That's My Story

SUNDAY SCHOOL LESSON – published Nov. 2004 – Western Outdoor News

I just got off the water about 20 minutes before writing this column. I still have dried salt spray on my arms and sand under my nails as I sit in the office looking out through the palm trees and onto the bay in the Sea of Cortez. I guess I should be bummed. Our boats didn’t catch many fish today which is normally a pretty good start for putting me in a less than amiable mood. I mean…I know I shouldn’t, but I can take it personally when nature does what nature does and sometimes lifts it’s leg on my parade. But I’m sitting here grinning and wanted to to tell you about some incredible guys sitting down there by the pool right now.

No doubt, Baja sure gets it share of desert rats, pirates, scallywags, rogues and banditos. I probably fall into a few categories myself of those of us running to or running from (take your pick or fill in your own) nightmares, dreams, girlfriends, wives, lovers, IRS, work, tight shoes, fortunes, therapy, etc., etc. But, I’m looking down from my upstairs office down towards the beach and pool at a group of guys who sure don’t seem to fit that mold. They’re circled around one of the hotel lounge tables and are in far too good a humor considering we sure didn’t catch many fish today. I hear a lot of laughing and see a lot of smiles.

You see, these guys aren’t my “clientes tipicos.” (typical clients). They’re all ministers. That’s right…full turbo padres. Card-carrying collar men. Pulpit preachers. I’m not given to doing a lot of philosophical meanderings, but in the biblical sense, these guys are the real deal…the real “fishermen” and every year they come here…fish or no fish…and seem to have the time of their lives.

I’ve always enjoyed their visits down here, but it wasn’t until I fished with one of them once on a day when I had no other bookings that it was all explained to me and why they never really tried too hard when it came to fishing . . . or really cared.

“Jonathan, in our work, there is no real “day off.” There are always phones and responsibilities. We are always on-call. We all enjoy our work and take it very seriously like anyone else does with their jobs. But ours is also a physical as well as spiritual job. Even more so, we’re under intense scrutiny all the time. People forget that before we were “men of the cloth” we were just ordinary guys who like football, tell jokes, go barefooted, drink an occasional beer, and yes…even pull a finger and laugh about it. You’d be surprised how many members of our respective congregations would be shocked to see us in shorts and tanktops right now.”

For that he said, no amount of fish or lack of fish could change a great vacation that allowed them to be “just guys” again. “We get to be more than that. We get to be boys! We can dangle our toes in the water and do belly flops into the pool. We can be google-eyed at dolphins and laugh when a seagull drops a present on a buddy. We can laughingly point blame at the other guy when we hear a (funny body noises). We can decide not to come in for dinner when it’s time to eat and sing aloud whatever song comes into our heads. For just a few days we can be Huck Finn and Tom Sawyer again and, best of all, we get to do it with our best friends. What could be better?”

Scallywags indeed! Pirates of the first order. Becky Thatcher beware! I always try to remember that on days when the fish don’t bite or the weather doesn’t cooperate. This is supposed to be play! Amen, Padres. Amen.

That’s my story
Jonathan

SOME FOR THE ROAD – Published Nov. 2005 – Western Outdoor News

I know over the upcoming holidays between November and December, a lot of you hit the road coming down to Baja. I thought I’d drop a few things your way about the drive.

GASSING UP

And I don’t mean frijoles and beer. If you haven’t driven the Transpeninsular lately, I think you’ll be amazed at it’s constant improvements. Sure, it’s not the 405 (at least in terms of amenities and quality), but it’s not your daddy’s beat-up arroyo-laden burro road either. As recently as a few years ago, gas was sometimes a hit-or-miss proposition and you got it when you could and topped-off at every chance. Now, modern Pemex stations dot the highway with the full-choice of fuels and mini-marts. You’ll also find something that you’ve not seen in the U.S. in a long time. Surprise! The attendant will be happy to look under your hood; check your tires for air; and even washes your windshield. Pop him a few centavos from your ashtray as a tip and you’ll get a bit smile. I still have the old habit from years ago when you could never tell about getting ripped off. I ALWAYS make sure they zero-out the pump before pumping gas. Just a habit of mine.

I never thought it would happen because Mexican gas was always more expensive than the U.S., but not so anymore. At an exchange rate of about 10.5 pesos to the dollar, expect to pay about 2 bucks/gallon for diesel and $2.20 to 2.80 for regular depending on the octane. Prices vary quite a bit but these are ballpark numbers.

INSURANCE

You’re crazy if you don’t pick up insurance even for a short trip. In fact, if you’ve seen the traffic in the Tijuana/Ensenada metro and corridor, it’s even more important to have insurance. Remember, you’re a visitor and if you think U.S. law is sticky, Mexico still adheres to the Napoleanic Code from it’s days under France. Basically, it says, “You are GUILTY until you prove yourself innocent!” They can and will hold you and the other party until fault and/or financial responsibility is established. No one is out to get your or take advantage of you. This applies equally to all parties, but the law is the law. Nothing is going to ruin your vacation faster than being in a country where you don’t know what anyone is saying and you just want out as quick as possible. There’s no excuse for not having insurance. It’s cheap. Very cheap. Do not rely on your U.S. insurance to cover you. No matter what your U.S. agent might tell you, Mexico does not recognize your U.S. policy. Get some coverage at the border or take a look at some of these websites. There are quite a few and will give you better explanations.

www.Mexicanautoinsurance.com

http://www.bajabound.com/before/legal/index.php

http://www.vagabundosdelmar.com/

http://www.discoverbajaonline.com/

THE COCONUT TELGRAPH

The closer you are to the border or to a large metropolitan area, the better your coverage with your U.S. cell phone. Cell phone coverage is expanding all the time. Check with your carrier and to make sure you get the best rates, ask about international coverage plans. They are relatively cheap even if you add the service for say…a month and will cut down on the roaming charges. It also feels good to have a phone just-in-case. The last thing you may want on your vacation is a phone call, but when you need it you have it.

As for computers…ahhhhh…can’t live with ‘em can’t live without them. There are so many internet cafes all over the place that are so inexpensive to use and many of the larger hotels also have computer stations now. Often you can just plug in your laptop and have a cappuccino while downloading pictures of you hoisting a beer to the guys back at the office. If you’re out in the sticks, strong wireless or satellite might work, but don’t count on it.

Speaking of satellite, one of the brightest spots of my year was finding out my satellite radio works like a gem here in S. Baja. I have Sirius and I can get CNN, The Rolling Stones, and Broadway Tunes wherever I go. I have one portable unit for the car/boat and another for the casa and there’s nothing like dialing in NFL football or kicking in some Garth Brooks (“Friends in Low Places” gets ‘em going at the bar all the time!) for a fiesta whenever I want or cranking on AC/DC (“Shook Me All Night Long” when the dorado foam!) when the fishing is going nuts. Your tastes may vary, but I have talked to friends up and down the peninsula and with few exceptions, their XM or Sirius tuners work like champs. By the way, there’s a station on Sirius called “Margaritaville” that’s just a perfect soundtrack for any Baja vacation. Tune it in then duct tape the knob so none of your goofy drunken buddies switches it to ABBA or something and starts sobbing about his girlfriend who left him in 8th grade. You KNOW it’ll happen if you don’t guard the knob!

Travel safe. Don’t drink and drive. Don’t drive at night and have a great road trip!

That’s my story…
Jonathan

BILLFISH OF THE FALL – published Nov. 2004 – Western Outdoor News

I guess I’ve caught more than a few marlin in my day. I once worked at a place where part of my job description required two marlin a week for the kitchen. Some weeks you hit and some weeks you scratched, but on the average, we did a lot of billfish. This was years and years ago.

The East Cape and Cabo region are famous for billfish and for good reason, Cabo has dubbed itself the “Marlin Capital of the World” for good reason. I once read that more than 30,000 billfish are hooked there annually. But let me tell you about a spot that I think is even better and the best marlin trip I ever had where I wasn’t even supposed to be fishing.

A couple of years ago, I was hired by a camera crew from Tennessee who had a fishing show. They wanted marlin and they wanted underwater shots. Apparently, they were getting away from bass fishing and had now decided to go saltwater so what better place than Baja! Anyway, I wasn’t hired to guide or deckhand or even work the galley. They wanted my perceived SCUBA diving skills. I was officially the “shark protector.” Younger and dumber and indestructible, that sounded fine to me. I had been diving with sharks quite often, but I’ve never had to protect myself from them let alone anyone else, but it sounded like a great adventure.

What I found out this entailed was getting a marlin hooked; slipping the cameraman off the swimstep into the water so he could film; then me getting in the water somewhere under the boat and below the cameraman to watch for sharks. Obviously, the cameraman would have his eyeball in the eyepiece so his view of the blue would be limited so I was the hired “protector.” Now, let me tell you, I’ve had a lot of diving experience, but there’s something different about bluewater diving in open ocean. There’s no structure or bottom to orient yourself. There’s no cute reef fish. There is only blue…shimmering eerie blue in all directions. Blue vertigo. If I saw a shark, I was somehow supposed to notify the cameraman so he could get out QUICK with the expensive gear! That left me still in the water with bait and chum all around and a hooked (and maybe bloody marlin) swimming through it all. I learned to swivel my head in all directions like Regan in the “Exorcist” real well because the place we were headed were the banks off Bahia Magdalena, notorious for “grinners” and the “men in the grey suits.” They always say you’ll never see the one that gets you and you can feel ridiculously exposed in all that blue with only a wet suite and a little 4-inch dive knife that doubles as a screw driver!

“Mag Bay” on the Pacific side of lower Baja might well be one of the most incredible marlin spots on the planet. During the fall and early winter, schools of marlin ball up on places like the Thetis Bank and feed. Then, as the season progresses, they begin moving south towards Cabo and around and up the East Cape and into the Sea of Cortez.

Imagine pulling up and seeing not one, but several different bird schools working. Pick a spot and drag the lures and bait and 1, 2, 3, 4 rods would go off with screaming reels and pure deck pandemonium. Getting into the water while hooked-up anglers stepped over and under you while trying to get divers and camera gear safely over the side was a proverbial clown fire drill. Once in the water, I kept my eyes and head swiveling, but in 4 days never saw a single shark. On the contrary, the biggest hazard were the hooked marlin as well as free-swimmers under the boat. With lines attached and those big long pointy things on their faces, I sometimes felt like a matador doing an “Ole!” as one then another marlin would stream or twist by sometimes close enough for me to touch the fish. At one point in the prop wash while coming to the surface, I was momentarily blinded by all the bubbles only to have it clear and finding I was staring straight into the spike of one striper. With a flick of it’s tail, I’d have been missing an eyeball! I should have asked for combat pay. One cool trick was releasing the fish underwater and swimming them down until they were well under their own power.

Over the course of several days, we hooked and released dozens of marlin a day taking them on bait, lures, flyrod, spinning rod and light tackle. Mag Bay is not an easy place to get to or be at. At best, it’s a 3-4 hour drive from where we are in La Paz. There’s no fancy hotels. No gift shopping. No sparkling fleet, although several small charter ops are popping up. Those anglers who hit it the most are coming down the coast or charter boats from Cabo as we did or sometimes the San Diego long rangers will bump it. I never saw a single shark but did encounter some incredible fishing and underwater footage. It’s where I’d go again to fish the incredible billfish of the fall.

That’s my story…
Jonathan

TOURNAMENT TIME – published Oct. 2005 – Western Outdoor News

This is tournament time in Baja and a certain discernable frenzy descends on places like Cabo, and the East Cape as some of the largest and richest tournaments on the planet bring the big boys, big boats, but money and big guns down for a spin at the roulette wheel of the fishing circuit.

If you ever get a chance to participate in any of these events, whether it’s the Bisbees or Western Outdoor News’ own great soiree or any of the others, you should treat yourself. Even if you can’t participate, to be in town to just watch and observe the circus is almost as much fun. Nothing quite lights up a town than when the big parades roll in.

I’ve worked and participated in several. Now, I”ll be frank. When there’s a couple of hundred boats out there all hell- bent on raising the biggest fish over a given number of days, there’s a certain element of luck involved. Being on the right boat; at the right time; with the right lure; at the right speed; and running over the right fish that just happens to want to chew what’s on the end of your line has a lot to do with luck.

It doesn’t matter how your stars are aligned; what your astrologer said; or how much money you spent or didn’t spend on that fiberglass fishing machine you’re riding. Winning is as capricious an act as getting hit by lightning or as “scientific” as those guys who have a “system” for wining the lottery or have the ability to “count cards” at the Vegas blackjack tables.

No doubt there are “pros” out there who have the ability and wherewithal to ply the tournament circuit. Those are the guys who combine skill with luck and more often than not, are usually somewhere in the money. I drool whenever one of their boats goes by and I see the deadly seriousness with which they approach and work their boat and equipment. I’ve decked on tournament boats where half the clients were asleep in the salon or passed out on the fighting chair 10 minutes after the hoopla of the “shotgun” start has faded and I’m the only sober guy on deck. Watching the pros is a thing of beauty. It’s like comparing crack Navy Seals to a college ROTC program. You and I may not ever be able to have that dream job of just following all the big tournaments around the world, but you can sure increase your chances with just a few common sense moves.

At one tournament, I passed one team of anglers who were “deep into the cups” as evidenced by the pyramid of beer cans stacked on their table. One of the guys recognized me and somewhat stumbled over. “Hey, Jonathan, I just made side bet of $1000 with some of the other boats. Give me a tip on how I can win!”
“Well, the first thing you can do is put down the beer can.” I answered. He stared at me and it took a few brain clicks for that to register. Then he started laughing and said, “You joker! You’re always so full of it!” He stumbled back to his table no doubt to regale his amigos with my pearls of wisdom.

Seriously, and by all means, have fun, but it’s hard to spot fish or do your job on a tournament boat if your eyes or closed, squinting or blood shot from the night before; bright sunshine hurts your eyes or you’re barking at the seals hunched over the rail yakking out your guts into the chum line.

And yes…everyone should have a job and an assignment on the boat. I have seen so many fish lost or tournaments screwed-up by the smallest things. And the smallest things are what can put you in or out of the money.

Everyone should have a part of the boat that is their responsibility. Everyone should have a portion of the horizon to scan for fins or surface activity. Someone should be in the cockpit at all times. Rotate duties so everyone stays alert. And, for criminy’s sake, someone should know what to do when the rods go off. So often, if the deck doesn’t look like it just got raked by a cannonball broadside leaving bodies and debris scattered about, it’s just the opposite. Namely, it’s a bad version of musical chairs with all participants having their hair on fire when the rods go off or a fish gets baited. It’s literally a bunch of screaming people bumping into each other! Have you ever seen all the clowns pile out of the tiny circus car?

“Fish on! Fish on! Someone grab that rod and set the hook!”

“Who is clearing lines? That’s not MY job!”

“Smitty is in the head! Who’s driving the boat?”

Where’s the bait? I thought YOU had it? There’s the fin! Let’s cast on it!”

Oh hell, I spilled my beer on the new carpet!”

“The deckhand is passed out in the salon. I told you guys not to do those shooters last night!”

“Who’s turn is it on the rod?” “Will someone grab the rod!”

“Where’s my rod belt? Where’s my rod belt? I can’t fish without my rod belt!”

You get the idea…

A little pre-tournament rehearsal wouldn’t help. Timing and details are everything. You could get one and only one shot. It’s the difference between a pyramid of beer cans or you and your team holding the big check in the winner’s circle with the bikini girl. Or not.

That’s my story…
Jonathan

I KNOW YOU! – published Oct. 2005 – Western Outdoor News

So much for being a celebrity in town. I was told that after I got the award from the Mayor, “your life will change.” OK…hehehehe…I can live with that. A free taco now and then? The guy at the Pemex station will wash my windows when I pull up for gas? Well, so far nothing, but whatever. I wasn’t expecting anything. The award was nice.

Then, I got a traffic ticket the other night. I had clients in the car and we were laughing and telling fish stories. I wasn’t paying attention and wrongfully turned into a dark-deserted one-way street, literally into the headlights of a police officer riding on an ATV. AroooooooRowrrrr! Goes the siren. I pull over.

Now, this is hardly the first time I’ve ever had a ticket in Mexico. But I always deserved it for some knuckleheaded thing I did and the officers were always courteous and professional. Now, I had just pulled another “pendejada” (stooopid move…if you know the word “pendejo” you get my drift) and figured this would be short and sweet.

Not!

Instead, this short squat guy in full battle dress (with all the dangly stuff and special riding gloves and shiny whistles no doubt), goes Barney Fife on me! It was like getting arrested by “Mini Ponch” from the old CHP TV series. This guy had razor-creases in his pants. No one irons in Mexico! As I rolled down my window, he was livid and screaming in perfect English, “I know who you are! You live here in La Paz and I know you speak Spanish too. You better not make any F-ing jokes to me!”

What? I hadn’t even said “Buenas noches” to the guy! Where was this hostility coming from? Could this be retribution from the awards day when the entire police force in full-uniform had to stand at parade rest while the mayor and city council were giving long political speeches? These poor guys had to stand on the hot parade grounds in 100 degree sun. Was Barney Poncherello blaming me for the fact his brain got cooked under that black beret they were wearing?

He kept mumbling in English, “I know who you are! I know who you are!” The veins on his neck were bulging as if he was trying to restrain himself or his shorts were riding up on him. He wanted to know if I had drugs and alcohol and told him I don’t drink and that he was welcome to search the car and all of us in it. That seemed to make him madder and he looked at me and said again, “I know who you are! Give me your license.” The wise guy in me wanted to say, “If you know who I am, then why do you need to see the license?” Self –control got the better of me and I handed him the license.

“I knew it was you!” he said with some degree of smugness. He told me that he was going to give me an “infracion” (ticket) and that there wasn’t a thing I could do to reduce the $21 dollar fine. ( I would NEVER try to reduce a whopping $21 dollar ticket!). But he kept on about “This is a serious thing you did and the crime fits the punishment and it’s a big fine to teach me a lesson and by the way, I know who you are! ” OK, already, Barney.

Here’s where the lesson kicked in for “Living in Mexico 101.” He lobbed it my way before he rode off tight shorts and all. Apparently, if I paid within 40 hours, I get a “30 percent discount.” Can I get more if I paid sooner? “Don’t make jokes with me, Mister. I know who you are!” He revved his ATC and rode off. That was way too intense and I was sure I’d be staying up all night thinking about my whopping $21 dollar fine. But here’s where I learned another lesson. In Mexico if you’re a senior citizen, you get 50 percent discounts on traffic tickets. I sent my 68-year-old buddy to pay the fine for me. That cop might know who I was, but at the courthouse, they sure didn’t know my buddy! And no one asked for I.D!

I think I will keep a lower profile. Just what I need is Mexican police officers thinking they know me. So much for minor celebrityhood in La Paz. Autograph anyone?

That’s my story….

Jonathan

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

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

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

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