The year was 1967. I'd been living in Marvelous Mexico that summer. The first leg of the journey involved Mexico City, which reminded me of Paris mountainized..many sights, sounds, experiences. A month later, on to Oaxaca and then a magic voyage to Huatla in search of mushrooms and curanderas. After a series of descents in all possible senses of the word, and experiences, a flight into Merida, both old and new. I was now on a flatter Peninsula, water-surrounded, Maya land, and embedded in the tri-states of Campeche, Yucatan, and Quintana Roo. But best of all, I knew in a couple of weeks, I'd be on Cozumel Island to the east, and finally, finally fishing. That made my stay in this wonderful city both shorter and longer...I longed to fish the Caribbean Sea, but the splendorous squares and pretty parks soothed and calmed me in shady greens, and the time passed. Lunches stayed the same- I was obsessed with a zest for meat and cheese enchiladas and icy Carta Blanca beer, something i'd loved since living in Dallas.
The time came soon enough and the plane touched down near San Miguel. Cabs abounded at the time-and still do- and in no time, I was standing in the shimmerlingly hot city square. I could see the mainland in the distance over water that was a sapphire blue beyond words: it was as if the Gulf Stream came to play at the surf's edge. I made my way to a cantina through a sea of hawkers and merchants eager to sell me their wares. I politely refused in Spanish, a language I had spoken for over two months straight....after all, I was in their country: why be so arrogant or provincial as to force my English on them? I'd hoped I'd left my gringohood back in Miami International Airport, but at six feet tall, I clearly was different.
After two Carta Blancas, and then, yes, a salty Margarita...I was a celebrant, no?..I made my way over to the rows of fishing boats. Back in the sixties, there were no avenidas of gleaming Gringo billfish boats. The Yucatan Channel's spring billfishery was not yet established, but the fishing on the island was reputed to be prolific beyond words. The year before, I'd boated a striped marlin off Acapulco. Though I'd loved the battle, I yearned for "drop"fishing, or just plain casting from a small boat just off the Beach.
In fifteen minutes, I'd settled on an old salt named Miguel, who looked like a character straight out of Hemingway's Cuba days. His boat seemed able, and we settled on a price. I was pleased to see plenty of cold water, and a large assortment of island fruit for lunch. He cranked up the engine, and we headed south. In only ten minutes, he put the engine in idle, and handed me a light conventional rigged with a drop sinker, hook, and lisa for bait. Though we were barely a football field offshore, the bait went deep. The strike was instantaneous. I reared back and struck hard. A see-saw battle begun and in ten minutes, a gasping twenty pound black grouper lay on the sapphire surface. Miguel was very pleased by this, and gaffed the fish instantly. He unhooked the fish deftly and rebaited the hook with another chunk of lisa. I grabbed the rod, and let the bottom rig stream down to the bottom again. Moments later, a hard thump, and I struck again. The fight was shorter, but the rising colors of yellow presaged a more desireable prize of what was indeed a huge yellowtail of about five pounds...Dinner was assured: pargo frito would now join the enchiladas and beer. This action would go on and on for the better part of an hour and I was jazzed! Miguel tapped me on the shoulder while I was hauling in another fish, and pointed South. He said , "quiere barracudas y tunas y cavallas?...muy grande!!". I shouted "yes!" as I pulled a medium mutton snapper over the rail.
I set the rod down and he pointed the boat south in search of new adventure..but that's another story.
Jan
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