That's My Story

VAMPIRE FISH OF FALL – Published Sept. 2005 – Western Outdoor News

Mostly when someone tells me they want to fish for pargo (snapper) , I tell them to come in the spring to Baja. Those are the days when these big rockfish come up into the shallows to spawn in the rocky areas along the islands and dropoffs of the Baja coast. Often, they can be seen in schools so large it looks like a dark red school of Japanese koi (carp) except the Mexican pargo would probably eat your tea-garden-zen-master koi for lunch since these bad boys can be anywhere from 10-60 pound fish. Yup..come in the spring for your best shot at taking one of the most prized sportfish and eating fish in the Baja.

However, I don’t know why I forget about the pargo of fall. I guess I get so wrapped up in the “glamour” species during this time of year…tuna, wahoo, dorado and billfish…the surface warriors, that I forget about the down-and-dirty sluggers in the rocks. Until we start catching them that is. Then it’s slap-myself-in-the-head-how-did-I-forget-about-pargo-time because the fall is also an excellent time to roll with one of these toothy creatures. I call them “vampire” fish and if you’ve ever seen the teeth on one of these things, you’d know why. The literally have fangs that protrude from their mouths making them look pretty fearsome.

Fishing for pargo in the fall is a little different than fishing them in the spring. For one thing, they generally do not school up like they do in the earlier parts of the year. The fish on the fall are more solitary, sullen and sedentary fish. You won’t see them marauding in the shallows in huge groups where you can often site-fish them. Instead, anglers are often surprised when they catch these fall snapper while fishing down in the water column looking for cabrilla, amberjack, grouper or seasonal yellowtail.

The one thing they do have in common with their springtime habits is that they LOVE cover. You may see the occasional fish swimming around sandy areas, but by-and-large, you hunt for pargo in the worst areas possible…in the sharp rocks, ledges, reefs and dropoffs that made Baja famous. If you’re going to hunt the bad boys, you’re going to have to go into their neighborhood in just about the worst environment to wet a fishing line. This is what makes them so hard to catch. Not only do they have teeth. Not only do they have sharp gillplates and spines. Not only do they have armored plated scales, but their habitat will shred your line like razors and these fish know how to use that structure to the fullest.

Gifted with not only brutish and relentless strength and bad attitudes, but they also have keen eyesight. Using heavy line to protect against breakoffs will limit your bites either because the fish see the line or the stiffness of the heavy string makes for poorer bait presentation. Use light line and you may get bit more, but once it touches any rock or sharp object, it’s toast. I can’t tell you how often we’ve busted off on pargo and seen scrapes on the line 3, 5, 10 or 20 feet up the line which means that line was laying over a number of abrasive rocks and ridges and could have broken at any of those stress points.

The pargo have a tendency to grab and head right into the nearest crack or crevice so unless you can stop that first run and turn it’s head, you’re only feeding the fish. Therefore, no matter what line you use, a set of good drags and a short stiff rod with some backbone are the ticket because that’s the other thing about fall pargo…they tend to be bigger. Whereas the springtime spawners might average 10 or 20 pounds, the fish-of-fall START at 20 and go up. Fish into the 50 and 60 pound class are not uncommon.

Although they’ll readily take live bait like sardines, mackerel, small barracuda and needlefish (yes…there’s actually a use for needlefish!). I’ve found one of the most effective ways to get them is via “chunking.” That is…chumming with chunks of dead squid, bonito, or other fragrant or oily fish. I ladle whole handfuls of the stuff into the water; bury a hook into another chunk and strip off alot of slack line so that my hooked bait settles down to the bottom with the other chunks. Although we’re not in shallow water, it’s not deep either. I find pargo holding in waters 20-40 feet deep are the best candidates to chunk. Just remember that “dead bait does not swim.” So, if line starts to peel off, time to set the machine in gear and pull like heck to get that fish turned and headed away from the rocks.

When you get one aboard, handle with care. They bring a lot of sharp edges into the boat including those vampire teeth.

That’s my story….
Jonathan

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BAJA IN THE FALL – Published September 2005 – Western Outdoor News

I was out on the water the today…alone. It’s rare that I get out on the water these days by myself. Just me and a skipper. I love what I do, but every now and then you have to step back. People often ask me what I do on my time off. Well, I guess I go fishing! But being by myself is a unique treat. No knots to tie for anyone else. No coaching. If I want to just look at the horizon that’s fine and not catching fish is OK too. I’m not going to ask myself for a refund if all I get is needlefish.

But, there’s something even more special about this. To me, it’s prime time in Baja. Fall fishing in the Baja is unlike any other time of the season. There’s something in the air. It’s like the “Friday” of the year. Fridays feel different… a little slacker…anticipation of a good weekend. Heck…there’s a reason they have Casual Friday” at the office and not “Kick-Back Monday” or “Laid-Back Wednesday.” People have a different attitude on Friday than on Monday. Everyone plays sick, on Monday. No one plays sick on Fridays! Friday is the day half the office never comes back from lunch. Am I right?

Well, fall in the Baja is like that. It might not be burning leaves…in fact, there’s precious few leaves in the desert let alone leaves turning color. There’s no frost on the windshield in the morning and I don’t see anyone wearing long pants and sweatshirts yet, but surely, for Baja all the accoutrements indicative of a changing season are here and that’s why this is one of my favorite times of the year.

Relatively speaking there’s a “nip” in the air. I can feel the sun coming at a different angle. The shadows running up the golden brown island cliffs are longer and there’s a little more breeze cooling down the mornings and evenings. There’s even a bit of dew in the desert and moisture on the few grass lawns that exist. However, although the air has dropped a few degrees off that stove top heater that can be the Baja summer, the waters are warm and flat. I think the late storms of summer and hurricanes to the south have done their thing and now the waters are so flat that it’s hard to tell some days where the sky ends and the waters begin. I can see the tell-tale ripple of a school of dorado half-a-football field away and much of the water can go the color of a good bottle of Bombay Sapphire gin…like teal-colored air and looking down I can see the reef and pargo hovering close to the rocks even though I know for a fact it’s 40 feet down. Man…a marlin fin out there on the surface sticks out like the Eiffel Tower on a glass dance floor.

After Labor Day, airfares generally go down. All the kids and families have largely gone back to school and the towns and pueblos have slowed their pace a notch or two.

The best part is that there’s less boat traffic on the fishing honey holes! It always puzzled me why so many folks seem to think that fishing stops after the last embers of the Labor Day barbecues flicker out. Ask the S. California sport boat operators. Fish can be foaming 20 yards off the beach yet like some internal clock, anglers put their gear in the garage. Baja is no different. Airplanes that literally burst with anglers during the summer are now half-full at best.

Today I worked one of my favorite spots in front of the old Hotel Las Arenas pulling on tuna. I kept expecting that any moment the whole fleet would come dogging my bite. In fact, not a single other panga. During the summer several dozen boats would’ve been jostling for position. Today, there was no one. Just me and my fishing in the September sun and life was good. And the fish bit. And it really didn’t matter if they did or not. It was just good to be there thinking to myself that there were people on the freeway at that very moment and I was grateful to be where I was. I stopped what I was doing at one point and you know what I heard? Absolutely nothing, but the sound of my big old Baja grin.

That’s my story…
Jonathan

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BEE DANCE – November 2004

I know this column is supposed to be about fishing and the story I’m about to relate is definitely about fishing. It’s definitely about the Baja experience and while this account is not about catching, it is certainly about “biting.”

At the behest of the fishermen who were there that day and my captain who all promised NOT to tell anyone, I figure I might as well tell you since about half the city of La Paz came up to me the next day offering either (a) condolences (b) remedies (c) ideas on how NOT to let it happen again…as if this were a regular occurrence or (d) all of the above PLUS laughingly assaulting my manhood by calling me names like “wussie” and “little girl”. Believe me, as you’ll see, my manhood had already been abused.

This story is about the dorado and the African killer bees. . .

Last week I was working a super panga off Espiritu Santo Island with two of my amigos/clients, Don Meluci and Mitch Chavira of San Diego. As stories go, we were into a pretty nice dorado bite and had a couple aboard. For November, this was pretty incredible fishing. Don and Mitch had brought a nice group of guys down to fish with us and instead of the usual blustery November days with scratchy fishing, waters were flat and warm. The sun was out the and dorado had come to play. There were lots of easy smiles. We were into the early afternoon and already had a nice box of dorado and had released a handful of others.

But, as I said, this story is not about catching. It’s about biting…

My memory is a bit foggy at this point, but I recall that I was leaning over the rail about to gaff a fish for Mitch when an incredible pain radiated from between my legs. Imagine someone holding a lit cigar to your nether regions where the sun rarely shines. Use your imagination on exactly WHERE this was coming from, but I’ll tell you it was on the LEFT twin! I yelled and immediately started tearing off my shorts doing the craziest panga dance ever seen in the Baja.

I knew what it was. A bee had flown up my shorts and decided to put it’s stinger to MY stinger! I could still feel “it” buzzing in there because as someone told me later, these are African killer bees with little claws that hold on and they DO NOT DIE, but repeatedly sting and sting. On one leg…then the other leg…grabbing at my crotch and tearing at my shorts…oh the pain. Now up and twirling from stern to bow. Yelling and whooping like a man with well…a bee in his shorts! My friends got to see that I was not born this tanned and why some call me “Casper Butt” as my shorts end up around my knees.

Needless to say, my amigos had no sympathy (you are paying double price next year, my friends, for the extra entertainment) and could not stop laughing. I do not know what happened to the dorado I was supposed to gaff. It probably knocked itself off the hook laughing as well.

Fifteen minutes later, I’m settled down, at least enough to sit down and breathe again. I’m still in pain. It feels like a burn that travels down my left thigh radiates up my mid-section and throbs like heck “down there.” Don’t you bet that I can still hear the snickers from my friends who are expressing sympathy, but deep down cannot wait to spread the story. Good thing the dorado kept biting so I wouldn’t have to listen to more laughs.

But, as I said, this is not about catching. This is about biting…

An hour later, we’re hooked up to another feisty dorado. This one should put us at about limits and we’re hooting and hollering again when WHAM!!!! I’m still feeling the pain in one spot when another excruciating pain shoots up the inside of my right nalga cheek about 4 inches below the waistband and just west of the longitude line. Yeow… Another bee has flown into my shorts and I’m off on the panga two-step again clawing and yelling and using moves like Jerry Lewis as the nutty professor. OUCH that hurts and again, I’m tearing at my shorts, but butt, my crotch trying to get that guy outta there as I do a pirouette at the stern bait tank all the while screaming and see a bee fall outta my shorts, onto the deck and fly away. Rat bastard bug.

I can already feel the painful swelling on my butt joining the painful swelling on my left twin. Yes, I yelled like a little girl. No, I cannot dance. No, I have never ever been afraid of bees and in thousands of hours on the water year after year this has never happened to me. I’ve cut fingers, busted bones, twisted ankles and knees, had gaffs and hooks go through my hand, but never ever had not one…but TWO bees fly up my shorts. And yes…it hurt worse than any of those other mishaps. In fact, it hurt for about 2 days.

By the way, about an hour later, another bee flew into my t-shirt and stung me under the right arm pit. That’s me the human pin-cushion. My amigos did not get a single bite. However, by evening dinner word had spread through La Paz about why Jonathan wasn’t able to dance at the beach barbecue I threw that night. I was as useless as a one-legged man at a butt-kicking contest. Dang bee stings hurt…A LOT, especially in a very tender area.

As I was to find out over the next few days, for some reason there had been an infestation of African killer bees around La Paz that week. Interestingly, they have only been over the water and there were reports of swarms of them following dive and fishing boats for a few days. Then, they were gone. A few people got ONE sting. I got THREE. Only in Baja. Just when I thought I had seen everything.

That’s my story.
Jonathan

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BEE DANCE – November 2004

I know this column is supposed to be about fishing and the story I’m about to relate is definitely about fishing. It’s definitely about the Baja experience and while this account is not about catching, it is certainly about “biting.”

At the behest of the fishermen who were there that day and my captain who all promised NOT to tell anyone, I figure I might as well tell you since about half the city of La Paz came up to me the next day offering either (a) condolences (b) remedies (c) ideas on how NOT to let it happen again…as if this were a regular occurrence or (d) all of the above PLUS laughingly assaulting my manhood by calling me names like “wussie” and “little girl”. Believe me, as you’ll see, my manhood had already been abused.

This story is about the dorado and the African killer bees. . .

Last week I was working a super panga off Espiritu Santo Island with two of my amigos/clients, Don Meluci and Mitch Chavira of San Diego. As stories go, we were into a pretty nice dorado bite and had a couple aboard. For November, this was pretty incredible fishing. Don and Mitch had brought a nice group of guys down to fish with us and instead of the usual blustery November days with scratchy fishing, waters were flat and warm. The sun was out the and dorado had come to play. There were lots of easy smiles. We were into the early afternoon and already had a nice box of dorado and had released a handful of others.

But, as I said, this story is not about catching. It’s about biting…

My memory is a bit foggy at this point, but I recall that I was leaning over the rail about to gaff a fish for Mitch when an incredible pain radiated from between my legs. Imagine someone holding a lit cigar to your nether regions where the sun rarely shines. Use your imagination on exactly WHERE this was coming from, but I’ll tell you it was on the LEFT twin! I yelled and immediately started tearing off my shorts doing the craziest panga dance ever seen in the Baja.

I knew what it was. A bee had flown up my shorts and decided to put it’s stinger to MY stinger! I could still feel “it” buzzing in there because as someone told me later, these are African killer bees with little claws that hold on and they DO NOT DIE, but repeatedly sting and sting. On one leg…then the other leg…grabbing at my crotch and tearing at my shorts…oh the pain. Now up and twirling from stern to bow. Yelling and whooping like a man with well…a bee in his shorts! My friends got to see that I was not born this tanned and why some call me “Casper Butt” as my shorts end up around my knees.

Needless to say, my amigos had no sympathy (you are paying double price next year, my friends, for the extra entertainment) and could not stop laughing. I do not know what happened to the dorado I was supposed to gaff. It probably knocked itself off the hook laughing as well.

Fifteen minutes later, I’m settled down, at least enough to sit down and breathe again. I’m still in pain. It feels like a burn that travels down my left thigh radiates up my mid-section and throbs like heck “down there.” Don’t you bet that I can still hear the snickers from my friends who are expressing sympathy, but deep down cannot wait to spread the story. Good thing the dorado kept biting so I wouldn’t have to listen to more laughs.

But, as I said, this is not about catching. This is about biting…

An hour later, we’re hooked up to another feisty dorado. This one should put us at about limits and we’re hooting and hollering again when WHAM!!!! I’m still feeling the pain in one spot when another excruciating pain shoots up the inside of my right nalga cheek about 4 inches below the waistband and just west of the longitude line. Yeow… Another bee has flown into my shorts and I’m off on the panga two-step again clawing and yelling and using moves like Jerry Lewis as the nutty professor. OUCH that hurts and again, I’m tearing at my shorts, but butt, my crotch trying to get that guy outta there as I do a pirouette at the stern bait tank all the while screaming and see a bee fall outta my shorts, onto the deck and fly away. Rat bastard bug.

I can already feel the painful swelling on my butt joining the painful swelling on my left twin. Yes, I yelled like a little girl. No, I cannot dance. No, I have never ever been afraid of bees and in thousands of hours on the water year after year this has never happened to me. I’ve cut fingers, busted bones, twisted ankles and knees, had gaffs and hooks go through my hand, but never ever had not one…but TWO bees fly up my shorts. And yes…it hurt worse than any of those other mishaps. In fact, it hurt for about 2 days.

By the way, about an hour later, another bee flew into my t-shirt and stung me under the right arm pit. That’s me the human pin-cushion. My amigos did not get a single bite. However, by evening dinner word had spread through La Paz about why Jonathan wasn’t able to dance at the beach barbecue I threw that night. I was as useless as a one-legged man at a butt-kicking contest. Dang bee stings hurt…A LOT, especially in a very tender area.

As I was to find out over the next few days, for some reason there had been an infestation of African killer bees around La Paz that week. Interestingly, they have only been over the water and there were reports of swarms of them following dive and fishing boats for a few days. Then, they were gone. A few people got ONE sting. I got THREE. Only in Baja. Just when I thought I had seen everything.

That’s my story.
Jonathan

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WHO ARE YOU ANYWAY? – published Sept. 2005 – Western Outdoor News

Well, I survived the award ceremony last week. If you remember my column, I went all out and paid 35 pesos for a haircut and surprise…I got exactly what I paid for…a 35 peso haircut that I am still trying to hide.

I know this isn’t about fishing, but what I experienced at the event was certainly a great honor and getting awarded something special is certainly something that most of us Baja rats never get to see or experience. It’s something I’d like to share with you if you’ll indulge me for a bit. I really didn’t know what to expect. It was quite a rush that morning as I still had about 20 boats to get out in the early dark off the beach plus load up about a dozen clients into vans off to the airport. Then, with 15 minutes to spare, run off and shower and climb into something presentable.

Something “presentable” for me meant spending about a whole day running around town trying to find something other than the shorts, flip flops and fishing t-shirts everyone sees me in. What I thought would be easy turned into a 200 dollar mission to find stuff that fit and that wasn’t going to be too hot. Wow…Dockers slacks in Mexico cost about 60 bucks! A silk tie was over 30. There goes the budget. And because I’m short and would not have time for alternations, a pair of decent boots were topped off by the aforementioned bad-haircut. That’s what happens when you wait until the last minute.

Anyway, I was shuttled off to the civic center in La Paz. About 400 people were there as well as about 200 uniformed police officers and military standing at parade rest in the hot sun. I felt sorry for these guys having to listen to all the speeches (of which I barely understood anything so I nodded and smiled a lot) while standing at attention as it was over 100 degrees that day. Looking around, after all my shopping the previous day, I was the ONLY guy wearing a tie. I was the ONLY guy in long sleeves. Even the mayor, Sr. Victor Castro, El Presidente de La Paz, was in his “casual Friday best.” I guess it’s good to be king.

The band played. The bugles bugled and the drums beat. I loved watching the soldiers and police march. It’s a bit like a goose-step but rather funny and I couldn’t help grinning. Right leg up and out. And hold. Just like someone striding over a water puddle or navigating a yard full of dog poo and wondering when to put their foot down. They would hold it for a split second, then put it down in a very erratic march step. They played the Mexican National Anthem which by the number of people singing it is sure a lot easier to sing than our own difficult Star Spangled Banner. It also has a nice beat to it when all the tubas in the band are playing much like a good oompa tune you’d hear at October fest. I liked it. I can only imagine what Mexicans think when they hear, “Jose can you see?” from own national anthem.

I was seated at the main table with all the dignitaries. I was the only gringo and feeling pretty important because I heard them mention my name in one of the speeches and say something about me being from the United States. However, at one point the guy on my right, who reminded me of the Robert De Niro’s ex CIA character father-in-law in “Meet the Fokkers” leaned over and in Spanish whispered quizzically , “What are you doing here?” I said I was receiving an award for bringing business to the city. (pause) After several minutes, he leaned over again and said, “And just who are you, anyway?” (sigh) So much for being a big celebrity! As I found out later he was the former mayor and now acting head of central security. Just doing his job, no doubt.

Anyway after a lot of speeches, I got a nifty plaque and gratefully shook a lot of hands. Police officers came by to also shake my hand as well. All my friends in La Paz say my life will change now that I have been recognized by the mayor of the city. I just hope the cops remember me next time I get pulled over for running a stop sign. But I’m sure I’ll just get, “And who are you anyway?”

That’s my story…
Jonathan

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WHO ARE YOU ANYWAY? – published Sept. 2005 – Western Outdoor News

Well, I survived the award ceremony last week. If you remember my column, I went all out and paid 35 pesos for a haircut and surprise…I got exactly what I paid for…a 35 peso haircut that I am still trying to hide.

I know this isn’t about fishing, but what I experienced at the event was certainly a great honor and getting awarded something special is certainly something that most of us Baja rats never get to see or experience. It’s something I’d like to share with you if you’ll indulge me for a bit. I really didn’t know what to expect. It was quite a rush that morning as I still had about 20 boats to get out in the early dark off the beach plus load up about a dozen clients into vans off to the airport. Then, with 15 minutes to spare, run off and shower and climb into something presentable.

Something “presentable” for me meant spending about a whole day running around town trying to find something other than the shorts, flip flops and fishing t-shirts everyone sees me in. What I thought would be easy turned into a 200 dollar mission to find stuff that fit and that wasn’t going to be too hot. Wow…Dockers slacks in Mexico cost about 60 bucks! A silk tie was over 30. There goes the budget. And because I’m short and would not have time for alternations, a pair of decent boots were topped off by the aforementioned bad-haircut. That’s what happens when you wait until the last minute.

Anyway, I was shuttled off to the civic center in La Paz. About 400 people were there as well as about 200 uniformed police officers and military standing at parade rest in the hot sun. I felt sorry for these guys having to listen to all the speeches (of which I barely understood anything so I nodded and smiled a lot) while standing at attention as it was over 100 degrees that day. Looking around, after all my shopping the previous day, I was the ONLY guy wearing a tie. I was the ONLY guy in long sleeves. Even the mayor, Sr. Victor Castro, El Presidente de La Paz, was in his “casual Friday best.” I guess it’s good to be king.

The band played. The bugles bugled and the drums beat. I loved watching the soldiers and police march. It’s a bit like a goose-step but rather funny and I couldn’t help grinning. Right leg up and out. And hold. Just like someone striding over a water puddle or navigating a yard full of dog poo and wondering when to put their foot down. They would hold it for a split second, then put it down in a very erratic march step. They played the Mexican National Anthem which by the number of people singing it is sure a lot easier to sing than our own difficult Star Spangled Banner. It also has a nice beat to it when all the tubas in the band are playing much like a good oompa tune you’d hear at October fest. I liked it. I can only imagine what Mexicans think when they hear, “Jose can you see?” from own national anthem.

I was seated at the main table with all the dignitaries. I was the only gringo and feeling pretty important because I heard them mention my name in one of the speeches and say something about me being from the United States. However, at one point the guy on my right, who reminded me of the Robert De Niro’s ex CIA character father-in-law in “Meet the Fokkers” leaned over and in Spanish whispered quizzically , “What are you doing here?” I said I was receiving an award for bringing business to the city. (pause) After several minutes, he leaned over again and said, “And just who are you, anyway?” (sigh) So much for being a big celebrity! As I found out later he was the former mayor and now acting head of central security. Just doing his job, no doubt.

Anyway after a lot of speeches, I got a nifty plaque and gratefully shook a lot of hands. Police officers came by to also shake my hand as well. All my friends in La Paz say my life will change now that I have been recognized by the mayor of the city. I just hope the cops remember me next time I get pulled over for running a stop sign. But I’m sure I’ll just get, “And who are you anyway?”

That’s my story…
Jonathan

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SNIP-IT OF MEXICAN LIFE – Published September 2005 – Western Outdoor News

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SNIP-IT OF MEXICAN LIFE – Published September 2005 – Western Outdoor News

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PIRATES I HAVE KNOWN – Published August 2004 – Western Outdoor News

As I write this, it’s one of those screwed up days when the weatherman predicted “partially cloudy” and we got a decent Baja cloudburst instead that’s great if you have a hot cocoa and a good book, but not when you’re out trying to fish.

Once after a fairly sizeable storm, we were walking along the beach checking to see what might have washed up and came across some plastic kitchen stuff, a battered cutting board and part of a boat’s broken wooden name plate that only said, “The Re…” and nothing else. It got me to thinking what poor bastard might have been out there as is so often the case just sailing around the Sea of Cortez. No registry. No real plan, just living the sailing life of so many ocean-bopping folks from port to port as wind, tide current and whim might allow. You know. You’ve seen these guys all over. There’s usually a faded tarp covering part of the boat; laundry hanging helter skelter; a rusty barbecue on the transom; maybe a rusty bike on deck; an old kicker motor and a dinged-up trolling rod with a Penn 6/0 lashed to the starboard rail. Man…this guy goes down and there really is no one looking for him and nothing ever remains except part of a nameplate and some things that floated out of the kitchen before the boat takes the big dive with all hands.

It reminded me of one motor sailor that dropped anchor in front of a little hotel I worked for on the East Cape. Often folks would do that and come into the little restaurant for a land-based meal and some terra firma. They all had stories, but I never forgot this one gent. Tall, lean, tanned and actually for a guy who looked to be in his late 50’s he’s one of those guys who actually looked OK in his speedos like a swimmer and not like a European transplant trolling the playas with a mis-placed self-confidence for chicas.

Turned out this amigo was almost 70 and I never forgot his story. He started in New Jersey. He had been a retired insurance exec.who went out on his weekend sail. Monday came along and he decided to keep sailing south. Called his wife and said he was going to stay out a few more days. A few days later, he kept going. Just felt there wasn’t much reason to turn back…just yet. Virginia and the Carolina coasts went by and every few days he’d call into his wife who never objected.

By Florida, he deciced to stay out another two weeks as the reggae music and trade winds pulled him along. “I never sailed out of sight of land,” he said. “I hugged the coast because I’m not that good a sailor and besides, there’s nothing to see ‘out there.’ After 3 weeks, I called my wife. We really had lived separate lives for many years. Kids were grown and gone. I told her to prepare divorce papers and she didn’t object. Except for a quick run back to sign some papers, it was all amicable and I kept sailing south.”

He kept going keeping the land to his starboard side then went through the Panama Canal and then north up Central America then Mexico and finally into the Sea of Cortez where I now found him having a big fat steak; some red wine; and a good chat as we watched the sun go down next to the big blazing fire we always had on the patio.

“What now?” I asked.

He planned to just keep sailing…maybe up the California coast and north to Canada and finally Alaska.

“Then what?” I asked.

“Then I’ll sell the boat ; buy another one and sail the other way, of course!” he replied with a grin and a twinkle in his eye.

Fairwinds, amigo, wherever you ended up.

That’s my story…

Jonathan

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PIRATES I HAVE KNOWN – Published August 2004 – Western Outdoor News

As I write this, it’s one of those screwed up days when the weatherman predicted “partially cloudy” and we got a decent Baja cloudburst instead that’s great if you have a hot cocoa and a good book, but not when you’re out trying to fish.

Once after a fairly sizeable storm, we were walking along the beach checking to see what might have washed up and came across some plastic kitchen stuff, a battered cutting board and part of a boat’s broken wooden name plate that only said, “The Re…” and nothing else. It got me to thinking what poor bastard might have been out there as is so often the case just sailing around the Sea of Cortez. No registry. No real plan, just living the sailing life of so many ocean-bopping folks from port to port as wind, tide current and whim might allow. You know. You’ve seen these guys all over. There’s usually a faded tarp covering part of the boat; laundry hanging helter skelter; a rusty barbecue on the transom; maybe a rusty bike on deck; an old kicker motor and a dinged-up trolling rod with a Penn 6/0 lashed to the starboard rail. Man…this guy goes down and there really is no one looking for him and nothing ever remains except part of a nameplate and some things that floated out of the kitchen before the boat takes the big dive with all hands.

It reminded me of one motor sailor that dropped anchor in front of a little hotel I worked for on the East Cape. Often folks would do that and come into the little restaurant for a land-based meal and some terra firma. They all had stories, but I never forgot this one gent. Tall, lean, tanned and actually for a guy who looked to be in his late 50’s he’s one of those guys who actually looked OK in his speedos like a swimmer and not like a European transplant trolling the playas with a mis-placed self-confidence for chicas.

Turned out this amigo was almost 70 and I never forgot his story. He started in New Jersey. He had been a retired insurance exec.who went out on his weekend sail. Monday came along and he decided to keep sailing south. Called his wife and said he was going to stay out a few more days. A few days later, he kept going. Just felt there wasn’t much reason to turn back…just yet. Virginia and the Carolina coasts went by and every few days he’d call into his wife who never objected.

By Florida, he deciced to stay out another two weeks as the reggae music and trade winds pulled him along. “I never sailed out of sight of land,” he said. “I hugged the coast because I’m not that good a sailor and besides, there’s nothing to see ‘out there.’ After 3 weeks, I called my wife. We really had lived separate lives for many years. Kids were grown and gone. I told her to prepare divorce papers and she didn’t object. Except for a quick run back to sign some papers, it was all amicable and I kept sailing south.”

He kept going keeping the land to his starboard side then went through the Panama Canal and then north up Central America then Mexico and finally into the Sea of Cortez where I now found him having a big fat steak; some red wine; and a good chat as we watched the sun go down next to the big blazing fire we always had on the patio.

“What now?” I asked.

He planned to just keep sailing…maybe up the California coast and north to Canada and finally Alaska.

“Then what?” I asked.

“Then I’ll sell the boat ; buy another one and sail the other way, of course!” he replied with a grin and a twinkle in his eye.

Fairwinds, amigo, wherever you ended up.

That’s my story…

Jonathan

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