Paying the Tax Man

We dropped anchor under a blood red Mexican sky in a leeward anchorage off the coast of Isla San Francisco.  The old sailor’s maxim held weight as the Sea of Cortez gently lapped the side of the forty-foot monohull we had sailed out of La Paz early that morning.  The stifling heat faded with a cool northerly breeze, shifting the direction of the boat and stretching the anchor line taut.  The boat held fast confirming our placement was true and we could rest easy for the night.

As the sun dropped behind Southern Baja, the brilliant colors faded into nautical twilight.  Stars began to dot the darkening sky while J-man, a Turkish gun dealer by trade, fired up the grill and I cracked open beers to celebrate a hard day's sailing and spearfishing, before hitting the rack.

The fickle morning winds earlier that day had us running under power almost as much as by sail for the better part of the early hours. The frustration clung to us like a second skin, so our de facto skipper changed the plan and our heading.  We maneuvered offshore into blue waters and bright skies in hopes of catching a draft that would push us north to conserve our precious diesel.  Once there the winds held and we pressed on, close hauled and into the wind, beyond the tourist trodden waters towards the less traveled Bahia Concepcion. 

Along the way dolphins surfed just ahead of our bow while we worked the sheets, milking what we could out of the gentle breeze.  As the sun reached its zenith the searing heat soared into the triple digits and threatened to beat us into submission.  The skipper sipped his signature rum and Coke while making the command decision to drop anchor and cool off before continuing northward.

Through the foggy lenses of rusted out binos we found a spit of an island on the horizon.  Once there, I followed the anchor into the tepid water with speargun in hand, J-man seconds behind on my six.  With over fifty feet of visibility, our hopes were high that fresh fish would be on the grill later that evening.  Green sea turtles lazily watched as we made dive after dive, with nothing to show for our efforts, as anything worth eating was too small to make a meal. 

Making our way to deeper water we spied a school of baitfish moving erratically, signaling in my brain something suitable was on the chase. We dropped down to the reef twenty feet below and posted up, waiting so as to not silhouette ourselves on the surface.  We held fast.

The schooling baitfish darted back and forth above our position, followed by a small group of California Yellowtails coming in for the kill.  My head pounded as oxygen starved muscles screamed out in response to an adrenaline-fueled heart.  With hypoxia setting in I made my move, leveling the gun and let lose the spear for a clean shot just behind the gill of a descent sized fish.  Feeling I was about lose consciousness I darted for the surface where J-man had just breached and was gasping for air.

The fish on the end of the line connecting spear to gun battled for its life, not knowing it was in its final death throws and about to give up the ghost.  White knuckling the gun, I held on for the ride until it went slack.  Celebratory high fives were shared before reeling in the kill.  In an instant, the once dead fish came to life below with force a full order of magnitude greater than before.  I held on tight as it dragged me down.  J-man’s curiosity forced his head below the surface before reemerging a split second later wide eyed and cursing in his native tongue. 

Curiosity and concern sent my gaze towards the depths below, where a small shark thrashed in typical frenzied fashion on our would-be meal. Within seconds the shark disappeared out of sight as quickly as it had appeared, seemingly satisfied, leaving just the head as if to mock us.  

Hoping our tax for the day was paid in full we continued the hunt, while Bill watched from the deck with drink in hand.  The best we managed in the short time left were couple trigger fish that would later crackle over the fire in a small corner of the grill in the cool evening breeze.  The bulk of our meal that night would be store-bought carne asada.  

J-man toasted, “Better the yellowtail than me,” before downing the first of many beers that night.  The carne asada was tough and the fish tougher, but the beers went down smooth.  Knowing we had many days ahead, that tax was a small price to pay.