THE PACIFIC OCEAN TRIED TO KILL ME

By: B -- originally written 5/24/06

In hindsight, I suppose my mental image of deep sea fishing was doomed for an inevitable letdown.

When my stepdad called me a few months back to report he had chartered a boat for a daylong fishing trip during our upcoming vacation, my head started spinning with excitement. As he ticked off the details, the fever only increased. Deep sea fishing. In Cabo San Lucas. 31-foot boat. Chartered, so the only people on the boat would be my step-dad, step-bro and I, along with our ship captain. Catered lunch. Full day.

Predictably, my heart was atwitter. I’m a fishing nut to begin with, so the added benefits of the gorgeous locale and potential of catching tropical fish was almost too much to handle. My knees were weak; I spent the month leading up to the vacation walking around like a newborn fawn.

Almost immediately, the deep sea daydreams captured my psyche. I imagined being handed a fishing pole with line thick as a licorice whip, casting out into the deep blue waters from the comfort of our top-notch yacht. I’d shout with delight as I felt a tug on the line, and after a dogged effort, I’d pull a beautiful fish out of the ocean. A barracuda possibly, or maybe a stingray. Something exotic.

I’d grab the fish by its mouth and present it to my family boatmates, our captain snapping a picture of the catch as we all looked upon the creature with wonder, exchanging oohs and ahhs and deserved high-fives.

After nabbing a few beauties, I’d hang up my pole and grab some chow, maybe even crack open a cold one, and just lay my head back and squint at the sun as my family and I enjoyed what would become known as the Greatest Day of Our Lives.

Looking back today, I realize I may have been setting my sights too high.

Anyone who has ever had the opportunity to go deep sea fishing knows how far my imagination carried me from reality. Admittedly, even I knew how far-fetched my daydream was, but I simply couldn’t help it. I was drunk with cabin fever, itching for a day in the sun; you’ll have to forgive my wandering mind. At the very least, I expected all the standard benefits of casting-n-reeling with the fellas, plus the bonus of the amazing weather. Sure, the actual catching of fish wouldn’t likely be as easy as I imagined, but still, it was going to be an experience to remember.

It had to be, right? I mean, come on. Deep sea fishing. It’s a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.

I don’t recall exactly how quickly the experience went awry, but I know that it did, and badly. Minute by minute, the excitement and anticipation of the fishing trip faded into a daylong nightmare. Deep sea fishing didn’t just fall short of my expectations; it was quite easily the most disappointing experience of my life.

The dream scenario started to fade from the very first minute we stepped onto our boat.

It was the publicized 31-feet, but when accounting for the engines, storage, bathrooms and captain’s area, we ended up with an approximate 12’x12’ space to occupy. There were two hard plastic boat benches with thick rubber padding on which to sit, plus a chair situated in the back-center of the boat, seemingly reserved for special fish-catching duties. We shrugged, parked ourselves on the benches and waited for our captain to arrive.

He (Roberto) stepped onto the boat a few minutes later, visibly cranky (how cheerful are you when you first arrive to work at dawn?), and introduced us in broken English to his shipmate. So we’d be riding with not one, but two unhappy guides. Okay. That’s fine.

It was 7:30 in the morning, and since I was sans coffee my mood was less than chipper. But despite the slight setbacks, my anticipation was still running fervent. Deep sea fishing! Tropical fish! An entire day in the sun, on the beautiful ocean! Hit the gas, Roberto, let’s get moving!

And move we did, out of the harbor and into the Pacific, our sights set straight out from the shoreline. Through the dark-blue waves we motored…

and motored….

and motored….

and motored.

We shivered in the early morning chill while waiting to reach our destination, traveling for ten minutes, twenty minutes (are we there yet?), a half hour (can’t we just stop right here?)…on and on, we continued our voyage into the abyss.

And with every passing minute, the water got choppier. We went from the early-morning serenity of the bay, to lake-like mini-waves, eventually settling into unending Perfect Storm swells. My smile was slowly fading from my face, but I did my best to uphold my positive attitude. I felt like Homer chasing the pig in that classic episode of The Simpsons: “It’s still fun! It’s still fun!” Besides, I’d sucked down more than the required Dramamine when I’d awoken, so I wasn’t worried about seasickness.

Finally, after a full 45 minutes, the boat stopped. Roberto and his cohort stepped down from their quarters and grabbed the fishing poles from below. Rather than handing us each a pole (as per the daydream), they attached the lures and bait, cast them out and placed them in metal pole-holders positioned around the side of the boat.

I was sitting there with an outstretched hand and a hesitant smile – gimme gimme gimme – waiting to be given a pole. Roberto ignored me, completed the initial setup and then explained the drill: we were to sit and wait until one of the poles gets a bite, at which point Roberto will set the hook and hand the pole to one of us to reel in while sitting in the center chair.

Our smiles officially vanished. Um…what? So you’re telling us we’re supposed to just sit here, huddled on this padded bench while waiting for a fish to bite? And what’s this you’re saying, that yesterday you got NO bites? The entire day? And worst of all, I hate to ask, but…is it going to be this choppy all day? It is. Huh. Splendid.

Reality set in: we weren’t fishermen, we were spectators. We weren’t experts, we were tourists. We weren’t angling, we were gazing. Color me duped.

The boat was rocking non-stop, so much so that even Roberto and his assistant, two men who do this for a living, every day of their lives, were forced to remain seated the entire time. We just sat there in silence, shivering and growing increasingly dizzy. The incessant lurching felt like a nightmarish combination of a drunken ride on the Tea Cups and being violently pushed back-and-forth on a hammock.

Side to side, we rocked. Back and forth, side to side, round and round, back to forth, side to side, round and round…

Our equilibriums were being tested beyond their limits.

There was no way to stop it.

The day was just beginning.

An hour later, we were officially in Hell. Our moods had done a complete one-eighty from the unparalleled eagerness we’d possessed at the onset. I was positioned on the right side of the bench, lying flat on my back with my eyes squeezed shut (it was the only position that could ward off the unsettling dizziness).

To my left was one family member, curled up in the fetal position while trying to unsuccessfully force down a “catered” bone dry turkey sandwich. He was doing his best to move as little as possible, and looked near tears, but was in much better shape than my other family member.

Family member #2 (who graciously requested anonymity by saying “you better not write about this on your goddamned website”) had collapsed to his knees, puking over the side of the boat as he struggled to gain footing while his tennis shoes slipped on the drenched boat floor.

(Cut to: our hotel kitchen, earlier that morning. I pop a few Dramamine, chug my Fiji and pass the bottle of pills to a certain family member. “Not necessary,” he said with a self-assured smirk. “I’m sure I’ll be fine.” Famous last words.)

We spent most of the day in these positions. Roberto and his cohort stayed up top in the captain’s seats, I remained flat on my back, family member #1 was curled up like a woman with menstrual cramps, #2 did his best to not hurl up vital internal organs. We stopped talking to each other, ignored the poles, forgot about the sunshine and abandoned our hopes of snagging a tropical fish.

We were at the mercy of the sea, painfully outside our comfort zone. It occurred to me then that there are some activities on this planet that simply should not be done by human beings. Manning a tiny boat 20 miles off the shore into the Pacific Ocean is one such activity. It is wholly unnatural; removing me any further from my element would have required a spaceship.

And not only is deep sea fishing strange and awkward, it can barely even be categorized as fishing. Real fishing, the type I enjoy, is meant to be done on a tranquil lake in the Midwest, with nary a whitecap to be traversed. Fishing is for light beer and cigars, for lounging on vinyl boat chairs with family members and taking in the sunset. Fishing is first and foremost about leisure.

These were the thoughts literally bouncing around my head as I was lying flat on my back on the ocean, being tossed this-a-way and that-a-way by the angry Pacific.I had my eyes squeezed shut, repeating my new mantra of “don’t puke don’t puke don’t puke,” when all of a sudden–

A FISH.

Sweet Jeezus, we had a bite. Roberto and his cohort leapt off the balcony deck to grab the pole. We three bolted upright, the adrenaline and wonderment trumping the discomfort. We watched as Roberto set the hook and simultaneously reeled in the other poles. We didn’t blink, didn’t dare move, just stood and watched as our two guides worked their expertise to hook the fish.

“It’s a marlin!” stammered Roberto to us as we beamed and exchanged “holy shit!” remarks while trying to keep from being pitched overboard. Once the hook was set, Roberto motioned for one of us to sit in the designated center seat to begin reeling in. My step-dad and I, selfless adults that we are, gave the step-bro permission to take the reins and complete the mission.

Right when he began reeling in, Roberto pointed out into the ocean.

We saw the shimmery silver-purple marlin, the most beautiful creature I’ve ever seen, leap out of the water about 50 feet from the boat and dive straight back down. The sighting was brief, but indescribably awesome.

When the fish dove into the water, Roberto advised my brother to let him take the line, to not even try to reel in until it lets up. And so it began, the seemingly eternal dance: bro would reel in for five minutes, once he brought the fish near the boat’s vicinity, it’d take off again and swiftly head back into the ocean’s depths.

Give and take, give and take, for about a half hour until my bro finally had to beg off duties, handing the rod to my step-dad and blaming a sore forearm. ‘Damn,’ I thought, ‘he must not be half as lonely as I am. My forearms are so toned I could reel in a Cadillac at this point.’

My step-dad took over for the last leg, which amounted to about ten more minutes of the give-and-take. Once he was finally able to pull the spent marlin up next to the boat, in all its remarkable beauty, he handed the pole to Roberto so we could take pictures before it was released. The fish was four feet long and almost iridescent in color; with its sword snout and shark-like fin it was both unique and gorgeous.

We snapped a few shots before setting the fish free. It was a joyous time, back slaps and handshakes all around; a feeling of accomplishment and of an incredible experience. Something to remember. Something to tell others.

Not ten minutes later, I had resumed my position lying on my back, #1 was in his familiar ball and #2 was heaving even more stomach remnants out the side of the boat. All those feelings of happiness, of unmitigated pride, were immediately replaced by the paralyzing sickness. Apparently, our emergence from the depths of Deep Sea Hell was but an aberration.

We would remain in the same manner for another hour or so, the boat continuing the violent swaying, no fish to be seen, when finally, around noon, The Puker emerged from the side of the boat long enough to wipe his mouth and declare he’d had enough for the day. Fetal Ball and I nodded in pained agreement and I stood up to report our decision to Roberto. He nodded knowingly. Clearly, the act of tourists begging off early was a familiar one. I’ll bet Roberto never works a full day.

As we sputtered into shore, the waters got calmer and calmer with each passing minute. Slowly, we sickly fools felt able enough to sit up, wipe our eyes and gaze upon our surroundings. It was a truly beautiful site: a piercing deep sapphire sea met at the horizon by a pastel blue cloudless sky, the pulsating sun glowing at its apex. Fellow charter boats were puttering around the ocean, dwarfed by the occasional cruise ship.

We sailed past a beach and waved at kids splashing in the ocean, their parents lying on hotel-issued towels. As we neared the harbor, two pelicans flew so close to us on the boat that, had I brought a Louisville Slugger with me on the boat, I’d’ve been able to club one of them.

And because they’re so damned ugly, I joked to my family, I honestly would’ve taken a swipe at them if given the opportunity. They chuckled, and with the conversational ice broken we began chatting about the marlin. Finally, life was beginning to feel normal again.

We exited the boat after saying our thank-you’s to Roberto and whats-his-name, and gingerly meandered toward the nearest cab. As we walked, we peered out at the ocean, the root of all our pain and suffering and ball-rolling and upchucking.

Before we’d departed that morning, we were three hopped-up loudmouths, poking fun at each other and acting like the obnoxious tourists we clearly were, eagerly anticipating an experience we’d been dreaming about for months. We weren’t certain the ins-and-outs, but knew it was going to be a day to remember.

Once on the ocean we were helpless creatures besieged by an unconquerable opponent, caring only about keeping our breakfast in our bellies and getting our feet back on solid ground. We were whimpering, unmoving, miserable souls who’d had every damn bit of cheerfulness and pride stripped from our beings.

But upon our return, as we picked up speed while gaining a foothold back on land (it was all I could do not to kiss the ground), we looked back and gave one last look at the seemingly harmless ocean that taught us once and for all: there is fishing, there is deep sea fishing, and the shared name does not a similar activity make.

Final score: Pacific Ocean 1, Us 0.

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