a large area of water beside the boat. After a second
cloud completely hid the creature from view, Bob pulled mightily on the line, pulled the creature to the surface, sunk the big gaff hook deep in the
body. He dropped the line, used both hands to heave the big mollusk up and into the front of the little boat --- it plopped, gaff and all, right at
Cam’s feet.
“Hey, we got bait. Good job, good job. Watch your feet, don’t let him pull your feet or hands near his beak. It’s up in the center of the
tentacles. It’s big and wicked, like a parrot’s beak but bigger, badder. They crush, tear and shred their food with that thing. You could lose some
toes. They’ve been known to kill swimmers. The suckers won’t hurt you, they just leave a red mark when you pull em’ off.”
The beast had two or three of its tentacles wrapped around Cam’s feet. His thongs had slipped off or had been dislodged as the squid’s tentacles
flailed about to find a way out of the boat. The capture, the pain and trauma of the gaff set the creature’s bioluminescence in motion; colors Cam
had never seen before were coursing at great speed up and down the mantle and tentacles like a surreal electric reader board.
Cam saw his skin begin to redden and welt as he pulled a tentacle from his ankle while another flashing appendage grabbed his other leg. He grabbed
the gaff and tried to push the creature away. The deck of the boat was black and slimy, awash with ink and sea water.
Bob suddenly recognized his guest might be in trouble “Don’t, don’t — just pull your foot away. Don’t, he could, here, here, give me the gaff. I’ll
put him back here, I’ll put him back here.”
The captain quickly but carefully moved a cooler, a tackle box, then stepped closer to the bow, grabbed the gaff and pulled the big squid up and over
the center seat. Cam was busy pulling several tentacles from his feet and ankles — a tug of war stretched the beast to its full five feet. Bob won
the contest, the squid slid down to the rear deck, began to reach out for anything it could use to find a purchase, find a way to escape. Bob shoved
the animal into a corner, placed a cooler, the tackle box and two cushions between the squid and his own shoe-clad feet.
“Sorry, tennis shoes or boat shoes are better for this kind of thing. I shoulda said something, about the thongs. The suckers have little teeth.
Those welts you have should be all gone tomorrow. Might wanna put some cream on them. While we’re talking about cream, did you put some sunscreen
on? Even a morning run can cook your skin right off this time of year.”
“I put some on this morning and I’ve got some more in my little bag here.”
It was all Cam could do to try to look calm and unruffled. He was shaken, scared. He felt violated, totally out of his element, frightened he might
fare worse with what was yet to come. He wondered what other dangers the rest of the trip might hold.
“Cam, I’ll cut some bait before we go lookin’. You want a beer? Got plenty. Unless it’s too early for you. You did good, you deserve a beer.”
“Sure, great, thanks.” Cam put on a the smile you make for the camera at the DMV.
Bob put his beer in a holder, grabbed the squid’s tentacle, cut off the end. Cam was glad he could no longer see the baleful eye, the strange light
show and the flailing about that must be taking place just beyond his view, just beyond the metal bench in the center of the boat. Bob deftly cut the
slimy flesh into strips, fixed them to plastic lures each with 2 big hooks. He let the line and lures out behind the little boat, put the rods in
holders, adjusted the trolling speed to present the lures on the surface with just a little splash four or five times a minute.
“May as well start right here. We’re out far enough. We’ll troll over toward Chivato and if we don’t see anything in close, we’ll go outside for a
little while.”
Cam was out of danger for the moment. A healthy path to composure: talk to the captain. “What are we after now? Mahi Mahi?”
“Yep, that’s what they call em in Hawaii. Here they’re called Dorado, golden. They’re great fighters. Sometimes they just travel in ones and twos,
other times in large schools.”
The visitor now had time to check his feet and ankles. Bob was right, most of the welts were faded now, almost back to normal. Cam watched the
lures pop and splash. The clouds to the east had dissipated, the sky was clear and blue, no wind, calm seas.
Over the sound of the motor Cam yelled “Where were we? Where were we yesterday?”
Bob looked long and hard at the mountains to the west, then pointed. “There, about there. See that third little mesa? I think that’s where we saw
the rock. It’s hard to tell from here. There’s really no point of ref......” One reel clicker began to scream.
Cam could see a golden-green flash as a big fish jumped and spun at the end of the line. The captain slowed the boat, pulled the rod from the
holder, turned to Cam, held out the rod.
“Here, you bring him in. It’s a nice dorado.”
Cam said “No, no Bob, you bring this one in, I’ll watch you, I’ll get the next one.”
“No argument from me, I love to catch these guys.”
Bob began to pump the rod, reel in line while the colorful fish jumped again and again. When the fish was almost touching the boat the captain
handed the rod to his passenger, once again grabbed the leader, pulled the fish close, sunk the gaff hook deep, just behind the head. Cam was afraid
to stand up for a better view. The boat was rocking, the deck slick with slime and ink and sea water. Bob held the fish fast with the gaff, struck
the head with a short heavy club. The new fisherman flinched as Bob swung the club again and again, striking the fish on its blunt nose. Cam thought
the first blow should have been enough — he guessed it would have crushed a man’s skull, been a deathblow. Could this creature pose more danger to
the two men than the squid? Why would Bob simply pick up the squid, drop it at his feet and now use such vicious force to kill these incredibly
beautiful and seemingly harmless fish.
“Well, young man. We got dinner.” He picked up the fish by its gill cover, held it up so Cam could see the full five feet, the huge, almost
comically disproportionate head. “About 30 or 35 pounds. There’s a big burlap sack behind you in the bow. Just drape it over this guy, with that
plastic bailer put a little water on him now and then, just keep the bag wet. I’ll throw some ice on him a little later.”
[Edited on 1-23-2010 by Osprey]
Pescador - 1-23-2010 at 01:35 PM
Man, not only could I feel the pull of the fish, but I swear I could smell the saltwater.
bajabass - 1-23-2010 at 02:03 PM
My first time fishing in Pescador's area, we caught the jurel and dorado the same way. My wife's 3rd cousin is a fisherman in San Bruno, one of the
Romero clan. Right at sunrise, he caught a Humboldt on a hand line. We used that thing for bait all day! Nice steaks deep for the yellowtail, small
strips fly lined to the schoolie dorado on the surface, chunks on a leadhead for the cabrilla and triggers. Thanks for making me remember one of the
best days of my life on the water Osprey!