“You and Me, Amigo!” Julio
was speaking his best English in a voice just a loud enough for me to hear over
the whining 300 HP diesel engine. It was a whisper compared to the Catepillar.
We were crouched down in front of the bait tank, each with a Trinidad
40 loaded with fresh 50# test and a fresh Cabalitto. We were cocked and ready.
It had been a hard trip. I had fished three days through
constant wind and this morning the insult of a cold rain joined the northerly.
Wow. Blanked two days running. I really didn’t think that was possible on the
East Cape, but I never anticipated having to hide out from the wind in Los
Frailes for a couple of days when they weren’t biting.
Day one had been a good day. We fished south and picked off
a limit of nice Dorado with a bonus 30# Amberjack thrown in for good measure.
We had picked off a pair of 70# Amberjacks one morning in July in that same bay,
but were not at all disappointed with the one we had. We’d had something hit
that morning strong enough to backlash a Tiagra 30W in free spool with a
drifted chunk of squid and the clicker on. Whatever it was, it hit it hard
enough to spin the spool against the clicker. Probably a bigger brother of the
Amberjack we had, but it could’ve been anything. As it was, it was nothing.
We were now about a mile and a half of Punta Pescadero. We
had fought the cold rain north, uphill for two hours in the morning and it had
finally worn us down. Through the haze
of the heavy mist, in the middle of the northerly blowing a constant 15, our
second buoy showed up. Those same “outside” shark buoys that produced big bull
Dorados on Day two were vacant. We had hauled two hours into the teeth of the
cold rain; knocked on the door – and no one was home.
It was only after we had headed towards home that the wind
let up and the rain petered out. Fishing the 88 was a long haul on a good day.
We were short of it when we pulled the plug. Two of us below had getting
pounded heading into the weather. The builders of Mexican boat seat cushions
are not renowned for their comfort, and we had moved gear bags off the benches
to the floor. It was actually something useful I learned in college: Things
can’t fall off the floor. An hour and a half earlier I had found the only dry
towel on the boat and rolled it up to serve a double purpose as a pillow and to
catch the rain backsplashing into the cockpit. I was on the wet side.
A quick peek to the flybridge showed the crew taking the brunt
of the weather. The skipper had on a rainproof slicker that covered his shorts and
camisetta just down past his knees. No hat. He was barefoot, standing on a small wet
towel. The deckhand was in his non-rain proof light jacket, sporting American racing
logos. His red hat was dripping wet. He was shivering, his giant bare feet
dripping onto an even smaller towel. We knew these guys would go on if we ask
them to. Hell, they were going to go on if we didn’t tell them not to. My
partner and I, in a glance, instantly agreed; we’re not about to let either one of them risk
pneumonia so we can run out in questionable seas to a questionable bite.
It was a couple of hours later and we were 20 miles south. Primed, cocked and ready to jump up and fire
two bridled Cabalitto’s to the first fining fish we’d seen in three days. I’d
been invited into Julio’s world. He is the Marlin King. The Undisputed Champ.
Deckhands in Mexico
don’t like your knots or the way you cast. You can’t take the knot thing to
seriously, they’ll cut off the knot their brother tied yesterday. After 35
years of watching them work, and probably too many slow trolling days, I now
tie almost everything in their inventory. Julio had invited me to tie an
Albright earlier in the day. I guess I passed his test because he was
now inviting me to cast with him!
Live bait casting off cruisers is a learned skill. Most of
us who grew up fishing the San Diego
boats could cast at one point in time. Those of us who have been deckhands and
skippers can still cast a little. Presenting the bait to a surfacing billfish
is a bit of an art. It’s more than don’t
hit ‘em on the head with it. East Cape deckhands can
cast a small bait to a small target a long way away. They do this as easily and
gracefully as a matador performs a suerte de capote. They also do it
with as much pride and style. Unspoken coordination between the skipper and the
mate is the rule. When they do speak it is in a rapid fire Baja Spanish you and
I will never comprehend.
After braving the weather for three days straight, we had
called it a good fight. Like always we kept a couple of live-bait rods out at
the ready. Everything else was wrapped up and stowed. This was the last day of
five. We’d made the turn around after the second buoy, deciding to work our way
southwest and fish different lines of buoys on a general line towards Bahia de los Muertos.
It was easier going this direction for all four of us and
for the boat. Seeing the boys freezing inspired a better use for the formerly
dry towel, which had served as my pillow and splash wick. These boats are
single engine, with it of course placed squarely in the middle, covered by boat
cushions. This area forms a nice flat space for seating. A towel placed under
the boat cushions, between the cushions and engine cover, gets Barber Shop towel warm in about five minutes.
Heading down weather now, I stood at the bottom of the
flybridge ladder. The crew was engaged in a conversation which I'm sure included working conditions. I threw
the mate a dry wrung – steaming hot towel. His giant hands grabbed it in midair,
while his face held a question mark. His expression warmed as he
felt the heat on his fingers. He held on to one end and gave he other to the
skipper for his hands. I wish I could take credit for being survival smart
enough to have figured that one out, but the credit goes to my English boarding
school educated, horse ballet riding, couldn't tie a string around a bakery box, fishing buddy. We ran an exchange of
towels and soaked clothes through our steam laundry for the next hour. All of
out spirits had soared along with our body temperatures.
As we approached the coast north of Punta Pescadero we
caught a bit of shelter behind the northern reach of the Sierra de Lagunas. The
wind let up and, the rain reduced to almost nothing. This let the surface roll
in a gentle, glassy flat rolling surface. Pescadero Canyon runs close to shore here. The canyon runs off towards the southern tip of Cerralvo Island from here, bending east towards the deep Cerralvo Trench. It's as good a fish trap as there is nearshore.
Spotting the Striped Marlin hadn’t been hard. He was up
enjoying the clear weather break as much as we were. It wasn’t the usual just barely
see a sickle fin or just catch a glimpse kind of spot: This guy was up on the
surface – just cruising. He might as well have been in a rowboat.
The local technique for baiting these fish appears to be to gun
to the boat to top speed, letting off throttle at the exact moment to maintain
enough momentum to allow the boat to drift by the fining fish. While in this
drift the idea is to get the bait in front of the fish - Without spooking him. The skipper set up with the sun behind us. We drift in, waiting . . .
I’d follow Julio’s bait in. I wanted my bait in the water two
seconds after his, which I roughly calculated, given the pace of our run by the
Marlin, would put a good space between the baits. I had a list of don’ts, and on
that list was don’t throw on top of Julio’s bait and don’t throw over Julio’s
line. Keeping a left handed cast out of the outriggers was another
consideration of less moment.
Casting from a confined space to a moving target from a
moving vessel is a lot like trying to hit a cut eight iron to a Sunday pin on
#12 at Augusta National. You’ll hit the water about the same number of times on
average. It reminded me of shooting doves (in season) from the fender of my brother’s moving car (illegal then - probably a 25 to life now)
when I was in grade school. Being a lefty, there was always fender room and most of his high school buddies didn't shoot that straight.
One rule in casting is to always keep your eye on the bait.
All the way back and all the way forward. Turn your head too soon and you won’t see
it gently wrap around the outrigger, the spare rod, the loose leader or the
deckhand’s sunglasses. It is important to keep your eye on your bait while
casting. I’ve watched them fly into and over outriggers mostly – especially
sliding to the right Damn it – I’m left
handed!
Day two we fished north and the crew found of a
couple of nice bull Dorado for us off the shark buoys. We had two big fish 45#
- 50# class bulls. I’d made a couple of casts then without embarrassment, but I
was on the first tee with no warm up. Not even a practice swing.
The engine cut and the whining turbo-charger roar was
replaced by the sudden silence of a drifting boat, as much silence as there can be
from a now idling diesel engine, but it was a peaceful idle.
Julio stood up and fired his bait 60 feet off the starboard
quarter. Two seconds later my bait bounced in 40 feet on the same bearing. I
never saw the fish. I threw to a spot on a line and was lucky enough to hit it.
The skipper let the boat drift slightly to the right, allowing us to space our
baits. Julio moved across the stern tilting his rod to the right, while I
stayed up the right side, rod tilted to the left; both of us coaxing line off reels
in free spool with tugs on the main line, governed by a smart left thumb, to
release more line, and a gentle but continous tipping of the rod tip with the left hand.
The skipper put the idling boat in gear. We pulled ahead 20 feet,
my line and Julio’s line drawing slightly closer together.
The boat moving changed the technique slightly in that now
the left thumb was holding the reel from free spooling. My line went heavy . .
.
We hadn’t seen a billfish since day two. We had baited a
very nice Pacific Sailfish after he knocked down our left outrigger. Julio had
baited it. Fish in the jigs is a different fire drill than fishing a sleeper,
cruiser, or jumper. This is where big game fishing crosses over with big game
hunting. Spotting and stalking are the mainstay of East Cape
billfishing. Striped Marlin and Pacific Sailfish are resident nearly year round
and Blue and Black Marlin usually show up in July and stay through November.
Blue Marlin over 500# are recorded every year. It had been a particularly large
Pacific Sailfish. In excess of 100#.
I’d been here before. Today wasn’t about Blue Marlin. It had come down to one fish – one chance –
one fish, godgiven chance. It was about the Striped Marlin we’d spotted and
baited. It was about one fish. Redemption.
The crew communicated in rapid fire Spanish which is the
norm in these situations. I couldn’t tell if the skipper was asking Julio why
in the hell he let the gringo cast, telling him where the fish was or whether
they were planning dinner. I could tell, though, I was bit.
The line didn’t spin off the spool. It was a constant pull.
The boat was still in gear at idle and I lightened my touch on the line. I
could feel the spool smoothly spinning beneath my thumb. I waited a few seconds
and tested the bite by applying a little more thumb pressure. It went heavy.
The crew sees the bite and we’re in game mode. I let it spin, do a slow 10 count, and throw
the reel in gear. I’ve got the drag set with enough pressure to set the hook,
yet light enough to handle a fast run. When the rod bends tight I swing three
times, hard, as the skipper guns the engine. I’m in gear. My drag takes over from
here. I settle in for the fight. Skunked no more!
I’d fought a Julio hooked baited Sailfish three days
earlier. For the East Cape that was a long time between
billfish, but we’d tried for giants one day and tuna another. That Sailfish
wasn’t remarkable in it’s fight or its size, but will be one I will never forget. I'd quickly
brought the fish up on the left side of the boat and Julio had made fast work
of removing the hook and reviving the fish. The fish was still green, clean hooked and
revival or survival appeared to be non issue. As Julio released the Sailfish, it
coughed up its stomach. Now this is a disgusting site and ruins the immediate
generally fine appearance of these noble beasts. I’ve seen it before. It's a prom dress covered in second hand Sloe Gin. The
fish do this as a defense to rid themselves of bad seafood and terminal tackle.
Every time I’ve
seen this before, it was during the fight and always remedied by the mate during the
revival and release by pushing the stomach back into the fish while holding the
bill and letting the water run over its gills.
This fish threw its stomach out after we released it and was
now bobbing up and down, bill first, coming two to three feet out of the water 20 feet off the stern. It looked a lot like a Crappie bobber. A giant Crappie bobber. The skipper put
the boat in reverse as Julio stepped over the fish box on to the swimstep.
Julio grabbed the bobbing bill with one hand, lifting the Sailfish with his
left and putting the fish’s stomach back in with his right: All in one motion.
He again revived the Sailfish and a few minutes later we watched it slowly swim
off, disappearing into the azure blue depths.
This was my bait, my cast, my bite, and my hookup. This was the
fish to end the skunk. Zorrillo no mas.
I leaned back and felt an awful tug. There’s a slight pull
you can feel through the line to the rod tip down the handle to the grip when a hook has slipped. It’s an almost indecipherable tug. I’ve lost enough
fish to recognize it. I’m fishing “J” hooks and I know it’s not like a Circle
hook and going to slip into a better position. I maintain pressure. He was 100
feet off the stern, at least, when the bait came flying out of the wave. He was
off. Julio still had bait in the water but we both knew it was over.
I like to set hooks and I like to set hooks hard. I know
I’ll give up “J” hooks about the same time I give up smoking. The catch ratio
on hooked billfish for me is a high number. Maybe it’s in the hard set, or the
long count delay, or good luck, or a smart crew or maybe JoBu. I wound the bait
in for the post-mortem.
The hook has been moved from it’s original head position,
bridled forward to a position where it was stuck sideways through the the back of
the Cabalitto. Both eyeballs are gone. The edges of the marlin bill had slashed
the bait across both sides. The crew examined it as closely as a CSI Investigator. Looked like a bill snag that didn’t stick. Damn it.
I checked the bait tank as Julio wound in. We had a couple
left alive and another 6 miles to home. The sun was peaking out from behind the
storm and we watched the end of a rainbow run across Punta Pescadero.
Our solace was interrupted by the roar of the diesel engine
winding up and the 90 degree turn to the left. Dorado on the surface at about a
half mile. We re-rig baits.
Julio and I assume our stations. This time the boat is
sliding to the left. My way. Like duck hunters rising from the blind we rose to
fire bait at our quarry. Before us was a calm flat spot of Sea with a large
footprint, spreading 20 feet across. As we slid in a 500# Bull Sea Lion
surfaced in the middle of the footprint. In his jaws he was holding a 15#
Dorado. Thrashing it from one side to the other. A very freshly caught 15#
Dorado.
I heard a very fat lady singing that familiar tune, now with a
chorus of “You and Me, Amigo!”
