The blackjack went as expected. A few good hands to make me overconfident, a few too many celebratory cocktails, and a then like a house of sand, the complete collapse of my teetering stack of chips. The visit to the pricey ATM was no help. I was doomed from that one and only ace-king combo of the night. At least the casino (I use that term loosely as the gambling was located on a second floor of what appeared to be an apartment building) was close to our hotel, and the stumble home was filled with the soothing sounds of the Pacific.
Morning had its usual post-blackjack bleakness, and after an extra-large coffee with the necessary extra-large refill, I assembled my surf rod and headed west. Two blocks and five minutes later I found the perfect cure for my toxic bloodstream: a long stretch of beach populated by a handful of local fishermen flinging handlines and hauling gilled rugby balls from the surf.
I eagerly rigged a cigar-sized pencil popper and waded in. The water was cool in the early morning light, and I splashed a bit over my glassy eyes. I paused when I reached waist-high waves, blinked at the receding thump playing hide-and-seek with my skull, and heaved the lure skyward.
I don’t know what it is about that first cast into new water, but the excitement is coupled with an added layer of anticipation. Maybe it’s the hope that somehow this is where all the big fish vacation. Or maybe it’s a harkening back to simpler times when beginner’s luck worked its charms; when you caught all those fish without knowing you couldn’t.
Whatever it is, it worked on this morning. I watched that huge lure—the one the sales clerk back in Long Beach swore would catch anything south of Baja—splash heavily on the surface. And then, remarkably, almost surrealistically, a second, even larger splash followed. My four-piece surf rod flopped forward and the big spinning reel spun at cartoon speed.
I think I might have whooped. My head immediately cleared, and I think I whooped again.
Line poured from the reel like smoke from a fire. I sluggishly moved through the surf working the drag and hoping to stop the run before I ran out of line. I don’t remember getting in over my head, but a swell that could have swallowed Shaq lifted me from my feet, and caused a mad retreat toward the beach.
As I clumsily back-paddled, the locals watched with amusement, hauling fish after fish with their heavy hand lines. It seems a school of lunkers had circled through just as I’d cast my lure.
Beginner’s luck. I’ll take it anytime.
It took another ten minutes to get my quarry into the shallows, and after timing the waves to get the fish safely above the high waterline, I stared into the bovine eyes of a huge jack crevelle. Not the best table fish, but a definite brute of inshore angling. I’d caught them before in Baja, and each time I’d been amazed at the tenacity of these powerful fish.
I unhooked this savior of the hangover, offered it to the locals for sharing their sea, and lobbed my lure back to the waves. I stayed for another hour and caught jacks on almost every cast. It was a surf fisherman’s Shangri-La.
And if it wasn’t for that gnawing desire to break even, I might have stayed all day.
