During the last Semana Santa, the Spanish description of Holy Week between Palm Sunday and Easter Sunday, I decided to give myself a present. Instead of hunting Easter eggs with my neighbors’ kids, I would drive from my home in San Diego down the Baja Peninsula and get myself some Mexican wahoo.
The thought of being in a small boat in the deep Pacific water had always made me skittish, but I was determined to give it a go.
First, I trolled the Internet doing my usual meticulous level of research, seeking multiple sites for boats and skippers. I scrutinized ratings for captains, looked at different marinas, and read reviews of boats. I was surprised that most were already booked (procrastination strikes again) so I started looking into the less popular areas. Eventually, I stumbled on a web site that featured a lovely small town and found the best boat still available for a day hire. Found a good headshot of a boat captain that showed a big, brown-skinned man with a moustache that would have made Pancho Villa proud. Though I had zero experience with deep-sea fishing, the blurry picture of his boat showed it seemed adequate for what I had in mind. Best of all, the price was surprisingly low. Christened the Agua Holic, the package resonated with my Good Friday holiday plans—specifically, to fish on Friday and party along with the Mexicans on Friday night.
So, I jumped on I-5 south Thursday morning and fought the Southern California traffic down to Tijuana. Next was Highway 1 into Baja and south though Ensenada before going overland towards my destination at Los Santos del Mar. I drove through Baja’s rocky terrain, mostly brown sandy soil, speckled with green cacti. Stark and yet beautiful. Other than scattered small villages or towns, I saw few people, way different from the millions of people stuffed into Southern California. The drive was peppered with occasional spectacular views of the Pacific Ocean, gorgeous blue water, and rocky cliffs overlooking peek-a-boo beaches. I had some experience shallow water bone fishing off the Yucatan’s Caribbean coast so I was acquainted with how stunning Mexico could be.
In no hurry, I stopped in one of the small coastal beach towns for dinner. The two restaurants overflowed with visitors so I grabbed some street food and ate a plate of spicy frijoles and rice outside on the town plaza before heading further south. The highway turned into dirt, then squeezed itself into an even narrower road, almost a dirt track, as it wove its way through the dusty hills to the ocean and Los Santos, which turned out to be the epitome of a small Mexican village. A really, really small Mexican village, smaller than it had looked on the Internet. I had a room booked in the only B&B available, a really, really small wooden house on the outskirts of town. It felt deserted when I arrived well after dark. There was nobody at what resembled a front desk, just a packet with my name on it that contained a key. No note. No information. Just a key to a small, sparsely furnished room down the dark hallway. Not a problem—I came here to fish, not to hang out in a rented room.
Little did I know that there were two big holes in my investigation, besides waiting too long to book my adventures. The first mistake was that I did not research the calendar. My chosen date was right at the end of Lent. Not being Catholic, I did not realize that in most Catholic countries, almost nothing gets done during Lent, especially La Semana Santa. People go on vacation, similar to France in August where everything shuts down. I also did not know that in many locations, Lent ends on the evening of Holy Thursday, also known as Maundy Thursday, which celebrates the night of The Last Supper. This means that people, even people on holiday, who have been deprived of many pleasures for the 40 days of Lent, tend to have a major blowout after dinner on Thursday. Certainly true for this little town where the celebration was epic, though I did not know this at the time. Mistake number two.
I awoke early on Good Friday and hoofed it down through a thin fog toward the docks, daydreaming of world-class wahoo, and anxious to arrive at the contracted time of six a.m. Rounding the last corner, I stopped in mid stride. Seen in the early morning sunlight, the deserted marina was not what I had been promised. Elderly trucks and beat up cars lined the area. The pier looked rickety and sun bleached. There was only a scattering of boats, most in desperate need of a paint job. This was not the picture I saw on the Internet.
I could feel my shoulders slump as the image in front of me sunk in. I clenched my fists a few times, kicked a couple beer cans, and uttered every Spanish curse I could remember. Twice. Then counted to ten. Twice.
Okay, boy. This is supposed to be a vacation. Be positive. Make the most of it. Just because Los Santos del Mar was not like the glistening state-of-the art marinas clustered around San Diego didn’t mean there weren’t big fish out west waiting to be caught. Same Pacific Ocean. So, I stepped out, determined to be upbeat and to enjoy the weekend.
The boardwalk was empty, in spite of the scheduled early departure. I wandered down the pier, checking out the boats and waited by the Agua Holic, herself scarred and in dire need of paint. Eventually, a small group of people started to filter in, moving pretty slowly, dragging themselves like zombies in some late night B movie. Guys clinging together, holding each other up. I mentally flashed back to a similar situation from my college days living on Frat Row, staggering to Monday morning classes after a blow out weekend. This was a massive collective hangover.
I recognized my captain, his Pancho Villa moustache drooping, wearing a stained white shirt with Agua Holic printed across the front, as he crept along the boardwalk. Or, more accurately, staggered along, dragging a cooler. A smaller man, wearing a similar shirt and presumably his first mate, wavered uncertainly by his side. The mate stumbled and dragged both men down in a tangle of thrashing arms and legs. Two more oblivious drunks crashed down on top. More arms and legs. Lots of angry words that escalated into some pushing and shoving. Then a few slow motion, ineffectual punches were thrown. Eventually, the pushing and shoving slowed even further. The mate struggled to his feet and stalked away, turning several times to gesticulate in a manner that left no question about how he felt.
I was beyond angry. Angry was nothing more than a pleasant memory as I watched this Mexican-style Keystone Kops episode blow up my weekend adventure right in front of me. How in the world am I going to get my money back?
I cursed myself for paying up front and on-line. Mistake number three.
The pile of bodies began to untangle. Pancho Villa struggled to his feet. He bent over, hands on his knees to collect himself. He held up his right hand, index finger extended, and looked me in the eyes. “Un momento, por favor.”
He gestured at the nearby Agua Holic and spoke to me quietly, as if the words hurt his head. And it wasn’t the Spanish I had learned from textbooks. It was local Spanish as spoken by people far from the great universities that protected the sacred words and word structures of their ancestors. It was practical, idiomatic Spanish, spoken in the slow, deliberate manner of a man still half in the bag. So practical that I could understand it only from his waving of hands and pointing of fingers. I did detect a few curses, which, while I did not understand the actual words, certainly emphasized his meanings.
As soon as Pancho Villa stepped aboard the boat and loaded on his cooler, he transitioned into El Capitán Villa, still hung over and stumbling a bit, but El Capitán nonetheless, a proud man. He began to stagger around getting ready to launch. Not having any better ideas, I followed his lead, threw my backpack on board, and stood on the pier. Apparently I was drafted to be the stand-in for the first mate. Still determined to go fishing, I swallowed my nervousness about the upcoming trip, and stood ready to sail. This was going to be some voyage.
He started the engines, then pointed at the ropes connecting the boat to the pier. I cast off the lines and hopped back on board. El Capitán gunned the engines and we lurched out of the marina, nearly sideswiping another boat.
The Agua Holic headed out to sea through a filmy cloudbank that appeared almost ghostly, but burnt away slowly as we motored away from the shore. The sky turned into a scalding blue, shining with brilliance that reflected off the water in a way that hurt the eyes. It figures that I’d forget my brand new shades. Mistake Number Four…and counting. Seagulls fluttered and swooped about in our wake, looking for food. El Capitán slumped over the wheel as I watched the shoreline gradually drop away.
Some time later, tired of listening to his snoring, I busied myself by wandering through the boat. It didn’t take long. The most obvious object was the fighting chair for the upcoming battles. This chair was pretty basic; seat cushions cracked from the sun but sturdy enough. Most important, it had a seat belt with a cup holder for the rod handle. I paused and imagined myself in that chair, strapped and fighting the biggest fish of my life. The galley sat tucked away down below, also pretty basic. Propane stove, small ship’s refrigerator (empty), a few banged up pots and pans.
Thankfully, the fishing tackle looked first-rate and well organized. I recognized the brands stamped on the rods. I found heavy monofilament and wire leaders, which I knew from my Internet search were the preferred choices when going out for the sharp toothed wahoo. The built-in tackle box contained a variety of lures called “Wahoo Bombs.” These were basically six-inch long, slender, colorful lures shaped like a fish with a skirt masking the single hook. Wahoo love ‘em. Yippee! Finally, this trip is coming together.
Now well out of sight of land, I faced aft scanning in all directions, watching as the waves slid past. The color of the water was mesmerizing—the sea a deep cobalt blue with big swells pulsing by, lifting and dropping the boat, the rhythm almost hypnotic. Sun glinted off the surface and my skin was prickly from the heat. I kept an eye out for other boats but saw only gorgeous blue water in all directions. I settled back with one hand on my chest, jumpy nerves vanquished, open water no longer fearsome. I was content.
Finally, I covered my head with a towel, and started daydreaming about boating a big wahoo.
I had never actually seen one, only pictures of successful anglers on docks, clustered around a bunch of their big fish, always with enormous shit-eating grins plastered on their sunburned faces. I thought that wahoo got their name from the almost universal anglers’ cry of “wahoo!” when one would hit a lure or bait. Instead, according to my research, the word wahoo is the result of misspellings of Oahu on early maps of the Hawaiian Islands. The Hawaiians call the fish “ono”, which means delicious. I decided that fresh wahoo was what I wanted for dinner that night. I was then ambushed by sleep.
When I awoke, El Capitán was stretched out on the deck, unconscious, totally out of it. I called to him. No response. I called out again, louder this time. No movement. Again. Nada. Zip. This guy was not merely asleep, he was in a stupor. I checked the galley and found a couple empty Modelo bottles. Apparently, he had awakened and decided that a little pelo del perro was what he needed. Ever courteous, he left one for me. Probably just didn’t see it.
I scanned the horizon. Nothing but ocean dotted with a few rain showers in the distance. I had absolutely no idea where we were. A glance at my dive watch showed that time was leaking away. If El Captain did not rouse himself soon, I was going to douse him with a bucket of seawater.
I paused to take in the situation. I was basically alone on a boat on the edge of the Pacific, out of sight of land. Sure, I enjoyed the smell of salt air, the enormous blue sky, painted with high, thin cirrus clouds, sea birds kiting in the Pacific breeze, all those things. But I had come here to fish, not just drive around aimlessly on the water.
In the distance, I spotted a swirl of gulls feeding, a sure sign of sardinas—small fish—schooling near the surface. Which might mean big fish. Hmm, worth a look. I took the wheel and aimed for the action.
I can do this, I’ve fished before. How different can it be? All deep sea fishing takes is a bigger boat, bigger gear, bigger water. I know the theory.
Next step—set up the poles. I dug out two Wahoo Bombs and attached them to the leaders, then set the poles in the rod holders in the gunnels on opposite sides of the boat, and let the lines out about two hundred feet. I adjusted the boat’s course—swamping the boat in the swells was not on my agenda—to pass off to one side of the swirling water.
Now to wait. I took stock of what I’d done so far. Satisfied, I tweaked a course correction again to aim at feeding birds, sat in the fighting chair, and treated myself to the last Modelo.
The port side pole suddenly bent and line started screaming off the reel. A hit! I grabbed the pole, plopped back into the chair, and began to work the fish. After ten minutes of furious effort, I saw the most wonderful sight—an enormous wahoo—possibly the most wondrous creature ever—as it broke the surface with a leap that took it ten or fifteen feet in the air. As it crashed back down, my heart, already thumping along at max reps, managed to accelerate. My God, it was glorious!
All that remained was to bring “my” wahoo into the boat. This one refused to give up easily. Sweat poured off my forehead, burning my eyes. My arms ached. There’s no way I can get this monster aboard by myself! Knowing that about half wahoo hooked are lost in the final stage of the fight, and desperate for help, I shouted at El Capitán to wake up. I lurched out of the chair, maintaining tension on the line, and kicked him.
To summarize the situation at this point: I don’t know where we are, how to get back to land, I’m holding onto a massive fighting fish, and have absolutely no idea what to do next. I was still euphoric but it seemed as if I had been fighting this fish for an eternity. I kicked El Capitán again and dredged up every Spanish curse word that I knew to wake him up. He opened his eyes and staggered to his feet, a dazed look on his face.
Finally, finally!
As experience kicked in, El Capitan snatched up the gaff. He shouted and waved instructions to bring the fish alongside, expertly gaffed the gorgeous fish and we had it aboard. OMG, what a magnificent fish
After a few deep breaths, he held the fish up like a proud papa and gestured me to secure the rod and pick up my camera for the photo op (pictures of successful days are good for business, after all). Then we switched places.
I grasped the line and held on while El Capitán fiddled with my phone, almost dropping it. I squeezed out a quick smile, and recovered the phone, still shaking off the effects of the long fight. I collapsed into the fighting chair, grateful for the break. I just stared at “my” wahoo, trying to catch my breath. All was good in my world.
Just then, the rod on the starboard side snapped, reel screaming as line was stripped off from another hit!
OMG! Another one! I jumped up and grabbed the pole. I nearly lost it as the fish raced away from us. I wrestled with the pole as I staggered back to the fighting chair. A grinning El Capitan strapped me back in.
This time, my enthusiasm was tempered by fatigue. But I was still exhilarated. Wow! No, not wow— Wahoo! The fish was a bit smaller than the first but every bit as determined to escape. Its leap was not quite as high as wahoo number one.
I fought the fish for what seemed like an hour. Finally, my arms trembling with fatigue, my strength nearly spent, I brought it alongside for El Capitán to gaff and bring aboard.
I slumped back into the chair, exhausted. El Capitan laughed as he secured the poles and turned the boat around to head for the marina. A few seconds later, he produced two ice-cold cervezas from a secret hiding place, and toasted our success.
It was the best beer of my life.
I settled into the chair, tired but ecstatic, content to watch as the boat lifted and rocked in the heat of the late afternoon, spray streaming from the modest white caps. The sun sinking into the horizon behind us gave me hope that we were heading at least vaguely in the right direction, but I was too happy to worry.
When land appeared, sure enough we were pointing like a spear directly at the mountains behind Los Santos del Mar. How he knew where we were and how to get back to the marina is beyond me. If I had been steering, we would still be making small circles in the immense expanse that is the Pacific Ocean.
El Capitán seemed to draw energy from the land breeze as we approached the marina and was nearly fully recovered as we tied up.
A clutch of locals, including El Capitán’s wife, La Señora Capitán greeted us with cheers. We produced the wondrous wahoo to the raucous approval of the crowd. Many shouts of congratulations mingled with many pictures taken. It turned into a glorious celebration as I became one with this group of new friends.
La señora took possession of both fish. As she left, she asked, “¿Tú comes con nosotros, no?” —“You will eat with us, right?” Phrased like a question, it was clear from her tone that a positive reply was not only expected, but also mandatory.
“Si, señora, por supuesto.”—“Yes, ma’am. Of course.” I was delighted. And a bit intimidated. She issued directions to their home, then marched away, along with El Capitan who carried the larger fish to share the load. This dinner would be a command performance.
After a quick nap and a shower back in my room, I presented myself at the appointed hour and shook hands with their extended family, which seemed like half the village—even the missing first mate was present. There were more congratulations, more photos, and lots of tequila. With much fanfare, the cooked fish were carried in triumphantly on a huge platter. My fish became the stars of the party (it was a Friday, after all) and about as fresh as it gets. They were delicious. I mean “ono.”
It turned out to be the “goodest” Good Friday of my life. Quite a day.
P.S. And yes, I booked myself in for a week’s fishing on the Agua Holic next La Semana Santa.