Bahia de Los Angeles, October 2004 - Part 4
Fishing with Men
A young man, Ian, was camping in a small palapa next to our cabin and we introduced ourselves and then shared space and time. Ian was in his early
thirties, a few years older than our boys, and reminded me of Michael Fox in his composure and he was a pal to share our experiences with in our
mutually chosen place. Ian?s dad was a race driver in cars of specific ages, the 50?s and 60?s and across third world nations. Ian had grown
experiencing his parents? world while he?d grown into his own. Something in his descriptions grabbed at me, made me listen, hear a life, different
from mine, somehow unique but uncomplaining. We shared several nights sitting across sands and shreds of conversation, small pieces where we filled
in the gaps of our shared missing moments I guess. But perhaps I was filling my own gaps. Maybe his weren?t there, except in my mind.
One night he said he would like to fish. I had a boat and motor there at Gecko?s. Would he like go out the next morning? I?m not big on fishing but
we need flesh and I enjoy Ian and would enjoy his pleasure catching fish. Yes he says and the next morning off we go, early.
The weather was bad in a word but we weren?t going out far. Just far enough to have Ian catch a fighter. We circled the inside of Caballo for a few
loops, realized the weather was changing and dropped into a protected place I would have never have dreamed of fishing in better weather. I fell with
an unbaited salas to the bottom and immediately hooked a very small firecracker, let it go and then Ian hooked up with a hefty red-fleshed Skip Jack,
a Bonita type that he brought in without knowing. The last fish Ian had caught was when he was 12. He was wound up in the moment, not in the killing
of a wild beast, rather in the moment of beast against beast. It was a pleasure watching him argue the spinning reel, tighten the drag and fight in
his catch.
By the time the fish was aboard the wind had risen and the spume was flying horizontally across the waters surface, stinging our faces. It had only
been a few days since hurricane Javier and I wasn?t paying attention to the weather before we had gone out. No sweat, I think to myself, we?re only a
few miles from shore. I turned the boat into the weather for the final leg home and we rode the sea-troughs in the direction of the camp, barely
seeing above them.
Having caught the untasty fish we did our best to make it work. Ian marinated the flesh in his sauce for hours and then we smoked it over heavy wood.
It turned out tasty and we consumed it all.
The next morning a pal from Dana Point, Dave, and his friends we?ve met before were going out to the nearby islands. They had a collapsible boat and
a small outboard. It would carry only two of them. Dave asked me if I was interested in going out too. We followed his pals out to Horses Head
again and trolled the east side. We were all hooking Skipjack and releasing. We pursued this for a while and then headed out to the spot I know for
catching Jawfish. We dropped into a hundred foot sandy bottom and quickly brought in 5 nice 4-pounders.
?Do we have enough?? Dave asked me. While he was enjoying catching, he wanted to be certain we could use everything we caught. Great attitude. We
headed back to Gecko.
?How do you cook Jawfish?? Dave asked.
?Well,? I said, ?there are healthier ways, but I like mine dipped in beer batter and deep fried.? This may account for my growing gut, I think but
don?t say.
Once back in camp Dave and I clean the fish and cut them into small strips several inches long and a half-inch wide and mix up the batter of flour,
yeast and warm beer and put the fish in the ice chest and the batter in a warm place to let it rise. When we?re ready to eat I dip the fish in the
batter and fry it, present it with catsup and Chinese mustard and tarter sauce. Good stuff. I pass pieces around camp and everyone likes it big
time. Crispy surface, flaky flesh.
I always enjoy heading out to the islands and bays near Bahia de Los Angeles with other guys. A lot of ladies think guys don?t talk a lot. But
sitting in a small boat with part of your mind tuned on fishing, any number of conversations surface. It?s a quiet time with not a lot to distract
you. The sea?s surface is usually tranquil and the views of the peninsula and islands must be conducive to thought because we never suffer for
conversation. And, of course, there are no ?honey-do?s.?
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