That's My Story

THE BREAKFAST CLUB – MEXICO STYLE

Originally Published the Week of Feb. 20, 2025 in Western Outdoor Publications

It’s early morning in La Paz and still dark. The sun isn’t up, but the horizon has a small smear of orange light to the east.  The sky is fading from black to purple .

East.  That’s where we’re heading. Southeast to be exact.

There’s 9, 10, a dozen white passenger vans linearly scattered along the desert highway over several dozen miles.  In the dark Baja emptiness each van is marked only because of a pair of headlights piercing the void.

It’s a convoy.  A caravan of sorts.  Every morning during the fishing season for decades the dawn caravan winds it’s way for an hour from La Paz city down over hills to the beach. 

Each van packed with eager fishermen.  Each van’s rooftop rack stacked with ice chests and bundled fishing rods.

The vans belong to the various fishing outfitters like our Tailhunter Sportfishing and other La Paz fleets and this is how each day starts.

We gather fishermen at their various hotels and load them up…in some cases we have to wake/shake them up.  Friends jostle buddies who move too slowly or are trying to shake off the tequila effects from the night before.

Everyone wants to get going.  Everyone wants to get onto the fishing grounds as quickly as possible.  Fishermen can get grumpy over tardiness.

What?  Joe hasn’t woken up yet?  He came home from the bar at 2 a.m? 

Marty is still in the shower?  You’re kidding!

C’mon, Man! Go back up to your room and get your hat and sunglasses!

I forgot my fishing license!

Who has the kids?

They don’t suffer slackers and we hustle as quickly as we can.  We get them settled in the vans.  We can only move as fast as the slowest fisherman.

It’s a ritual.  A fishing tradition every morning.

And off we go.  Van-after-van.

We have 3 vans in the mix today.  I think there are 9 this morning between ours and some other fleets. We are all headed towards a spot called Punta Arenas about an about 60 minutes from La Paz.

In the dark of the Baja desert, it seems a lot longer.

It’s where we launch our boats from the remote beach there.  Our respective captains and their pangas are all waiting in the dark at water’s edge. 

The last half mile is through old arroyos and gritty sandy roads that ultimately are not much more than scraped washboards. 

But, after an hour drive, the sun is now just poking above the horizon and throwing long morning shadows and brilliant rays that cause van drivers to don sunglasses and pull down their visors.

But, once we hit the beach, it’s a bit of controlled madness.

Eager fishermen literally tumble out’ve each van.  Some are still munching breakfast burritos or swallowing the last bit of tepid coffee from a styrofoam cup.

Captains mill about.  Ice chests laden with ice, beer and food are lowered from the van’s roof racks as well as bundles of rods and tackle bags and boxes.

Fishermen are matched up with their captains and the loaded boats are quickly pushed into the surf. Outboards fire up.

High fives, playful smack talk and hoots and everyone is now racing off to the fishing grounds. Today, they head east directly into the sun towards Cerralvo Island.

Word is there’s a jag of tuna and sizeable dorado off the island and everyone is pumped. It’s a raucous world of hectic madness.

…and suddenly just like that, the beach is empty.

…and quiet.

We can see pangas in the distance zooming away, but now the beach has dozens of empty pickup trucks left in the sand by the captains.  There’s a few stray friends here and there on the beach as well as the occasional curios beach dog.

And then there’s about a dozen of us van drivers huddled around our vans.

Everybody OK?  Everyone good?  Todo bien?

And then the smiles break out!

Andale! Most of us work for competing fleets, but ultimately, we all know each other. We’re all friends.  Been driving for years.  Many are related by blood or marriage.

Jorge is Esteban’s brother who is Marcello’s cousin married to Anna’s husband whose kids go to school with Antonio’s kids and are neighbors of Alredo.  You get the idea.

Everyone’s gone and suddenly, we are grown little boys scurrying around now that the parents are gone!  Checking mischieviously if anyone is watching!

Boxes, bags and extra ice chests emerge from the vans.  A hurried circle of gets formed in the sand.

Ice chests become makeshift chairs and tables.  Grins and laughs.  It’s our guilty little secret on the beach!

A meeting of the BREAKFAST CLUB has convened!

While we send the clients out with box and bag lunches of burritos and ham sandwiches, apples and juice boxes, we wait until they have all left the beach.

It’s time!

Lorenzo pulls out pork carnitas grilled with chiles.

Marcello has a whole deep fried snapper and a Tupperware of his wife’s rice.  He’s squeezing fresh lime on it

Juanito reached into his ice chest and produces mini beef ribs covered in a green salsa.

Carlos stopped along the way this morning and has a kilo of warm flour tortillas wrapped in foil and has a pot of shredded beef machaca with scrambled eggs. Cousin Chuy passes around a tray of grilled marlin burritos.

Someone else has homemade beans and chorizo sausage.

I ladle a nice helping of yellowtail ceviche onto my paper plate and give it a healthy squirt of siracha sauce. 

Everyone is laughing and telling food stories.  Everyone has a story about the fishermen in their van.  Some fisherman in the back of the van was farting and driving everyone crazy.  Another guy was already mixing margaritas in a thermos at 5 a.m. 

Julio stands up while eating and is telling jokes while Homero is singing.

This is our breakfast club.  On the beach. Our beach!

A crazy fun buffet as the sun comes up and all the fishermen are gone.  A guilty sunrise pleasure among friends.

We eat and laugh. Lots of horseplay and smack talk as guys will do.

When the food is all gone, some guys walk it off along the empty beach. Others  drift off to their respective vans to find some shade to take long naps with happy tummies.

Life is good.  We wait for the fishermen to come back.

That’s my story!

Jonathan