Roosters and Leopards and Sharks OH MY!
Adventure travelogue — spearfishing south of the border
Humor and photos by Kurt Bickel, free-diver, former pro motorcycle and bicycle racer
(45-minute read in 4 parts)
I should have told Nate about my border crossing karma. Every trip to Mexico I’ve been stopped. Including the one time I got the green light to pass through.
“Guns?” “Drugs?” “Beer?” “Cigarettes?”
The customs agent chants as begins to go through our gear. We will hear this litany a dozen times during our trip…Like a backup group for a 60’s soul act we reply: “No no no no!”
HOW IT ALL BEGAN…
Nate Baker and I had planned for several months to hunt the Bahia Tortuga area of Baja, Mexico for a week or two in late September. Visions of enormous yellowtail, grouper, dorado, and white sea bass danced in our minds as departure time appear. Emails with subject lines like “Must kill fish” wandered back and forth across the Internet. Every few days mysterious nautical charts would show up in my mailbox with cryptic notes written on them. We had the fever.
The day finally comes when we’re leaving and we find out there’s a hurricane off the tip of Baja. Going to plan B, we head decide to head inland to the Sea of Cortez for a couple of days, hopefully avoiding the worst effects of the ‘cain.
Preparing for a trip like this requires some logistical planning. We decide to bring my inflatable (folded up inside the truck), and take Nate’s Ford Explorer, which will allow us to lock gear inside if necessary.
By time we are ready to leave, his truck looks like the opening scene in the Beverly Hillbillies, sans rocking chair on the roof. There is literally zero airspace in the cargo area, where gear is jigsawed into place after several hours of packing. Gun muzzles intrude into the seating area. The passenger will straddle the CD box, maps, and Baja Catch book for the entire trip. A glance at the roof would bring tears to the eyes of the Ford engineer who spent months making the shape of the truck aerodynamic. We’ve got gear.
So, you ask, what gear would intrepid explorers take on a 10 day expedition?
A brief list:
Three spearguns with extra shafts, tips, and lines.
One 14’ inflatable Achilles with oars, sand wheels, fuel tank.
Three extra fuel cans
One 30 HP Outboard motor
Three sleeping bags (one for the cooler)
Two large coolers
One small cooler
One 5 gallon water jug
Two Action packers full of food
Tool kit
Come Along
Camping gear (tent, air mattresses, ground cloth, stove, cooking utensils, plates, eating utensils, Etc.)
We can live out of the truck for over a week if need be…
Now step two in our plan requires getting across the USA/Mexico border. The drive through customs station works like this:
There is a stoplight looking device with a red and green light. You push a button which is supposed to randomly activate one light or the other. Green means head on through, no inspection. Red means pull over, and prepare for the worst.
I should have told Nate about my border crossing karma. Every trip to Mexico I’ve been stopped. Including the one time I got the green light. This is in keeping with my metal detector karma at airports. I have literally stripped off everything but pants and shirt and I’m still greeted with the familiar smoke alarm sound. My wife has taken to joking that I was dropped on my head as a child, and my parents were too embarrassed to tell me about the metal plate in my skull. I assume she’s referring to the metal detector, and not to any particular personality trait…
Anyway, as strains of the Police’s “Roxanne” (“you don’t have to put on the red light”) run through my mind, I cross fingers, toes, arms legs, and eyes, Nate hits the button.
Ohhhh, sorry….but we have some lovely consolation prizes for you! Just go backstage with officer Gonzales to sign some forms…
Let the games begin. Our customs inspector looks to be about 17 years old. My guess is he’s someone’s nephew who scored a prime civil service job. I have no evidence of the supposedly rampant corruption among Mexican officials, but I figure if it is true, a customs job is like winning the lottery. As he begins to go through our gear he chants a litany which we will here a dozen times during our trip…
“Guns?” “Drugs?” “Beer?” “Cigarettes?”
Like a backup group for a 60’s soul act we reply
“No no no no”
We are emptying gear out of the back, everything being torn apart and inspected as the chant is repeated. We pull out the small cooler which has two bottles of fine California wine in it when he spies the outboard motor. He looks at it from one angle. Then another. He goes to the other door, opens it, and looks some more. He tries moving it, but it’s too heavy.
“What is this?”
“Outboard motor”
“Huh?”
“Outboard motor”
“For boat?”
“Si”
He looks at it again.
“Motor?”
“Si”
Long pause.
“You cannot. You must import”
Nate begins to try to explain.
“It’s for the boat”
“Boat?”
“Si, el barco”
“Boat?”
“Si”
“Where is?”
We show him the boat, oars, and other gear. He returns to the motor and looks at it from several other angles.
“You must import”
I feel a pain starting in the back of my eyes, but I have an idea. Before we left, we had gotten what we thought were all the necessary permits, licenses, Etc. Included in this was a year’s boat permit.
“We have permit!”
“Permit?”
“Si”
I had him the paper. He looks carefully at one side. He turns it over and examines the other. He turns it upside down. He puts it up to the light like he’s going to see the image of the Virgin Mary watermarked in the paper. No Virgin Mary. He scratches his head. Then he speaks.
“Where did you get this?”
“San Diego”
“San Diego?”
“San Diego”
He looks at it again.
“Wait please”
He walks away with our permit. By this point we are surrounded by about 4 other customs guys, some armed, all with slightly bemused expressions on their faces.
Several minutes go by and our kid returns with a fellow who is obviously one of the senior guys in charge. They go over and examine the outboard from several angles, then examine the permit one more time. The older man speaks…
“Where did you get this?”
“San Diego”
“San Diego?”
“Si.”
He ponders this for several minutes, going back to take another look at the outboard.
“OK”
He hands us the paperwork and we proceed to open up the rest of our gear. The small cooler which was pulled out when the contraband outboard motor was discovered has not been checked, and is sitting in a pile with the “OK” gear. The customs mantra is repeated, this time with one addition.
“Wine?”
Yeah, right. We’ve had to pull every piece of gear out of the truck, they’ve ripped everything apart, kept us on pins and needles about the outboard, and now they want me to roll over on an ’89 Cabernet, and a ‘ 91 Zin, in the prime of their life. I want these bottles of wine. No, after this I NEED these bottles of wine. These bottles of wine may be our only connection with civilization at some point. I can tell Nate’s thinking the same thing. Like a Medallian Cartel mule, I screw up my courage and look him straight in the eye.
“No”
At this point one of the customs guys is standing right next to the cooler in question.
We sweat opening several more boxes, then the ordeal is over.
We are free to go.
Six hours on the pavement, and another 6 hours on poor dirt roads get us close to our destination. It’s a mild 121 degrees as the Isla Encantadas (Enchanted Islands) appear. We locate the remains of an old fish camp, a few unroofed stone walls, and, as darkness closes in, we set up camp.
Campo Encantadas
With winds gently gusting to the 30-40 MPH range we spend an Everest-like night lying awake in the sweltering heat having the tent whipped around like a CEO in an S & M parlor. The only difference is, it’s 200 degrees warmer here than on Everest. The wind finally breaks…allowing a full ½ hour of sleep before sunup.
I wake up to Nate’s voice.
“You gotta see this!”
Looking out the tent flap the Sea of Cortez is mirror flat, reflecting the outline of several small black islands against of fiery orange and red sky.
Sunrise, Isla Lobos
Spearfishing Shangra La
We get into my Achilles and head to Isla Miramar, the northernmost island. While varying in size, the Encantadas are not much more than cactus strewn rocks, jutting from the water, volcanic and forbidding.
Once in the water we see bunches of grouper and pargo in the 10-25 LB range. Hunting for trophy fish, we pass on shooting until the end of the day. Nate assigns me the task of getting dinner, and he wants to photograph the action. Just as I get the my new homemade gun (the “Canon de Muerta II”) loaded, a large fish rushes in on my left.
The Cannon, sans bands and spear
The visibility here is only 15 feet, and I see a tuna-like tail disappear into the fog. I make out the silhouette as the fish turns. It is behaving like a tuna or yellowtail, so instinctively I aim and fire. I see the fish go belly up and begin to retrieve my shooting line. As the fish nears I see it is a roosterfish, at least 55 lb.
I’ve got mixed feelings that I’ve shot a rooster. While rarely brought to spear, and a fast and challenging fish, they are poor eating at best, and at worst completely inedible. It would be my luck that of all the fish that match the “profile”, (tuna, yellowtail, amberjack) I would shoot the one fish with a reputation of being something the Donner party would have passed on. As I swim the beast to the boat I give my gun to Nate, who shoots a small leopard grouper in case the rooster is as foul as they say.
It is.
24 hours later the same hunk of meat that we deposited into the sea will be floating, untouched, in a land where scavengers whittle bones to a bleached white within hours. Seagulls, coyotes, scavenger fish, bacteria, NOTHING seems to like roosterfish.
We eat a meal of grouper, tortillas, and salsa, and hit the sack.
Ahab and his rooster
PART II
The following day we head south, hunting around some reefs and Isla Encantada, seeing pretty much the same fish as the previous day. Every so often a group of
roosterfish come breezing by, pretending to be yellowtail. We hold our fire. Towards afternoon, we decide to try another island, Isla Lobos, famous for its aggressive sea lions. We hunt the north end of the island first.
Somewhere there’s a Guinness book record for the world’s loudest sea lion. He lives on Isla Lobos. You could hear this guy in 40 feet of water. I mean like LOUD. His friends keep buzzing us, we see nothing shootable, so we decide to hit the southern point of the island.
By this point in time the swell is starting to kick up, and the vis is down to 30’ or less. I have one of those odd feelings in the back of my head. It’s a voice saying “this is a bad place”. But we need dinner, so gun in hand down I go.
I make a few dives, stalking for a shot on a small pargo or parica when I’m buzzed by yet another sea lion. The fish here are spookier than we’ve seen, a fact I attribute to the sea lions in the vicinity. A few more dives and I see something large moving between me and the island.
Shark.
Very LARGE shark.
Really BIG TIGER shark!
An electric chair shot of voltage crawls up my spine into my brain, a shot I’ve only experience once before, after coming within a few feet of a large bear while bow hunting. It’s the kind of voltage that all animals must feel when they become possible prey. All my awareness becomes focused on the large fish swimming lazily but quickly past me.
The shark figures out I’m in the water about the same time I figure out he/she’s a shark. It turns its eight foot body and heads rapidly right at me. I push my gun out to ward off the attack and the things stops and stares at me with cold black eyes for a few seconds, before veering off.
I’m thinking “Go away, go away” when it turns around and begins circling. We do a fast waltz, three times around the dance floor before it turns and comes at me again.
Same tune as before, stopping a foot away from my spear tip. Only now this thing is between me and the boat. Somewhere in the back of my head a synapse blows and I decide to swim hard at the beast, hopefully spooking it off. I drive at it, it turns and begins the waltz again…circling circling circling.
Quick turn and another fast run at me, this time stopping 6 small inches from my speartip. We stare at each other for 15 seconds (seemed like 15 minutes) when it turns and moves off into the gloom.
I will admit to being slightly unnerved at this point.
For most of my diving life I’ve plied the cold and Great White infested waters of Northern California, diving for abalone and spearing rockfish, a place that holds the blemished distinction of having the greatest number of GWS attacks in the world. Heck, it’s the only place where one guy was attacked TWICE in one lifetime.
Sharks in the water are not a foreign concept, but I’ve never had a beast this size show such an interest as to whether or not I’m edible. Now the worst part of getting buzzed like this is when you can’t see the damn shark anymore. I’m kicking backwards towards the boat when, duh, I realize the man in the gray suit can also arrive by the back door. So I’m spinning my head around like Linda Blair in the Exorcist, trying to figure out where the thing is going to come from next.
My memory snaps back to the dead sea lion floating just off shore on the other side of the island, a fact that both Nate and I noticed, but didn’t mention to one another. Divers are a superstitious lot, even if they won’t admit it. As coolly empirical as I can be sometimes, I have a shark tattoo that came out of my one North Coast superstition, which was to always wear a shark T-shirt to the dive. It genuinely bugged me when I forgot it. The tattoo makes sure I always have the image with me, to act as a talisman. I’m hoping it works for the few seconds it takes me to get to the boat.
Heart pounding in my ears, I get to the boat, throw my (loaded) gun and myself in and start looking for Nate. He’s close to the boat and I yell at him “Shark! Big one!”.
Nate nearly walks on water back to the boat.
We start packing up gear when Nate asks a Zen-like riddle: “Who goes down if the anchor’s stuck?”
But first this commercial announcement!
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Scabs (beef jerky)
Gatorade
Kraft Cheese and Bread sticks
Powerbars
Vienna Sausages
Oreo Cookies
Yes folks, the Ronco Diver Diet Kit. The breakfast, lunch, and occasional (when the man in the gray suit comes to visit) dinner of champions, guaranteed to withstand temperatures of 125 degrees!
Now back to our story…
Well, fortunately, the anchor comes up on the first pull, and we head back to camp. We’re greeted by a single coyote, no doubt trying to scavenge a meal from our trash bag. He will not eat roosterfish. Deciding we’ve had enough of the Sea of Cortez for the time being (more for the lack of big fish than for the shark), we head inland through the desert to Mexico 1, the highway connecting the tip of Baja to the United States.
The hurricane and weather front brought rain to the desert, and everything that could become green, has. Plants are blooming amazing flowers, all this backdropped by some of the most stunning geologic vistas anywhere. We go through one section of boulders where every 3rd rock has a big chuckwalla lizard sitting on top of it, where collard lizards fly across the road in front of the car, and desert iguanas sit under bushes trying to catch some shade. Huge cactus, and plants with some of the biggest thorns you could imagine. This flora and fauna mostly makes up for the miserable washboard road we’re on, the fact that the outside air temp gauge has hit 125 degrees, and takes our mind off the slow leak developing in the right rear tire.
Desert Vista
We stop at a small tire repair shop near Gonzaga bay. In a cage on the patio are two of the most pathetic birds I’ve ever seen. Patchy feathered, they just sit and stare listlessly out of the cage. They are not representative of the proprietors, who put air in our tire in quick fashion for a few dollars. We will have to unpack everything to get to the spare, and there is another car in the shop ahead of us, so we decide to wait until we get to Tortuga to make repairs.
After 5 hours we hit pavement and pass through one of the many military checkpoints along the way.
Travelers hint #1: Do not attempt to run these checkpoints. There is usually a board across the highway with a bunch of 5 inch framing nails driven through it. Of course the fact that they are mostly manned by what look to be 16-18 year old kids with automatic weapons should help dissuade you from trying to make like the car chase scene from “Bullitt.”
Near as we can tell they are checking us to make sure we’re not carrying cinderblocks, the exclusive building material in Mexico. EVERYTHING is made of cinderblocks. I swear I saw a pickup truck made of cinderblocks carrying a load of cinderblocks pulling into a construction site where they were building… a cinderblock factory. They (cinderblocks) would probably be the national currency if they weren’t so hard to fit in a wallet.
Travelers hint #2: The highway gas signs in Mexico lie. Well, maybe not lie exactly, but the gas station they indicate is coming might have the pumps ripped out and the building abandoned. We had to use the “roof gas” (cans tied to the roof rack) to make it through.
Travelers hint #3: More expensive food does not mean better food anywhere in Mexico. Especially in Guerrero Negro (or Bahia Tortuga for that matter).
Travelers hint #4: Unlike the US, there is no requirement to leash animals in the back of a pickup. Nate and I were stunned to see a large cow standing, completely untethered, on a flatbed truck traveling down the highway at 50 MPH. Thank god Ol’ Bessie had good balance…
Stopping in Guerrero Negro, we fuel up and head across the peninsula towards the coast. The rains have filled the dry lakes creating miles of shallow ponds. On the trip back these will have started to dry out, manufacturing a foam that blows across the road like small white tumbleweeds. The dirt road varies between washboard and smooth, at some points completely straight for 10 miles or more. We travel through to Bahia Tortuga, arriving just after dark.
We drive slowly through the dirt streets, looking for a place to stay. Like a shimmering oasis, a cinderblock paradise appears:
MOTEL NANCY
$11.00 US. No reservation required. We are stoked. A shower. A bed. More Vienna sausages for dinner. Does life get any better?
Travelers advisory #5: MOTEL NANCY is completely cinderblock (surprise!) and concrete construction. This means the walls absorb heat all day and stay 100 degrees for most of the night. The lack of shower head would not be so bad if the pipe wasn’t bent towards the wall, requiring some interesting contortions to get clean. The water for the shower head comes from large containers on the roof of the motel, put there to store water when the water plant is producing, making the “HOT” and “COLD” knobs somewhat superfluous. More like “tepid” and tepid”. After the tepid shower you can lounge on an extra firm mattress, made that way by the poured concrete box spring.
Still, the people who run it are genuinely friendly, the daughter of the proprietor has a heartbreaking smile with dimples, and it’s clean. MOTEL NANCY will be are base for the next three nights.
The next morning the tire is flat. We unload the Explorer to get to the jack, and put on the spare which, while not flat, is sagging a bit. We find a tire shop, make some inquiries, and head for the ocean.
We decide to try to find a guide. We inquire in town as best we can, considering that neither one of us speaks much Spanish. Finally we meet a gentleman who seems to understand. He points north and says, “Chester. Puenta Eugenia.”
A forty minute drive brings us to Puenta Eugenia, a small lobster village of around 70 people. We inquire about “Chester’s” whereabouts and are directed north again. We reach the end of the road where a group of lobsterman are pulling in their boats. It is here that we find out “Chester” is a large rock sticking out of the ocean. We need Rudolpho, who is back at Puenta Eugenia.
We find Rudolpho’s house, only he is out baiting his lobster traps. We’ll dive while we wait. Driving north of the village, we find a shore break and get in the water. We see a few small grouper, lots of kelp bass, and about a gazillion small lobsters, so brazen that if you stick your head in a hole you’ll soon be antennae’d by little guys trying to figure out what you are exactly. Great practice for the lobster opener.
There’s an amazing amount of bait in the water, but no big pelagics. I’m in a cloud of smelt and other small fish when I hear a slap, sort of like a small child doing a cannonball off the side of a pool. I see a flash out of the corner of my eye and a bird sweeps by, veering off as soon as it sees me. Then another slap. And another. Pretty soon I’m hearing these slaps about every five seconds, and am in the middle of a bunch of birds flying past me chasing fish.
If you’ve never seen a diving bird in the water, it’s like watching an evolutionary mishap in action. They sort of “walk” through the water, in a stiff, mechanical motion. Very much like being in a low budget remake of Jurassic Park. Apparently they see very few humans in the water, judging by their shocked expressions (I swear their eyes pop out of their heads, cartoon style) and the haste with which they veer off when they see me.
Nate thinks they are “graceful.” Nate is crazy.
After several hours we get out, locate our guide, and agree on $50 for a panga the next day. Arrangements made, we head back to town. A word on the road back. They hadn’t graded in what appeared to be several weeks, and the road contained the biggest, deepest, gnarliest washboard I’ve ever seen. You either went very slowly, feeling each rut as it pounded your kidneys, causing the compact disk player to skip, or you went fast, trying to “get on top” of the ruts, feeling the big holes as they pounded your kidneys, causing the CD player to skip.
.
Road to Punta Eugenia
Travelers note #6: While the paved roads in Mexico usually have “Curvo Pelligrosso” or “Pelligrossa” signs marking dangerous bends, most of the dirt roads do not. What they do have is crosses and small shrines marking the spots where people have crashed and met their maker. The more shrines and crosses, the more dangerous the curve. If you opt for the “get on top” approach, try not to find yourself in a four wheel slide, with the brakes locked up, heading into what looks like a Catholic cemetery…
Travelers note #7: Because of the varied road conditions and the effect they have on the CD players, I would make the following musical suggestions:
Horrible washboard – White Zombie. Headbanger death metal. If this skips it’s nearly impossible to tell, plus it begs for extra loud on the volume, drowning out most of the road noise and the annoying sounds of metal gas cans slamming up and down on the roof.
Not quite so horrible washboard/ early morning – Reel Big Fish. Upbeat ska with horns, can be played loud for the occasional pothole. Good wake up call.
Smooth fast dirt road/ night driving – Mozart’s Requiem. Fosters a sense of drama, grandeur, and mortality. Vary calming as you slide into the unmarked hairpin with all the crosses.
Mozart Appropriate road
Anywhere near the surf — Blue Hawaiians Live. Surf classics redone. “So we head to the waves…I say Mike…too many guys…let’s head south…BAJA!”
Checkpoints in Mexico – Los Lobos “El Pistol de Corazon”. Classic Mexican folks songs performed by U.S./East Los Angeles band. Hopefully the checkpoint guards are too busy rocking out to find the bottles of wine you have stashed under the sleeping bags. Plus the CD makes a good bribe. Not as good coming back across the border to the US.
PART III
We arrive back in town around seven that evening. Huge crowds (by Bahia Tortuga standards) are out in the town square, celebrating Independence Day. The dusty
town is transformed by the colorful “Sunday best” worn by the women and children. The local Policia hardly hassle Nate as he drives the wrong way down a one way street, looking for a place to eat.
We find a small two table burrito/taco place. For 80 cents a piece, the tacos are impossible to beat (see travelers note #3). We end up ordering something like 14 between the two of us and wipe out 6 bottles of Fanta. If we survive the night without incident, we’re definitely coming back. Friendly folks, great food.
The little taqueria doesn’t serve beer, so we head down to the Mini Super Mercado. The name is somewhat oxymoronic, but hey, the Tecate is ice cold. We approach the counter and the lady rattles off something that sounds like “Donde estaban de Jesus botteles refundomento esquilito desopsito si buenos guachos”.
Nate and I get that glazed, blank expression that says “Dumb gringo didn’t pay attention during high school Spanish”. The lady stares at us for a minute, then says “I
have to charge you for a deposit on the bottles. If you bring them back you can exchange them or get your deposit back.”
Nate and I look at each other with that glazed expression that says “My god, either I’ve had some kind of translational epiphany or that lady just spoke to us in perfect English!”
(After all the travel and diving, this become our face de jour. If Miss Mexico had walked by and offered to accompany us back to our room she would have been met with the same glazed look).
Turns out she went to school at UCLA. Nate almost blows the deal by telling her his family are all USC grads (THE rival school). She explains: she meets this guy from Bahia Tortuga, moves down, buys the market, and kicks the guy out. She’s building apartments in Ensenada and is planning on moving back in a year. We are in and out over the next few days, and when we leave she gives us a huge block of ice for our cooler — gratis.
Back to MOTEL NANCY for a cold beer and a shower, then hit the sack.
We wake up the next day and head out to meet our guide. We’re running a little late (OK, way late) so it’s the “on top” mode of driving to his house. We arrive about an hour late. We wake up our guide, who greets us and heads to the Banos (bathroom) a small, short plywood structure perched precariously on the edge of a cliff, a plywood sheet propped against the opening as a door. My guess is with the hurricane coming in right on top of the village this structure will be washing ashore in the Philippines sometime next month.
This structure — now in Manilla (Note rare cinderblock construction in background)
We load our gear in the panga and head out a few miles to the spot. Donning our gear, I notice that we don’t have any of those funny long things that attach to your feet.
I believe they are called fins. Nate and I motion to the guide that we need to go back, each of us pointing at the other and saying “El Stupido”. We go back, pick up the fins, and anchor just ahead of a small rock outcropping a mile or so offshore.
We jump in and start to load guns. I notice that I’m heading south at an alarming rate of speed. It’s a full moon and the current is absolutely BLASTING in this spot, especially if you’re on top of a pinnacle. I’m at 75% kick just to stay even. I slide back from the boat, moving around over several pinnacles. The water is murky, maybe 20 feet of vis. I watch a turtle cruise over a small stand of kelp when suddenly the big shoulders of a 30-40 LB yellowtail breeze in 20 feet below me…
The yellowtail is swimming right below me, inline against the current. At best it’s a long, extremely difficult shot. I hold over the spot for a few seconds, until the fish moves into the murk. The visibility goes in and out, sometimes 10 feet, sometimes 30 feet. I hunt this area for another half hour, making dives to 30 feet, finally deciding to move up towards the boat.
It’s a slow process fighting the current. My legs and I are adjusting to the new fins (after three years and much abuse, one of my well traveled Cressi 2000’s finally break while retrieving a dropped weight several days earlier). I inch my way past the boat, and I see Nate drifting back towards the boat. I can see by his bands that he’s fired the gun. He pulls even with the panga and a 40 pound yellowtail emerges from the water and goes over the side of the boat.
Nate’s story:
I drop in, relishing the cool water, and look around. The quick survey shows moderate visibility — 15 to 20 feet — and a strong current. I begin swimming up current. I load the gun and make a dive to squeeze out the bubbles and slow my heart. Sea palms sway on the bottom.
The rock we are diving breaks the surface, and while sizable, the largest swells wash over it violently. Beneath the surface, up current, a spine extends 100 feet or more. The first half slopes gently to 15 feet where it knuckles and plunges more steeply into the gloom. Kurt slides down current to the other end of the rock.
I swim out along the right shoulder of the spine and immediately two yellowtail swim beneath me. I aim at the biggest one. An explosion in my hand, the fish bolts, the shooting line goes limp. I’ve missed. My hand shakes slightly as I restring the gun.
I swim out to the knuckle. It’s a good spot. Current washes over the knuckle creating a slight upwelling. A school of blacksmith dance to my left. Small barracuda slide by in formation and disappear into the haze, then reappear. They’re with me all morning. Out ahead, near the surface, ballyhoo scurry after tidbits. Twice a school of small anchovetas come by and are exploded by 5 small skipjack. I never see skipjack strike. The bait scatters in panic, a skipjack comes out of warp and seems to look around the the same expression I had when I missed that yellowtail.
I dive for half an hour fighting the building current and begin to wonder if I’ve missed my best chance. I look up and the ballyhoo are coming at me, down current, with purpose. No time to prepare, I dive as nonchalantly as I can and level off as shallow as I can without floating back up.
I wait.
Out of the murk comes an impossibly big yellowtail. He’s close and coming at me, down current, at a slight angle from left to right. Perfect. He keeps coming at me. I wait for him to turn and shoulder away. He doesn’t, and as he comes to within a foot of my spear I fear he will pass inside the tip making a shot impossible. Absurdly, I notice how big his lips are.
I fire. The shaft penetrates between the pectoral and gill plate and passes through, stringing him. The fish swims about a body length before exploding. He’s so close I have time to get to the surface before he gets to the end of the shooting line and things get out of hand.
From the surface I’m able to grab my end of the shooting line, and by kicking as hard as my skinny legs can kick, I can barely manage the fish. I know it is secure so I pull hard, and we thrash around for an exhausting few minutes. It seems much longer. We do an absurd dance; he leads. He pulls me under twice but only for a foot or two and I’m able to resurface.
Finally the fish begins to tire and I try to bring it to me hand over hand. I must be careful where the shooting line goes as I pull it up. Don’t want to get tangled in it. I bring in 5 feet, the fish takes it back. Again and again. Finally I grab the tail and hold it out of the water. I am near the panga and I hand the whole mess — fish, line, shaft, dangling tip — to Rudolpho who drops it in the boat.
He’s mine.
NB
Me AGAIN
I kick ahead, more determined. There is a second pinnacle ahead of the outcropping, about 40 feet deep at the top. I find that if I stay on the land side of the reef, I can hold my own and make progress against the current. Moving to the ocean side the flow picks up even more, making it nearly impossible even to hold position, let alone move ahead.
I make a few dives, and am seeing small (20lb) ‘tails moving in and out over the rock. I line several up, but hold on the shot. I have traveled this far for a special fish, a personal best. I can feel the presence of bigger fish, and watch the bait carefully for signs of predators. Every few minutes I’m surrounded by barracuda, slowly circling.
The bait scatters and my senses heighten, only to see five bonito streak in, hammering a few small fish as they rocket away.
Nate has kicked even with me, and we take turns diving. It’s a pleasure watching a good diver in action, and I’m enjoying watching Nate lay on the bottom, staring off into the haze. We make several more dives and I hear a gun go off. Looking out I see Nate has shot another big yellow, apparently stoning it.
.
Nate and his sardine
A few minutes later I am surfacing when a group of five bruisers show up. One fish separates and moves to my left, my good side. It’s within ten feet as I aim down and fire.
The shot is near perfect, just missing the spine. The fish explodes in a fury. I grab my float line and can feel the strength of this fish as it tugs at the slip tip, flailing back and forth under me. Suddenly I am pulled horizontal as the fish makes a run towards the open ocean. I move my fins out to slow its progress and after 100 feet it tires of towing me and begins to bang against the rocky bottom, trying to dislodge the spear.
I remember losing a big ‘tail in Loreto the same way, and thank my stars that I have the right equipment for the job this time. The Maldanado (blatant product reference) tip is doing its job.
It finds a small outcropping with a crevice, and quickly wraps my line. I swim down and give the line slack, freeing it from the rock. The fish begins to tire and I begin to make some progress on the line, pulling hand over hand until I can dive down and grab the fish by the eyes. The fight with the fish is over.
It goes limp in my hand and I have a chance to catch my breath and judge my position relative to the panga. My heart sinks as I find myself on the ocean side of the reef, the full moon current pulling me rapidly away from the panga.
I try to streamline myself as much as possible, but trying to hold the gun, spear, and the large ‘tail in anything resembling a tuck is nearly impossible. I bear down, putting everything I have into my kick, to no avail.
A word about body shape and its effect on progress through the water. For a comparison of Nate and I, think Hakeem Olijewon and Charles Barkley, with Nate being the former. I have a bit more frontal area to present to the current. While keeping me warmer in Northern California’s 45-55 degree water, my body shape doesn’t lend itself to fighting a raging current.
I yell to our guide. “Aqui” (HERE!), and try to wave him over. I hold up the fish and he smiles and waves, thinking I’m showing him the fish, then lays back down in the sun.
To quote Cool Hand Luke “What we have here is a FAILURE to communicate.”
I see Nate nearby and yell to him to give me a hand. He looks at me a little quizzically when I tell him the current is too strong. “Just go around the rock” he says.
Right.
I‘ve been to the backside of the rock and know the current is only a little less than it is where we are. I also know that there is no plan B, that this is the only chance we have of even making it back to the boat.
It’s a short current ride to the end of the rock, but a long hard kick to try to make it around. My hand, still gripping the eyes of the fish is starting to cramp. I put my head down and feel my legs burn. Our progress can be measured a foot at a time, if that. We are probably 50 yards or more away form the panga. I’m not having fun.
Return of the Lobster Men
I hear an outboard motor and hope it’s our guide. I look up and see a couple of lobster fisherman we had met the day before slide by in a panga. They motion to see if I want to get into the boat.
Tough call.
“SI!!!!!”
They move over and their eyes light up when I hand them the fish. I climb in and “gracias”. They are looking longingly at the fish, and begin motioning as if to ask if they can have some. I tell them “si”, after we take pictures. This conversation has only taken a few minutes, but already we’ve drifted another 50 yards south.
I see Nate just ahead, still fighting the current. I have the fish, the gear, the lunches, and the combination to the car. I also know where the money is stashed. Unfortunately Nate has tied the ignition key to his swim trunks, ruining an otherwise good plan.
“Me Amigo, Si,” I say as I motion for them to pick Nate up. He looks glad to get in the boat. We motor over to our guide who looks a little put off that we are going to give the fish to the two lobstermen, and that we couldn’t even swim back to the boat. Pictures taken, I give the fish to the my new friends, who gently slide the fish into the shade. I’ve got a feeling that yellowtail will be on several dinner plates tonight. We take a breather and our guide remarks how Nate has two fish in the boat and I only have one.
In the lobster boat
We return to the water, working the front side of the upstream pinnacle. I miss on a shot on another bruiser. A few minutes later I’m watching Nate lay on the bottom, strumming the bands of his gun. A shot goes off and I watch him surface slowly, trying to pull his shooting line up from the bottom. It’s an obvious struggle, and he is stuck at 25 feet, making no headway to the surface. He finally realizes the fish has wrapped and he slides to the surface, holding onto the float line.
His small buoy submerges against the current, so we hook the floatline up to my bigger float. The current is going so hard that both floats occasionally submerge. The fish is tied to a clump of kelp on the bottom, in 45 feet of water. This would not present a problem in normal circumstances, but the current has made it a hard 75’ dive swimming and pulling all the way. Between the adrenaline and fatigue we are having a heck of a time reaching the fish, with not a lot of bottom time to cut it loose.
We head back to the panga to rest and get another knife. I decide to take little longer of a breather as Nate gets back in the water. Our guide is in his early to mid 20’s, and is obviously high on the pecking order in his village. He motions to me to if he can use my mask and fins. I hand them to him.
This kid is probably think “Soft gringos, can’t swim, can’t get the fish, let me show them how to do it.” He puts on the gear and jumps in next to Nate. They begin swimming and I watch him look over as Nate slowly pulls away. He begins swimming hand over hand, trying to keep up. Reaching the float he hangs on, trying to catch his breath. He finally decides to go under. This lasts about ten seconds and he surfaces, having drifted 10 feet back of the float. He turns around, swims back to the boat, and with a sheepish grin hands me my fins and mask.
Noticeable attitude adjustment. Fat gringo not so soft after all.
Nate has made progress, cutting some of the kelp away. I swim over the fish, pump up, and head down. Visibility has dropped to 20 or so feet, so we’re running on mental GPS and try to follow the clear floatline to the fish. I hit bottom and, using my shears, cut the last two stalks of kelp loose. I start swimming up, pulling the huge clump of kelp and fish up with me.
At 30 feet I realize this won’t happen in one dive. I surface and begin hand over handing the line, until the mess of fish, line, and kelp is at the surface. We swim it back to the boat, untangle the mess, and put the fish in the panga. This has taken us 45 minutes, and the day is over.
We motor back to the village, and make arrangements for the following day. Figuring there are more fish to be had, we give our guide the remaining yellowtail.
Riding back over the washboard to Bahia Tortuga, a bit of fatigue begins to settle in. Despite the brutal road, I find myself nodding off, only to be awakened when the window glass slams into my head. This will happen several times on the way back to town, a testimonial for both shatterproof glass and the thickness of my skull.
And now… the final Part…PART IV (cheers and applause here)
We head to the Super Mini Mercado, turn in our beer bottles for full ones, and grab some amazingly cold Gatorade out of the cooler. If you think that after 7 days of drinking Gatorade as your primary fluid that you wouldn’t want to see another bottle of the stuff, you’ve never been to Baja in September. In a place where the median temperature never goes below 90, it’s truly the nectar of the gods. It’s also not bad with tequila in a pinch.
We talk over dinner options. In Bahia Tortuga this does not take long. There are only the two eateries that we found in town, so it’s that or whatever you bring. We decide to head to the little taqueria where we ate the night before. We park, put on shirts, and walk in to find the two benches up on the tables. A lady walks in the found door, and looks at us suspiciously. Like these gringos are up to no good.
Nate smiles and inquires “Abierto?” (“Open?”). The lady still is eyeing us hard. She speaks.
“Comeja?”(food)
“Si!”
In retrospect I’m wondering what else she thought we could have wanted. Or what she could have offered for that matter.
“No. Siete,” she says dismissively.
No food till seven. It’s just before six. We’re starving. We decide to try Hotel Veracruz. The Hotel is a large white compound located at a high point in town. It’s one of the easier places to navigate to.
A word about finding your way around Bahia Tortuga. You can’t. What you do is look for the main street and try to work your way from a point of reference, like the police station. The grid system and uniform street design is late finding it’s way to BT. For people from Europe where some of the streets have evolved over thousands of years from footpaths this may not seem like a problem. But for people from the states who grew up never having made anything but a 90 degree turn on a city street, where each intersection is at exact ˝ or Ľ mile intervals, it’s downright perplexing.
The only street signs consist of the occasional piece of cardboard with things like “El Camino de Muerta” scrawled in crayon on it. We didn’t stop to ask about the history of the street names. You drive down some of these streets, make a quick zig and zag, and find yourself running into a fenced off dead-end. Apparently, there are Mexicans who have the same difficulty, because as soon as you hit a dead end, you turn around to find two large delivery trucks stopped behind you, the drivers wearing the same “Damn, I thought this went through” expression on their faces.
The other point of reference in town is, of course, the ocean. The only problem was that the point of reference had flooded out one of the main intersections, cutting the town in two. Early on we became so frustrated by our inability to find our way around “Lake Tortuga”, that we actually considered blowing up the inflatable to ford the intersection.
With White Zombie’s “Pyscoholic Slag” playing on the CD player, we pull up to the Hotel. Weirdly enough, we can hear rock music playing outside. We look over to see two teenage kids sitting on the front step of a house, boom box blaring.
They have that universal small town “I can’t wait to get the hell out of this burg and go to the big city and party and get a job and chase babes and buy a motorcycle or wait maybe a Firebird with mags and a killer stereo and a copy of Playboy — this place sucks” look on their faces. Nate discourages me from getting into a “let’s see who can crank the tunes loudest” match with the kids.
We go into the Hotel and sit down. Dos Pacificos and we’re ready to order. Nate gets fish, I order breaded clams. The TV news from Mexico City is showing three guy’s mugshots over and over, interspersed with pictures of shot up cars. This goes on for an hour, less commercials. Every women in the commercials and the news anchorwomen are blonde. I can’t help noticing that I’ve been in Mexico for a week and the only blonde I’ve seen was a Labrador Retriever mix in the back of the pickup truck. A little strange.
Time passes. We drink sodas. More time passes. More sodas. Nate is quietly staring off into space, I’m watching “El Chico”, “El Lobo”, and “El Gato” have their mugshots burned into the subconscious of everyone watching Channel 8 in the entire country. Still more time passes. I swear I see a truck pull up outside and unload a carton of fish and clams. The truck is being driven by three guys who look exactly like the guys on TV.
Jesus, please get me my food and let me go to bed.
I find my head on the table when the waitress finally arrives with the plates. I shake Nate, who is still staring off into oblivion, back into consciousness, and tell him, “Eat my friend, you must eat for strength”.
I look down and frankly see nothing on my plate that resembles a clam. It appears that someone has taken either old abalone foot trimmings or shoe soles, breaded and deep fried them. For days. In motor oil. Until black.
I’m so damn hungry that I eat two of these four “clams” before I become completely disgusted. Nate’s meal is not much better. The refried beans are excellent, so they disappear along with the rice. The meal costs around $20 (see travelers tip #3).
We leave, and head back to the hotel. I pass out on the bed within seconds.
Montezuma is Real Bad Ass (literally)
…I dream that I am on a stone altar in some Mayan city. Montezuma himself has a large roosterfish in his hands. He is covered in breaded clams. He raises the fish above his head and smashes it down on my stomach, over and over again…
I wake up to stabbing intestinal pain…after an hour of this I feel the need to run to the bathroom. Returning back to bed, I take an loperimide tablet, and try to get back to sleep…
…Montezuma is again hitting me in the stomach with the roosterfish, only this time the priests are making incredibly loud raspberry/motorboat sounds with their mouths…
I wake up to more stabbing pain and someone revving an unmuffled diesel just outside of our window. The Tecate truck driver is apparently in a celebratory mood, after (I guess) making it from Gurrero Negro in one piece. It’s only like 2 AM, so hey, WHY NOT WAKE EVERYONE UP!
I feel an incredible pain, and run to the bathroom again…
After spending a miserable night clutching my stomach, morning finally rolls around. Despite not feeling well himself, Nate is repacking the truck. I find I have enough energy to open a Gatorade and sit on a cooler. I can barely muster interest in where all the gear is going. I’m not even enjoying watching Nate do all the work.
“I don’t know about today. I’m feeling pretty foul.”
We talk about options, and finally Nate (who must read Tony Robbins motivational books or something) says, “You’ve come this far, sometime you just gotta do it”
The box of medicine says “Take no more than four tablets a day”. I’ve already taken four and the rumbling in my gut says they weren’t enough. I think back and realize that hey, I took two before midnight. That was YESTERDAY. Therefore it’s OK to take two more. I do.
We finish loading the truck. I try to eat a few things that hopefully will not exacerbate my problem. We head out to the panga.
Travelers hint #8: Bad dirt roads do nothing to minimize “Revenge”.
I clutch my toilet paper and suffer through each pothole. We finally get to the pangas. We wake up our guide. Yellowtail must be an aphrodisiac, because the kid has obviously gotten lucky the night before, or his neck was attacked by a huge hickey making insect. He has to do “family” things today, and has passed off his guide service to another kid, Carlos.
It’s off to the same spot. It’s gotten rougher and I’m feeling a little queasy, so as a precaution I take a Dramamine. We get in the boat, inventorying equipment to make sure we have everything. Yes, the fins are there. We’re off.
In a few minutes the combination of drugs has made me feel positively foggy. We get in the water, and are greeted by the ever popular current. It’s changed from yesterday, becoming an unpredictable, swirling force.
In the water, my bottom time and diving ability is plain shot. I dive to 20 feet, stay a few seconds, and feel dizzy and out of breath. I’m more interested in watching the turtle below me, flying slowly through the water, occasionally stopping to peck some morsel off a rock, than I am in spearing anything. I’m half watching this turtle, half sleeping, when a ‘tail breezes in below me. It’s around 30 lb. or so. I shoot low, and spear sails harmlessly under the fish. The Cannon has finally missed its mark. I’m not looking forward to the restringing and reloading process.
I struggle with the gun, finally getting it all sorted out. Suddenly, I hear a huge *bang*!
Scares the *%^&!! out of me (fortunately not literally). One of my wishbones has come undone from a band, hence the noise. Great.
I look over and see Nate with another hog yellow. Ah, what the heck, I’ll keep hunting with one less band.
The tails are unwilling to come to the surface, I’m unwilling/unable to go down and get them. I’m outta here. Back to the boat, strip off the gear, and start casting the rod. A little while later Nate has had it also. We convince Carlos to troll for a while, and head to another spot near an island. Nate reaches into his tackle box and pulls out a large blue Rapala. Carlos is jazzed.
“Ah, Rapala! Muy bien por dorado.”
The whole way down we’ve been chanting this mantra:
“Dodo’s, must kill dodo’s!”
Well, if we can’t spear one maybe we’ll rod and reel one. We take turns holding the rod as we troll back and forth in front of this island. Finally I hook up a fish. It fights hard, and we’re optimistic. I finally get the thing close to the boat, and we get to eyeball it.
Yellowtail, maybe 7 pounds. Oh boy.
A few more passes with no luck and we decide to anchor near the island. Nate wants to dive the spot, I want to lay in the sun. I tell Nate to scout it out, and let me know. HE gets in the water, which is obviously lacking in much visibility, and swims out a couple of dozen yards away from the boat.
A few minutes later he turns around and swims back to the boat.
“It’s a little spooky out there.”
“It’s a little spooky out there.”
I look into his eyes and see the pupils have taken on the shape of a shark.
There are people out there who would have chided him for being afraid, or who would have tried to shame him back in the water. I put some stock in intuition of this kind. I ignored my own when we encountered the shark in the Sea of Cortez. If Nate doesn’t feel good about diving here, we’re done.
We tell the guide we want to fish some more. While he struggles with the anchor, the lobster guys who picked us up before have come by. They are having engine troubles. By this time we’ve figured out that these guys are kind of the village equivalent to Abbott and Costello, if Abbott and Costello drank beer at 8 am before going out to bait lobster traps. The one fellow takes a spark plug out, looks at it, shakes his head, then puts it back in. Lobster guy #2 tries to start the motor, with no luck. The manual must have said “For easier starting, remove sparkplugs and stare at them” because they repeat this procedure several times. They take a break and spot Nate’s lure.
“Ah Rapala!”
“Rapala!”
“Rapala muy bien!”
Nate takes off the lure and gives it to them. Kids at Christmas couldn’t be happier.
Looks like all the motor needed was a Rapala, because they try it again, and it starts immediately. They motor off, thanking Nate for the lure.
In the meantime Carlos has been struggling with the anchor. We start talking about who will go down and free it when Carlos gets the “Universal Boatman Look #6” on his face.
“The anchor line has broken. I have lost the anchor. I will have to replace the anchor, after having to endure the ridicule of my friends.”
We’re outta’ here. Carlos will receive the yellowtails for his trouble and anchor. We decide we’ve had enough of Bahia Tortuga. We detour on the way back to Tortuga, stopping at another small village. The surf has kicked up and near perfect waves, Hawaii 5-0 waves, break and roll into the beach. There’s a good right break and an awesome left break. I wish I surfed. A dozen photos later and it’s back to town.
It’s early afternoon when we hit the road out of town. We leave with a few bottles of Gatorade, a couple of bags of chips, and some incredible memories.
We will be back.
On the ride out we find we are in luck. The grader has come in from the highway, leaving the washboard in most places nothing more than a memory. We make good time to the pavement, and head north.
Salt Ponds, road from Bahia Tortuga
Every few miles on Mexico 1 you see a sign with the word “Vado” on it. These are markers for low points in the road that become flooded with water and debris if there are rains. They also become local swimming holes, the kids enjoying the waves kicked up by the cars and trucks trying to drive across the local pool. They also seem to take great pleasure watching the drivers trying to get their flooded vehicles re-started.
When these holes dry up the local government sends out 10 guys with shovels to clear the mud, dirt and rocks left over from the flood. This is good. What is bad is that state of the art highway markers in Baja consist of a single orange cone placed about 3 feet ahead of where the workers are. This is not a problem unless there is a rise in the road just before the “vado” and you’re driving an overloaded sport utility.
The Attack of the DTDs
This adds great excitement to the drive home, as does the “Datsun Truck Driver.”
Somewhere, nestled deep in the mountains of Baja, there is a heavily guarded chain link enclosure. Razor wire tops the fences, and well-armed sentries peer suspiciously from elevated gun towers. It is here that the Mexican government develops their surreptitious biotech industry. It is here that they clone the “Datsun Truck Driver”.
On the road between Vizciano and Guerrero Negro you will, with alarming regularity, find yourself on the highway behind a painfully slow, beat up, and dusty Datsun mini pickup. Never a Toyota, Chevy, or other truck. Always a Datsun. You will invariably be stuck behind them on a tight, winding stretch of road, full of blind corners.
The speed of these trucks never exceeds 25 MPH. It will take you several minutes before you finally can pass them.
After the fifth truck it suddenly occurred to me that the same person was driving each truck. Same short, dark featured individual. Same wispy beard and mustache. Same grimy baseball cap. Same blank, straight ahead expression, same un-turning head. The “Datsun Truck Driver” or DTD.
I point this out to Nate. After we pass a few more DTD’s we’re getting the willies. Why is the government cloning these people? Why are they having them drive up and down the highway? Why the same trucks? And why are they driving so slow? Our government must hear of this! I hesitate to think of the horrible traffic snarls that could be created by hoards of DTD unleashed on the superhighways of the US. Massive traffic jams. Horrible high speed accidents. Our transportation system brought to its knees!
We finally hit Guerrero Negro and check into a motel. An OK dinner and we collapse into our beds. The next morning, it’s back on the road. By this time the fatigue, sickness, and endless days of diving and driving have finally caught up to me. We are 10 days into the trip and I’m at a point where all I want to do is find a quiet place to rest for a couple of days. Naturally, when Nate suggests stopping in San Quintin to see how the fishing is I give him an emphatic no!
Yeah right. I’m a junkie. Junkies never say no to a fix.
We find ourselves strolling around the “Old Mill’, making inquiries about spearfishing guides. We get vague directions to “Kelly’s” house, and end up on a dead end dirt road, with about 5 houses spread out around the area. We look for some clue as to which house is Kelly’s. No one is home as we check four of the five and head to the last one.
I get out of the car and walk around the house to a porch area.
“Nate”
“Huh?”
“This is it”
“How do ya figure?”
I’m staring at a very large grouper skull, hung on one of the porch roof supports. Above it is an even bigger skull, of what could be a grouper or black sea bass. It’s what my place would look like if I wasn’t married (my wife tolerates all the abalone and other shells, fish heads are another matter).
“Look”
“Yep, this is it”
No one is home so we leave a note and head back to the restaurant /bar at the Old Mill. For weeks before the trip fish tacos filled my dreams. At every place we’ve eaten so far I’ve searched for fish tacos on the menu, to no avail. There are two words that jump from the chalkboard menu.
Fish Tacos.
Nate and I order.
Really GOOD fish tacos and cold Pacifico beer, looking out the window as kayakers and fisherman fight the tide which ripples the shimmering water of the bay. Bliss.
Travelers note #9: If fish tacos are on the menu at the Old Mill, get there early. We were able to get them at lunch, after that they were sold out.
Travelers note #10: If you hang out in the office at night to use the phone, you can get free tequila shots.
We meet Kelly, and arrange the next days dive.
Sitting around after dinner, we look across the courtyard to see a very ill, limping dog hobble towards a pan near a faucet. The dog is obviously old, and has a badly injured from paw. We go over and fill the pan with water. The dog drinks, and drinks, and drinks. He/she won’t take any beef jerky, which worries me greatly.
I’ll admit to being an unabashed dog person. I’ve got two of the most spoiled bird dogs at home (Labradors) at least one of which keeps my feet warm as I type. The condition and care of many dogs in Baja leaves me appalled. I realize that when you don’t have many resources pet care is not high on your list of things to spend time and money on, but this doesn’t make it any easier for me to see dogs in this condition.
The dogs must have figured this out because the next morning we are greeted at our door by “Ol’ One Eye”, a short, friendly little dog, who handles the wake up calls for the hotel by whimpering at your door. Appropriate tipping for this service seems to be pieces of power bar. I’m glad somebody or something still likes these.
You’ll Never Look the Same Way Again at ZIP TIES
We meet Kelly and begin the long ride out to the hunting grounds. On the way out we swap stories, Kelly regaling us with tales about various members of the spearfishing community.
Of particular note was a story about one of the most famous members taking a group of divers to Guadalupe Island, a renowned Great White Shark habitat, having claimed one victim and nearly another. On the way out, he began discussing the fact that the diver had died from blood loss, where upon he produced a bag of large plastic zip ties, and proceeded to explain that they could be fastened loosely around the arms and legs, at pressure points, then tightened if an attack severed some major artery. The most amusing part of this was that nobody could figure out if he was really serious or not.
We hit a couple of spots, including the famous “240”, a pinnacle that rises up from several thousand feet to less that 2 feet below the surface. Scary for boat owners, but it’s an absolutely awesome dive, and I wish I was in better shape to enjoy it. The vis is somewhat limited, but there is plenty of activity, including the biggest “wall” of yellowtail I’ve seen.
I had made a 40-foot dive, hung out for a while and began to surface. Just before hitting air, I looked down to see Kelly gliding to the bottom, where he is swarmed by 50-60 yellowtail in the 20-pound range, who were following me up. They bend in unison as they approach him, veering back into the haze.
Kelly has recently seen marlin, tuna, and dodos in this spot, but our luck is not as good this day. Nate shoots one ‘tail, I catch a small yellowfin providing some evidence of our trip for the dinner table back home. I spend a few minutes hovering next to a huge mola mola, tucked in next to an outcropping. It’s a place with great potential.
We will be back.
Many hours later we find ourselves being waved through customs, (my border crossing karma finally reverses) and as we return to the states a sense of both happiness and melancholy hit me. I’m glad to be going home to see my wife and dogs, to be able to get a milkshake and a burger, a clean bed, and a some cool (er) weather.
But not too far in the back of my mind is amazing, warm water, teeming with fish of incredible size…the subtle noise and pressure of 70 feet of water…a large shark staring at me with cold, shining eyes…the feeling of holding a very large fish as I fight the current…and the passing of an adventure into my memory.
THE END
About Kurt Bickel
As a teenager, Kurt began motorcycle road racing, eventually turning professional, winning multiple regional titles and seeing the podium at national level events. After recovering from a serious spine injury, he came out of retirement to claim two regional #1 plates racing motorcycles on dirt tracks.
Kurt became a writer at “Spearfishing Magazine,” where in short time found himself as Executive Editor and host of their radio show.
A bicycle racing hobby blossomed into a coaching practice, now with Wenzel Coaching, where he design training plans and consult on a wide range of sports performance topics, with national and world class athletes. When he’s not cycling, Kurt is an avid free-diver, downhill and cross country skier, and hiker in the mountains surrounding Reno, Nevada.