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La Paz

Aloha everyone

In celebration of winning the 2011 Molokai Senior Masters division, Jerry Marcil offered to treat his teammates to a few days of vacation at La Paz Mexico.  It sounded like a great idea and everyone was in agreement at first, but when the time came, only a handful could make it.  Although I wasn’t on the Molokai team I was invited in appreciation for coaching the Lanakila men.  I’m sure the news of Mexico’s drug cartel’s indiscriminate murder and mayhem in Mexico crossed the minds of many teammates and wives. The last one to drop out was Christian Klump who booked the wrong flight.  Despite all our attempts to reconnect with him in Mexico, it was not to be.  So off we went, five of us, Jerry Marcil, Mike McKinney, Ray Shipman, Gary Webber and I to enjoy another adventure in our lives.

       Normally the airlines fly jets, but this time, we were booked on a turbo prop.  It was a nice change as it allowed you to see the rugged mountains, sandy beaches and beautiful islands slowly passing under the wing.  As soon as we landed we were greeted by Jerry's friend Mike Madlock, who maintains Jerry’s 70 ft boat Born 2B Wild. He took us shopping at a Costco like store, where we were offered free shots of Tequila, in one of the aisles by a beautiful young woman.   Five men fresh off the plane, we simply could not refuse.  Predictably after a few refills we bought two bottles of tequila from her.  Such a deal.  Americans will buy anything if you ply them with liquor.  Afterward we started buying a little too much grocery.  Finally we ended up in the parking lot drinking some of the beer we just bought.  In Mexico you can drink in public, but sometimes you still had that feeling of looking over your shoulder. 

       That evening in the back of the Born 2B Wild, we enjoyed a quiet, peaceful gathering with excited expectations of the weekend ahead.  We high-fived, the liquor flowed and so did we.  Our neighboring ship captain and his wife came over and joined us.  Out came the best Tequila, then Agaves, then whatever was presented on the table. We didn’t care. Under the back of the boat a strong light lit up underwater.  We became engrossed watching the littlest fish eat tiny marine life only to be eaten by a larger fish, which was then attacked by a larger predator.  “Oohing and aahing,” at each turn of event, we were entertained by the survival of life.    Finally crawling into bed at 2:30 a.m. we laid our tired bodies to rest.  Somewhere in the bowels of the crew’s quarters a long gassy sound was heard.  In silence I sensed there was contentment amongst the crew. 

      Casting off early in the morning we began a 60 mile trip around Isla de Espiritos destined for Bahia de Los Muertos (The bay of dead men).  Stopping at a favorite snorkeling point we dropped anchor in 80 ft of water and swam to shore to swim with the fish and seals.  I elected to stay warm on board as the water was a little cool and I have been spending a lot of time being cold, paddling long distances in my OC1.  The sea life was incredible. It is a protected marine sanctuary.  Hundreds of sea birds circled and dive bombed into the water, while seals casually watched the snorkelers, barking if they came too close. Some seal’s cough sounded exactly like a human’s.  After a while a park ranger on a boat came by flashing a red light.  He assumed I was the owner of the boat and asked, “Kapitan, do you have a permit to enter this protected area?”  Of course I said no.  Among various rules, he also stated, “It is against the law to swim from deep water to shore.  You will either have to go back to La Paz and face the department authorities or you can pay $60.00 in fines now.”  I quickly doled out the money.  I knew the system. The fact that he kept referring to me as, “El Kapitan,” was a small measure of reprieve. As he motored away he yelled, “Kapitan, tell your friends to get out of the water, it is very dangerous here. It is known for great whites.” 

     At dusk we made anchor at Bahia de Los Muertos (Bay of Dead Men). We looked around at the surrounding landscape.  It was desolate except for about three multimillion dollar homes and a lonely restaurant.  We wondered out loud, “Why do they call this the Bay of Dead Men?” Unknown to us, it was so named for the giant dead-man anchors used to moor barges in the early 1900 while off loading ore from silver mines at El Triunfo.  Shrugging it off, we jumped in our dingy and headed for a tour around the bay. With five men crowded in a rubber dingy it wasn’t the safest of situations.  As we scooted along, I happened to see a large patch of water boil off to the side.  I yelled, “Look at that water boil, must be a big school of fish.”  It really was an underwater rock.  A second later we slammed into a reef throwing everyone forward like a pile of sardines.  Luckily the motor tilted up and saved the prop.  Immediately we hit a second rock, but not as hard.

      With everyone on edge, some how we managed to maneuver our way out of there without putting a hole in the hull and sinking.  As we cleared the area, I thought, “Now I know why they call it the Bay of the Dead.”  Relieved we decided to go to shore and have a nice dinner at the open air restaurant.  “Tequila, margaritas y beer por favor,” we ordered as we sat quietly and watched a full moon rise.  The giant planet lit a silver trail across the Sea of Cortes to our table.  On the other side of the table, the Mexican sun set in all its sky glory, gradually changing like a peacock to layers of gold, green, purple and finally darkness.  Earth, moon and sun, three celestial bodies aligned across the wonder of our faces.  When the display was over, we finally let our breath out.  We are mere travelers in time and space, insignificant specks in this colossal universe.        

People with great wealth come to Muertos Bay to build their incredible get away houses and create their own master piece.  One man landscaped his property with ideas that was limited only by his imagination.  After dinner we decided to visit, “The Train.” I had no idea what it was.  In the dark we were taken across the arid land, headlights bouncing across standing saguaro cactus.  Soon the road narrowed and we approached a huge fort like entrance.  We got out and stood before a towering wooden gate made of beams and gigantic hinges. The guard yelled something in Spanish.  The gate slowly opened, groaning and creaking ponderously.  In the moon light it was like entering Jurassic Park.  On the other side two beautiful young women welcomed us in. The floor was soft white sand and tile that eventually led us to several golf karts.  The women drove us to a huge den filled with game room amenities.  One driver was the daughter of the owner, who explained, “Dad always liked trains ever since he was a kid.” Two bartenders catered to our wishes.  Some of us played pool, while others played shuffle board table.  There was a roulette wheel, which we spun idly as we played pool.  The den was tall, spacious and richly decorated.  Near the ceiling was, "The Train."  It was the real reason for all the surrounding amenities.  The den and train complimented each other, as it chugged along slowly encircling the entire room.    

     At 6:30 am the next morning we staggered around blinking and dazed trying to organize fishing gear.  We had a long day ahead and the Panga fishing boats were waiting to catch live bait.   I always enjoyed this part of fishing, which reminded me of my childhood experiences.  At the bait grounds our Kapitan peered intently in the water and cast his throw-net, pulling in buckets of bait fish called, “Carnadas.” Our bait well filled, our Kapitan jumped to another boat leaving my partner Ray Shipman and I alone and adrift.   He left to help the other boats catch bait.  After 10 minutes I became antsy.  I thought, “Mmm we have bait, fishing poles and time on our hands.  Why not fish while we wait?”  With that I baited a hook and threw it over the side and handed Ray the pole.  He said, “I wonder why there aren’t any big fish here if there’s so much bait around?”  As we idly talked the pole suddenly yanked down, he yelled, “I think I got something… it feels big.”  With that our fishing adventure began. We hooted and hollered as the fish transformed us into idiots.  I finally gaffed it and clubbed it as red blood flowed.  Afterward for a moment we stood in silence, grinning like two blood spattered primal warriors. It was a large Pulita Pargo, noted for its great strength, fighting ability and a tendency to go under rocks to cut your line.  There are several species of Pargos.  Many fishermen have left Mexico empty handed, vowing to return to catch a single Pargo…we caught one on our first try.   Beginner’s luck?  We didn’t care.  “Yahoo.”  When the other pangas returned, they asked, “We saw you fishing.  Catch anything?”  “Naah, just a little one,” I held up our Pargo with the gaff.  They gasped, as we thoroughly enjoyed our accomplishment.  Soon they were too anxious to hang around and took off in search of the fishing grounds, while we stayed.  Within minutes our Kapitan pointed to a school of tails cutting the glassy surface.  “Dorado he whispered.”  We were instantly hooked up, running around the boat untangling lines and catching fish.   After the bite subsided we packed up and traveled north for an hour.  Beautiful cliffs and pristine white beaches slipped by for miles, nary a footprint. I imagined sitting on the beach alone, sipping a drink under an umbrella, staring at everything and nothing.  Soon we met up with our companions who had been fishing for a while.  They didn’t seem very active and looked bored, whereas Ray and I were raring to go.  Our skipper fished hard and fast, switching lines, hooks and chumming constantly.  Those Pargos were so strong, they dragged Ray and I across the boat even though our feet were planted.   We were constantly trying to prevent them from diving under the reef where we lost most of them.   But in the end we lost the bigger ones, but brought up two medium 15 lbs Pargos and several smaller bass. Figuring we had won the jackpot of $300.00 we were already counting our money on the way back.  When we arrived at the mother ship, our hearts sank as we saw Jerry and Mike with a 40lb yellow-tail lying across the transom.  It was the only fish they caught all day besides a Dorado as they returned.  The rule was the largest fish wins.  Bummer.  

     The next day found us driving to Todo Santos, known for its giant tow-in surfing waves, this day we were after the world’s best bloody Mary.  We drove for miles across scrubby desert land with nothing but mild curiosity accompanying us.  Finally Jerry said, “There it is.”  It looked like a shack in the middle of nowhere.  Above it was a hand painted sign that read, “Art and Beer.”  Pulling off the dirt shoulder we heard the motor hissing.  “On no, I thought.”  Steam was hissing out of the radiator.  Without tools we decided to go inside and let the engine cool down.  We ordered up five Bloody Marys and sat down to relax and test our drinks.  The place was built by an American artist and his wife who served us.  Paintings hung on every wall and art objects decorated the entire place, even stretching out into the desert hanging on trees and cactus.  The drink was tall, cool and fantastic.  It was almost a meal complete with about 14 different ingredients, including clam, orange slice, and god knows what.  I was impressed and so was everyone else who stopped by to test it. I do agree it is the world’s best Bloody Mary.  Speaking of artistic, every customer had to dip a bucket of clean fresh water out of a tank and pour it into the toilet in order to flush it.  I guess the tourists love it.

     Anxious to catch an early flight Gary Webber grabbed the wheel and we took off wildly across the desert.  Miles later we nervously watched the engine temperature steadily climb hotter and hotter.  Finally we pulled over and added the last of our water to the insatiable radiator. At this point in the middle of nowhere, there was nothing as far as we could see.  We decided to fill the radiator with every bottled drinking water we had, hoping it’ll get us as far as possible.  Back on the road again, to our surprise right around the next bend there was a café with a water faucet.  We happily drove on almost to La Paz, but not before one more major heart stopping incident.  Five guys sped along the freeway without a care in the world; suddenly a large speed bump appeared across the road.  Someone yelled, “Watch out bump!”  Standing on the brakes, all four tires locked up skidding toward the fast approaching bump.  Bracing ourselves we catapulted over it.  Being in the rear seat I was launched headfirst against the ceiling. The rest of us flew forward. Holding the top of my head I could only mutter, “What the heck was that about?”  Mexican speed bump. 

At the airport my heart sank as an official called me over as he scanned my backpack and discovered my box of fishing lures.  You never want to be the center of attention in Mexico, because anything can happen.  I had two choices, go back and check it as baggage under the plane or get rid of it.  The plane was ready to take off.  I decided to trash $60.00 of lures.  Another official heard of it and said he will take care of it and check it for me.   It never arrived at L.A.X. 

On the flight back home, I smiled as I thought of our week with my friends and team mates.  Win or lose our friendship has grown better and stronger through each difficult race and trial we have faced.  Jerry would often say, “Well we cheated death one more time.”  I would say, “Hey, anything can happen.”

The teammates that didn't make the trip were Calvin Hirahara, Junior Wright, Christian Klump, Robert Bones, Roger Malmn, Karl Fjoslin, Wayne Hess and Bill Bauer

Mahalo  Al