That's My Story

The sun doesn’t rise in the Baja. It explodes out of the Eastern horizon like a viscous ball of heat. Five minutes ago, you couldn’t tell where the ocean ended and the sky began, but now, the vague hues of light hit the precipice of grey where the ocean kisses the mists. The sliver of la luna still hangs translucently waiting for it’s demise. Within minutes the dome of searing orange light literally pushes the Sea of Cortez aside like a finger trying to poke through a balloon finally ripping through in a bursting bubble of light and heat.

Your boat pushes ahead, crashing through the small morning swell. Face forward, the rays of sun cast a mandarin glow on the skin of your friends and the gleaming fiberglass of your fishing craft. The dry air of the early morning mixes with the salty spray that you lick off your lips. Even behind your sunglasses, you squint into the sun and grin. Behind you, deckhands ready the rods and reels. Lures are clipped into place. Drags tested. The outriggers are run in and ready to be run back out. Deep breath and exhale as a smile tugs the corners of your mouth.

That’s not freeway exhaust. That’s the Sea of Cortez you smell and taste. It’s the inexplicable mix of bait and brine and motor oil and 200 hp of raw power under your deck mixed with tad of suntan oil and some of that great salsa you had for breakfast burrito. Your knees are getting the hang of flexing easy with rhythmic hit of another swell. Can anything be better?

For once, you’re not staring at the license plates in front of you of another pissed off commuter. There’s no e-mail. A list of phone calls to return didn’t greet you right outta the box. Your biggest decision today will be whether to have corn or flour tortillas and whether it will be Tecate or Tecate Lite. The ONLY snow you will see will be inside the rim of a margarita glass. Hold all calls. Deadlines be damned. You busted your butt for months getting ready for this.

Today, you’re not responsible for anything other than making sure you don’t fall out of the boat or let your amigos catch you doing something foolish with their digital cameras. Maybe even catch a fish or two. You love your job. Love your wife and kids, but today… Today, you’re not” Mr. Big.” Or “Mr. Dad.” Or “Mr. CEO.”

Once again, you’re Jimmy or Bobby or Billy. You don’t even have to give anyone your name! As far as anyone is concerned, your name is “amigo.” And so is everyone else. And that’s fine.

You check your buddies. You haven’t seen these guys in ages. You remember a time when you all ran with the wolves…or thought you did. You were legends in your own time, but now, you’re all “growed-up”

Everyone is broader in the beam. “Double XL” is no longer that football play from high school. It’s a t-shirt size and spots of grey now fleck grizzly faces. But, they’re your fishing brothers and the good times are fewer and far between these days making these few moments all that more special.

Today, you get to crank back the clock a little bit or at least click the stopwatch off for a few days. The world can wait.

You head off to some spot on the nautical map where the waters run blue and the fish run big. Today you all get to be Tom Sawyer and Huck Finn again and everyone gets to kiss Becky Thatcher. Your soundtrack is a Jimmy Buffet tune that bounces around joyfully in your head. “The Weather is here. Wish you were beautiful” competes against that inane Spanish chatter on the radio that sounds like one-long-blasted-word.

And the sun feels warm. And the bow slaps water as it crests over each small swell. Whoosh! Whoosh! The engines hum east towards the rising sun. Today, you are king of the world again for just a little while and this morning holds the promise of adventure. You’re in the Baja, amigo.

Run out the lines! Time to fish…

If you ever need to reach me, I’m at riplipboy@aol.com