Sprinting in La Paz

August 2024

Matthew 13.22 — Ecclesiastes 9.11

Today was no different. It’s the crunch of the sand or maybe breeze in the palm trees, waves lapping on the shore, whatever. Every time I step off the blacktop onto the sand, the memories click, memories of our first trip to La Paz, of Anne and I. Things were good, then.

We had been here two or three days, and one night after dinner we walked hand in hand down to the beach, drifting on the soft serenade of mariachi’s playing on the patio. The night was soft and warm and it wrapped us up in its magic. When we stepped off the patio onto the sand, Anne squeezed my hand and said, “Paul, I just love being here with you. The sound of the breeze in the palms, the waves lapping, it’s just so, so peaceful here. I’m happy. I’m glad we came.”

I gave her hand a squeeze and said, “Me, too.” Things were good, then.

The next day, we chartered a fishing boat with another couple. At breakfast, this guy at the next table leaned over and says, “Hi, my name is, this is my wife” and I forget what they were. I introduced myself and Anne. It was one of those vacation encounters where you chat with people over coffee and decide to do something with them, but their names go away as soon as you get back home.

Anyway, he said, “How about we share a fishing boat, go for a ride, spend the day on the water? We can split the cost.”

So our decision to fish was this spontaneous thing, made mostly because none of us had any real plans and it sounded like a good idea. The boat captain and mate were young Mexican fellows that spoke almost no English, but managed to get us four lunches and a cooler of Cokes and Dos Equis loaded onto the boat.

We had been on the water for a couple of hours when we hooked a sailfish and took turns bringing it in. I was the last to sit in the fighting chair and when the fish neared the boat, I wasn’t ready to see its beauty of color and strength, a fusion of silver and royal and navy blue, full with defiance and nobility and life, fighting against a certain death. I badly wanted to let it go but had not the courage to buck custom or the inevitable teasing, so the sailfish was gaffed and clubbed and lay on the deck, dead and bloody.

Later, we were all drowsy with lunch and sun and sea air, but the mate set me and the other guy up again and we gave it a halfhearted try. I jolted awake like I’d been jabbed with a hatpin when a dorado took my bait and ran. This fish weighed in at just under twenty pounds and fought harder than the sail, which was surprising. When we brought it on board, its rainbow teal and blue and purple faded to lifeless silver as it died on deck.

That afternoon, back at La Posada, I proudly presented the dorado to Posada’s chef, which he prepared for our dinner. Best fish I ever ate. So good, in fact, I ordered a second serving.

After dinner, Anne and I stretched out on lounge chairs under a spread of palms and looked at the night sky. A bright ember that flashed in the starlight. It only lasted for a moment, just a glint, a flare of light, but it looked like the same spark of defiance I had seen in the eye of the sailfish as it struggled, valiant and noble and proud, powerless against cabled leader and stainless hook. The memory rocked my heart. I shook it off.

So whenever I step off the blacktop onto the sand, I remember those days. Warm

days, happy days. Gone days. Not like now.

I stuffed my reveries and walked to the skiff where we’d beached it, to wait for Enrique. It wasn’t long before I saw him strolling down the beach, enjoying the coolness of the early morning, the promise of a good day.

I liked Enrique Santiago immensely. Of all the charter boat hands I’d hired, he was the best at what he does. We’ve worked together for nearly five years now. I enjoy working with him and look forward to our times together, but there are also times I feel regret that our relationship isn’t more. Since my move to Mexico, I have often wished, deeply, for a close friend. Although Enrique and I are cordial and comfortable with one another, we’re still defined by the employer-employee relationship. The friend that I wish I had, one who would help to fill the empty place in my heart, isn’t going to be Enrique.

Capable, smart, he is always generous with his smile and information on how best to handle the dorado and bonito and sails once they’re hooked. Enrique is an entrepreneur. He takes hunting parties out for javelina and deer on the mainland in the winter when fishing is off. He runs a fleet of three taxis, ferrying tourists around town and down to Cabo and back. He owns an acre near to town where he has laid down a concrete pad with a brick barbecue and where he hosts tourists and friends to drinks, barbecued beef or lamb, fresh green salad and rolls on the weekends. I have my boat, that’s all. That’s enough for now, considering the turns my life has taken.

Enrique’s hair is thick and black and wavy, has a touch of grey at the temples. Mine is dark brown and beginning to recede. Enrique’s classic mustache suits his face. I wear a full beard, close-trimmed, partially because I got tired of shaving, some because it masks my features. There are some people I’d just as soon didn’t recognize me should they happen to chance upon La Paz and my charter boat. I’ve got olive-toned skin, tanned dark from years of sun and sea. My eyes are brown with gold highlights, where Enrique’s are an enigmatic charcoal brown. Enrique has classic Mexican features. I pass for a Mexican easily.

Enrique’s English is good and so is my Spanish. He’s younger than me and is movie-star handsome. He’s got this effortless charm and tourist women love him. Literally. He could probably have a different date every night if he chose to. For all I know, he does, but this isn’t something we ever discuss. Enrique’s a gentleman.

As he came near, he gave his usual morning greeting. “Hola, ‘Pablo. Como?”

“‘Sta bueno, muy bueno, amigo. Y tu?”

“Bien. What have we today?”

“Charter for four. Should be here soon. They’re having breakfast.”

It was early in the year, May, and so far only a few customers had chartered my boat. Last week, I took an attorney from Chicago out who fished for five days straight and caught nothing. Fishing is like that, particularly this early in the year. Many times, even in the middle of the summer, when fishing is good, I’ve seen people go through the motions, do everything right, but the fish care nothing of their technologies or skills. The reality is that humans can’t intrude into the domain of the sea with the assumption that they are more capable than the fish because of their advantage of lines and poles, lures and hooks. These aren’t truths the fish know or respect. What it is, is a myth, a venerated American myth that if you have the right hardware and the right wardrobe, you can surely do the job. The truth is that sometimes the only reason you catch fish is because you hold your mouth right, or you scratch your knee at the right time. The attorney fished every day, never got a strike, and salted the wounds to his expectations with sarcastic complaints about Baja, the boat, the gear, and me the entire time. He was a miserable charter. Come Friday, fed up, the attorney boarded a taxi to Cabo San Lucas, hopeful that his luck would change. With his sour little attitude, I hoped that it didn’t.

We heard chatter coming from La Posada and looked up to see our foursome, a man and a woman and two teen-agers, a boy and a girl, stroll out from the palm-covered courtyard and across the sand to where Enrique and I waited. The man and the woman were holding hands. They carried brown paper bags – their lunches from La Posada. The boy carried a cooler of drinks.

Enrique and I always got a kick out of Posada’s lunches, for they were always the same. Every evening before a fishing party is scheduled to go out the next morning, Serafina, the prep cook for charter-boat lunches, comes to the dinner table and asks what they want for lunch. La Posada has a superb kitchen and dining in the restaurant is always a fine experience, but when tourists make their order for lunch, whether they ask for tacos or burritos, sandwiches, fried fish, for fruit or cheese, Serafina always nods and says, Sí, we have that. I will prepare it for your lunch tomorrow.” But the brown paper bags clutched in the hands of earnest seekers of fish always contain the same offering: fried chicken, fresh-baked sweet buns, and a piece of fruit. No one is ever perturbed, because the chicken and buns are always delicious, the fruit is always fresh, and this is Mexico and things get done the way they get done and that’s just the way of it.

I stepped out to meet the foursome. “Hi, I’m Paul. I’m your skipper today, and this is Enrique. He’s the mate. When it comes time to fish, he’ll set up your rigs and help you get started.”

“Hi, Paul, Enrique. We’re the Antello’s. This is my wife, Diana, and our children, Matt and Kim. I’m Gil. Gotta say, we’re looking forward to this. We’ve never been deep sea fishing before.”

Gil was medium tall and ex-football-player sturdy, about five-ten, with brownish blonde hair and blue eyes, an easy laugh and a firm handshake. His wife was shorter, brown-haired and brown-eyed, not what I’d call beautiful, but very attractive.

“Hello, Paul, nice to meet you. I’m Diana,” she said. She offered her hand and when I took it and looked at her eyes, I felt a twinge of recognition. Diane was as tall as her husband and slender, with hair the color of polished walnut, smoky green eyes and a killer smile.

I gave her a smile that felt quirky on my end, because I had known a Diana back at University of Arizona who looked a lot like her. We dated once, but there hadn’t been any connection, so the first date was our last. I wondered if this might be her. With so many years gone now, I wasn’t sure. She leaned her head to the side and gave my quirky smile back to me, so I had to ask, “Diana Bowen, U of A,’62?”

“Paul? Paul Montenegro! Oh, my gosh! I wondered if that was you! Oh, my gosh! Gil, Paul and I were in college together!”

“Well, even better to meet you, Paul. Matt, Kim, say hi to Paul and Enrique.”

Matt had his dad’s build and his mother’s grace, sturdy stock, as they say, with shaggy sun-bleached hair and a beguiling self-assurance.

“Nice to meet you, Paul.” We shook hands, then he turned to Enrique, offered his hand, and said, “Enrique, mucho gusto.” Enrique took his hand, beamed.

Kim edged next to her brother and shoulder-bumped him aside.

“Hi, Paul, I’m Kim, the more talented and luckiest member of this family, so I expect to catch all the fish.” She said this with such a lovely smile and charm that I knew she was kidding, but also telling the truth. Kim had her mom’s looks, right down to the walnut hair and emerald eyes, but also possessed a poise and grace uncommon to one so young. I finally got it – the grace and bond of this family’s relationship – and my stomach did a quick envy roll: both of these children knew, down deep in the gut, that they were loved.

“So, you’ve never been deep-sea fishing before, huh?”

“Nope, never have,” said Matt. “First time for us.”

“Well, let’s get in the skiff, folks, and be on our way.”

Enrique and I pulled the skiff off the beach and into the shallows and steadied it while our four passengers climbed in. I cranked up the little outboard and steered us out to the boat. I again admired Enrique’s natural, almost unconscious charm as it worked its magic with the foursome, enjoying his welcoming laughter and conversation.

My boat, my bright star, is the Estrellita Brilliante. She’s a middle-aged 31-foot Bertram with twin Volvo diesels I re-rigged for how I wanted to do charter fishing. I purchased her within a month after I moved to La Paz from a man who thought life as a charter fisherman would be great. It wasn’t, not for him. Because it’s a lot of work and little play, it failed his expectations. His loss, my gain.

We got everyone aboard the Estrellita and settled in. Enrique stowed their lunches and drinks while I started the diesels.

Like a lot of power-boat people, I like the deep rumble of diesel engines, the way it feels in my stomach – and this is probably a little weird – but I really like the meaty smell of the exhaust, because all the memories it recalls are good ones. But this only applies to boats. Cars and trucks are different, different smell, different feel.

Today, starting her up just felt good, good like I was poised on the edge of a particularly great day of fishing, or, more likely, of just being on the water. With Estrellita underway, I headed her northwest toward Gabriel Bay.

Enrique rigged four light poles with small hooks and bait fish. “We’ll use the small bait to catch larger ones,” he said. “If we don’t catch enough good-sized bait, then we’ll stream lures, you know, spoons, jigs, Billy Witches. Most pescadores, they think they’re just as good, but for us, we prefer live bait. Live bait, it always gets me better results.” I wondered if Enrique knew his teeth flashed when he talked.

Once the poles were rigged, Enrique streamed the bait astern, then came up to the flying bridge to help me sight flocks of gulls, the telltales for schools of fish.

After a while, he said, “Pablo, mira,” pointing off the starboard bow.

“Sí, veo.” I steered for the gulls that shouted at us. Our rude and inconsiderate boat was spoiling their breakfast. In less than an hour, we cruised through a school of balaos and Enrique brought in seven or eight, then rigged up with heavier gear. I changed course to north by northeast to clear the southern end of San Josef Island, taking the Estrellita into blue water where we had a better chance for sails and dorado and yellowfin and skipjack.

By nine o’clock, the sun had burned off the haze from under a dusty blue canopy. Vagrant breezes danced, tantalizing us with empty promises of coolness. Solitary frigate birds soared overhead, looking like Jurassic aliens with their angular wings and scarlet throats. Water sparkled and smacked against the hull, spraying off the bow and forward gunwales, leaving patches of salt crystals glistening on the deck. I felt glad to be alive, to be where I was, to be doing what I was doing. It was such a great morning that I half expected Enrique to sing something plaintive and lovely as he sometimes does, but today, he didn’t.

On deck, the Antello family chatted with such animation that I likened them to a box of puppies crossed with a flock of mynah birds. They seemed to be really nice people. They liked each other, that was obvious, for their conversation – what little I could hear – was free from criticism and complaint. Rather, they spoke in terms of encouragement and joy, something I found rare and refreshing – and quite lacking from the history of my own life.

Gil gave lots of attention to his wife – “Hey, hon, sit over here, there’s more shade,” and “Got enough tanning lotion? Here, let me get your back,” and “Can I get you a soda? Matt? Kim? How about you?” With casual ease, he caressed his wife’s shoulder, her hair, but it wasn’t just the attention he gave, for his words, his gestures conveyed a genuine love and thoughtfulness for his wife and children. This was no put-on for the occasion – no, this was what he gave to them every day.

I remembered the one date Diana and I had. Our evening began with a happy expectation and ended with a thud. We chatted easily until we got to the movie theater, then like somebody pulled the plug on us, we ran out of things to say. Our ride home was so awkward that we couldn’t wait for it to be over. No stopping for coffee or ice cream, we just wanted to make it end. Our goodnight was cordial but final; she said, “Call me,” but we both knew that had only been something to say.

Now, I was intrigued. This wasn’t the same Diana I had known, so I steered the boat with one hand on the wheel and one eye on the compass so I could watch. This foursome was not just a family but were four good friends who delighted in being together. So compelling was their pleasure of being a family that I envied them and wanted to be part of them, but could not, for I was the captain, the skipper, the charter-boat owner, and had no place to fit in. But then, truth be told, these days I hardly fit in anywhere except on my boat.

Twenty-five years of striving in corporate America hollowed me out and ultimately cost me my wife and family. When I finally admitted how hopeless our marriage was, how pathetic I was as a husband and father, I had to acknowledge that my price tag for success had been achievable only at the sacrifice of Anne and the kids. What I did to provide an income and a home and cars and clothes, everything I thought they needed, had, in the end, torn ragged holes in my soul.

Instead of loving them, I loved the deal, I loved the travel, the big bucks, meeting new people, maneuvering, manipulating the dollars and the people. Winning was everything. Then, after twenty-five years, the deadlines, the demands, and the spiderweb expectations exacted a price I could no longer pay. Finally, the only thing that made any sense for me was to retreat to some sort of a sanctuary. Bittersweet La Paz was it.

Anne gave up trying to be a wife years before. Ultimately, she realized that no matter what she did, I wasn’t going to be there for her. Our marriage became a colorless pantomime of coming and going on a playing field of strained civility, peppered with recurrent forays into explosive conflict. Anne built a wall of desperation to keep me out. I got so I could barely tolerate her and later, when her desperation turned to contempt, all we had left in common was that we despised each other.

We hadn’t been married a year before I began to spend 50 hours a week at work. Then I escalated it to 60, then 70, even 80 hours. I took on one task after another, any of which could have waited. But I liked my work. It was fulfilling. It was fun. It fed me. It let me know that I was okay, better than okay. My wife and family had the opposite effect. I couldn’t run them the same way I did business; no, the dynamic, the principles were all different and I had never learned what they were. Business, I understood and did it well. Family, I didn’t understand at all and ruined it.

Eventually, my work-golem got me a senior vice presidency and a hefty six-figure salary. I was only 42. Yes, I accomplished a lot for the business. But I willingly sacrificed my family on the twin altars of success and ego, merrily self-justifying along the way.

Long hours and longer days of domestic and overseas travel was usual. Liquor was an appendage to the way I lived. Opportunities for affairs and one-night stands were plentiful and easy and I seldom let one go by. They were easy to justify, considering my failed relationship with Anne. Cocaine came later. I knew I was on a dangerous downhill slide toward disaster, but I kept lying to myself, “you’re big enough to manage it.” I wasn’t.

Reasons to be away from home were easy, and when I was there, I was quick to let Anne and Terry and Julie know what disappointments they were. Criticism, judgment, and anger were my daily gifts to them and I made no restraint in making it clear that they were intrusions, annoyances, and that I didn’t give a damn about them.

Yet somewhere inside, I still wanted them to know that what they saw wasn’t really me, but I couldn’t figure out what to do about it, how to repair the damage I did. I so badly screwed up our family dynamic that I eventually lost what I really felt for them.

One day, I realized with finality that what they saw was me, but by then, my life had crumbled like a handful of crackers under a steam roller. At the end, the alienation between Anne and me was knife-edged and rock-hard.

Predictably, when the kids were teenagers, they discovered that sex and drugs and drinking would mend some of the pain I inflicted. Fortunately for them, Anne had enough moral character to get them back on track before they imploded. By the time they graduated from college, they’d gotten their heads together and were pretty well back on track.

The end came when I crashed and burned trying to make an end run around our company CEO by going to the board of directors with a litany of his errors of judgment, mistakes and character flaws, followed by a corrective plan for marketing and production that I just knew would elevate me to his place. It backfired. The board listened to me quietly as I systematically assassinated my boss. When I was done, the chairman said that my presentation was Machiavellian beyond belief. The net result was that the CEO got fired, but I got canned as well – without recommendations, severance or remainder perks. Branded as ‘a man without integrity,’ I was stripped of my credibility in the industry. My career tanked. Permanently.

Feeling angry and betrayed, I vented on my wife and children. Every day before noon, I put away enough scotch to dissolve my threshold of self-control. My behavior escalated to the intolerable. Anne withstood the yelling and self-pity for a few weeks, then slapped me with divorce papers and said, “Get out! You’ve done all the damage to my life and the children’s that you’re going to do. Get out of our house!”

I tried to regain some sense of control with a volley of intimidation, but in the end, Anne prevailed and I was out. The divorce was costly. Anne’s shark of an attorney got her nearly everything we owned, and by our last appearance in court, I had lost the heart to fight back. My part of the deal left me with large enough piece of my investment package to produce a small income to live on in Mexican dollars. Barely. Anne got the house, the cars, and a good chunk of the investments.

When I walked out the front door for the last time, Anne said, “I’m truly sorry, Paul. But you’re the one who destroyed this marriage. Please, don’t ever try to reconcile. The answer is no. It always will be. I don’t have it in me to overcome the wreckage.”

With a tank full of bitterness and resentment, I flew to La Paz. Running a charter fishing boat always had a lot of appeal, so with what money I managed to salvage from the divorce, I was hopeful at my chance for a new beginning. Sure, I’d made a monument of bad choices, but I was tough and strong and I can make it work. That’s what I thought.

Enrique dropped down to the main deck and set four large poles, one to port, one to starboard and two aft. We began to troll. The Antello’s, only partially mindful of the ritual and pageantry of fishing, kept their own conversation going. Enrique came back up to the conn where we scanned the horizon, searching for the telltale vela, the sign of a sailfish.

Soon, Enrique whispered, “Pablo, mira  . . . vela,” and pointed to the black sail lolling in the water. Sailfish only raise their sails when they’re threatened or excited, otherwise they fold them to the side. I dropped our speed down to bare headway, steering to make a broad arc that would draw the bait past the sailfish. The Antello’s got really excited when Enrique slid down the ladder and told them what was about to happen.

“One of you take the fighting chair. If the fish takes the bait, I’ll talk you through setting the hook. Then you’ll take the pole and work him in. Your left hand will cramp after just a few minutes and if you stay with it, it will hurt like hell, so each of you might want to take turns in boating the fish.”

Diana eagerly said, “I want to go first!”  She bounced into the chair. Enrique showed how to buckle her harness and instructed her on how to work the pole and reel once the fish was hooked. She giggled.

Whenever I take neophytes out, I use the boat to help catch the fish. By jockeying the vessel in relation to what the fish does and using the boat’s engines to take up slack line, some of the back-breaking toil can be absorbed by the boat.

Today, I drew the arc of the line and bait so the sailfish could see and smell it. I’d seen this time and again and was always surprised, because the fish lunged so fast we couldn’t actually see it, smacked the bait with its bill, then opened its mouth and took the bait. The port outrigger went taut with a snap. I saw Enrique cross himself, then help Diana set the hook. I gave the accelerators a nudge forward, then backed off to see what the fish would do.

Diana gave the pole a strong pull, then leaned it forward and cranked the spool, just as Enrique showed her. I knew for sure the sail was hooked when I saw the fish leap into the air, twist and shake off a shower of sunlit droplets, then hang in mid-air like a piscine Michael Jordan before it splashed back into the water.

Diana gave a petite scream, set her jaw, then hauled back on the pole again, retrieving line on the recovery stroke. Within minutes, her left hand cramped up and locked her fingers around the shaft of the pole so hard that she couldn’t straighten them. Determined to withstand the pain, she kept on rocking the pole forward and cranking the big reel, retrieving the line, but Enrique and I both knew it wouldn’t be long before she called for relief. She was strong, but as a first-timer, not strong enough to sustain the effort.

This happens a lot and we had seen it many times when someone hooked their first large game fish. No matter what you tell them, no one ever anticipates how much strength it’s going to take to fight against a fish that is nearly as big as they are. This is not something we can tell them; it must be experienced.

Although Diana was valiant, twenty minutes of fighting was enough for her to give way to the pain and relinquish the seat to her son. Enrique helped Matt into the harness and gave him a quick lesson on how to work the pole. Matt worked the fish for nearly half an hour before his cramped hand caused him to pass the seat to his sister.

Kim seemed to be made of tough stuff and I thought from the sense of commitment she telegraphed, she was probably the one to boat the fish.

While she was horsing the pole and reel, Enrique hollered “Mira! Pablo, otra vez!”  We all watched as a second sailfish took the bait on the starboard outrigger. Gil leapt to the other fighting chair, strapped in and halted the run. Then a most amazing thing happened, for both sailfish leapt up and tailwalked in tandem, perhaps fifty yards apart, their dance one of frenetic grace, their tails turning the sea to froth as they desperately tried to shake the hooks and lines that threatened their freedom and their lives. Struck to silence by such power and grace, we watched in awe.

Kim, jaw clenched and eyes narrowed, pitched forward, cranked the reel, then braced her feet against the stern gunwale. Again and again, she hauled back on the pole, ignoring the pain, ignoring the sweat that ran from her forehead into her eyes as she brought her fish in. Close by her side, Enrique coached her until the sailfish, floundering and panting, was brought to the side of the boat. Exhausted, the great fish lay there, gasping, flipping its tail, slapping its beak, never relenting in its effort to return to its home. Enrique approached the fish with his gaff in one hand and a baseball bat in the other.

Kim blurted out, “Don’t kill it!”

Enrique said, “¿Porqué no?”

“It’s too beautiful, it … it… it’s too dignified. That fish deserves to live. Besides, what purpose would its death serve?”

I knew Enrique understood exactly what she felt, for we had discussed this many times before. Eventually, we became inured to the death of a sailfish, more or less, until we were reminded once again by a time such as this.

Enrique said, “Perdóna, Señorita, but the meat will feed many children at the orphanages for many days.”

From the bridge, I could tell what Kim had seen in the fish’s eye, the spirit and defiance and resentment at having been caught by technological tools it had no means to conquer. It seemed to know intuitively that once hooked, there was no hope of victory against a boat with engines and fiberglass poles and high-tensile line.

Kim gave in to the welfare of the children and watched sadly while Enrique gaffed the sailfish, hauled it on board and clubbed it with the bat. Each of us wanted to think that it felt no pain and knew no fear, but we knew it wasn’t so. We all watched as the great fish went inert and its beautiful shimmering colors faded and blood ran from the gash in its head. I believe each of us felt sadness and remorse, for sailfish seem too noble, too regal to die in this way. But we also knew that human beings assume our dominion over the earth with great arrogance and often catch and kill the earth’s creatures simply because we can. The rationale of providing food for the orphans served to soften, but never fully excused such acts of murder.

When Matt, with singular effort, worked his fish up to the side of the boat, the excitement had lessened and when Enrique killed this one as well, everyone took it for granted. They said nothing, but even so, they all felt that what they were doing was somehow wrong, against nature, but did it anyway.

This was a paradox I lived with, one unique to sailfish, for no other fish evokes such a response with its death. The deaths of yellowfin, skipjack, bonito, dorado, all gallant fighters, all exciting to catch, need no justification. The marlin, the larger cousin of the sailfish, is so gross in its size and ferocity, that its death comes as a relief or even a reward. The swordfish, comparably sized to the sail, elicits little regret, for somehow, it has less dignity, less nobility. The sawfish is ugly, and sharks evoke feelings of vindictive justice, for, to those who fish, they are but mindless killers. But the sailfish brings sadness and remorse with its death.

I idled the engines and brought the boat to a stop, then came down to the main deck. I told them, “In La Paz, the Catholic sisters run two orphanages, one for boys and one for girls. Most sport fishermen don’t eat sailfish meat, too oily for filets or steaks, but it can make a palatable stew. This is what the cooks at the orphanages will do. The kids will appreciate the food. Tomorrow, maybe Enrique can take you up there for a visit.”

Diana nodded, “Okay. I think we’d like that.”

Enrique asked, “Would you like to continue to fish? We can try for dorado or bonita.”

Gil said, “Uh, gee, I don’t think so. Not right now, anyway. How about we have our lunch instead.”

“Oh, that sounds good to me,” said Diana. “I’m starving. Let’s eat.”

“Here, Paul, Enrique, we brought food for you, too,” said Kim. She handed us each a brown bag from La Posada.

“Here’s a couple of Dos Equis, too,” said Diana, passing them up. “The folks at La Posada told us you liked Dos Equis.”

“Hey, thank you. Thank you very much. That’s really nice.”

“Muchas gracias,” said Enrique.

“De nada,” said Kim.

I turned the bow into the sun so the cabin and canopy would shade the afterdeck, and looked down to see the Antello’s join hands, bow their heads and offer a prayer of thanks before they ate. In all the years I had been in the charter business, I couldn’t recall a single time when a group had done this, or when any group had thought to provide food and drink for me or my crewman. Their gesture touched me in some deep place. I winced, yet admired, even envied them for their faith.

While the foursome rested in the shade and ate their fried chicken and rolls and drank their cold sodas, I steered the boat southwest at an unhurried seven knots. It was just past one-thirty and no one was in a hurry.

Enrique ran two white flags with dark blue sailfish symbols up the mast, proud to signal our catch. He said, “Pablo, this most definitely breaks last week’s spell of no fish, eh, amigo?”
“Sí, compadre. We have unjinxed the jinx, broken the spell, changed the luck. Now, shall we have our lunch, too?”

“Sí, mi amigo, let us take a well-earned break. I too, am hungry.”

After we ate, I sat back in the captain’s chair, scanned the horizon with droopy eyes and steered with my knee. Enrique returned to the main deck to chat with our lucky pescadores and express the traditional words of bravado.

“Señores, señora y señorita, did you see them jump and tailwalk! Never have I seen such a sight! What a marvel that was! Ah, sí, they are beautiful fish, and these two, very wonderful. One of them will come close to the record.”

Matt said, “Man, that was some sight! I got so excited, I wanted to jump out of the boat and just sprint right out there and join them.”

Typical young man, I thought, full of enthusiasm and hope and ideas …  a lot like Terry. I wondered about my son, wondered what he was doing.

Terry had completed his master’s at the U of Arizona and now had a promising position with a software company in Phoenix. We seldom wrote or called and when we did speak, our conversations were stilted and awkward. I recalled the day I fled from the wreckage I’d made of our lives. Before I left for La Paz, I drove up to Phoenix to say goodbye, expecting at least a grain of sympathy. Instead, when I told him I was leaving, he unloaded in a way that shocked me.

“Dad, just once more sprint! All you’ve ever done is sprint! Don’t you get it? Life isn’t a sprint, it’s a marathon! You sprinted from one deal to the next when you were working, but when it came to giving any time to Mom or me or Julie, you ran away. You never learned how to go for the duration. Everything you ever did was one more quick challenge you had to master and control! You made hash of your career, your marriage, and of our family! The tragedy is, you’ve missed the best part!”

I felt derision on my tongue as I said, “Oh, sure, Mr. M.B.A. And you know all about things like that?”

He cooled down and captured me with those deep blue eyes, his mother’s eyes,

wary as they seethed.

“Dad, look. People are relational. We need each other. And relationships require commitment. They’re what the marathon is all about. Sprints are about getting short-term prizes. Marathons are about life, about living. That’s what makes all the difference between ‘doing’ and ‘being.’  All you’ve done is to make yourself into a human doing.”

My jaw went rigid, silenced me to my son’s rebuke. I knew it came from his heart, that there was no cruelty in it, and that it was the truth. Despite all the hurt I had caused him, he had the courage to say these things because he still loved me. I stammered, trying to justify my flight from him and his sister and Anne, but the clamor of my anger and fear and shame held me mute. Just knowing that my fractured soul had been so transparent to my son was humiliating. I was too far down my path of havoc, knew there was nothing to be done.

In reflection, I understand that Terry knew what was behind my mask, much better than I. As we said farewell, he had the good sense not to speak, but wrapped me in his strong arms and held me close to his heart. Desperately, I wished I could somehow atone for my failure as a father, and as a husband. Instead, I let my life-long emotional blueprint take over one more time. I shrugged him off and made my retreat down the walkway. But he wasn’t done. Terry grabbed my arm and held me back.

“Dad, Dad, stop! Listen to me. I know this is hard for you to hear, but there’s something I’ve got to say. You know I became a Christian a couple of years ago. I want you to think about this – my faith in Jesus made a huge difference in my life. I was a lot like you. Angry, bitter, full of venom and resentment, you remember that. I drank like a fish, tried drugs, didn’t like the way they made me feel, but I did like my booze. By the time I graduated from college, I was nurturing a serious drinking problem. I was putting away a six pack of beer every night, sometimes more, and every weekend I’d go out with the guys and get wasted. I was a fast train headed for a blind curve. In spite of all that, I still managed to graduate.

“Before I decided to go to grad school, I was just hanging out, working at a nowhere job just to pay the bills, sharing a junky apartment with a couple of guys. There was this quiet kid in the same apartment building I lived in. Kind of a dweeb. I’d seen him around campus, never thought much about him, but he bothered me because he always seemed so, so content with who he was! I couldn’t figure it out, what he had to be content about.

“Then one Friday night, I’d had a rough week and all I wanted to do was go out with the guys and get drunk. I thought life sucked and the only future I saw was to get numbed out and stay there. That night, I ended up drinking gin, no mixer, just triple shots with a lime squeeze and ice. Must have had six of ‘em, more. Then something happened to my vision. I could only see straight ahead, my peripheral vision was gone. Couldn’t walk, couldn’t talk. I sloshed into a booth in the back of the bar, sat down and passed out cold. Don’t know how I got back to my apartment, but the guys I was with told me later that they put me in a cab. Woke up later that night and started throwing up. Went into dry heaves, couldn’t stop. It went on all night long. I was dizzy and disoriented and scared to death, couldn’t see, couldn’t think. All I could do was puke. I honestly thought I would die, even wanted to die just to end it. Finally, it stopped and I was able to sleep. I managed to get to my bed and slept for twelve, thirteen hours, didn’t wake up until I heard someone knocking on the door. I peeled myself out of bed, opened the door and it was this dweeby neighbor guy.

He came in without an invitation, took me by the arm and told me to sit down. He said, ‘If you keep on the way you’re going, you’re going to die. You know that, don’t you.’  It wasn’t a question. I nodded, but even though he was right, he still ticked me off. I didn’t know why he was there, didn’t care, just wanted him to go away. Then he took a sandwich, roast beef, it was, and an apple out of his backpack, and a cold ginger ale. Said, “When you’re ready, eat this. You need some protein and you need to get something in your stomach. When you’re done, call me. Here’s my number. You need to hear what I’m going to tell you.”

“I said, ‘Why are you doing this?’

“Then he said the craziest thing. ‘Jesus told us to love one another. I know where you’re headed. I can’t stand by and watch you kill yourself. And by the way, whether you know it or not, you’re a child of God. And he loves you.’ Then he left.

“Well, long story short, when my stomach settled down, I ate the sandwich and the apple, drank the soda. Then I said what the heck and called him. He came over, told me his name was Roger, and said for me to sit down and shut up and listen. He began to tell me about Jesus and what it meant to be a Christian. I said I didn’t want to hear it. We argued back and forth, but he wouldn’t quit. Then he said, ‘Just think about it,’ and left.

“Well, I did think about it. Roger came around every week, mostly to answer my questions and to walk me through different parts of the Bible. The more he showed me about Jesus, the more it made sense. I quit thinking about him as pushy. Actually, he turned out to be a pretty cool guy. Really smart, patient, kind. Persistent like you wouldn’t believe. Roger turned out to be a great friend. We still keep in touch.

“Anyway, he put so much of my skepticism to rest that I finally realized I had a decision to make – either Jesus was who he said he was, the Son of God, come to give us forgiveness and peace – eternal peace – or he was a raving nut case. I decided for the former.

“Dad, the difference my faith in Christ made in my life has been nothing short of phenomenal. Let’s just call it miraculous. Anyway, I haven’t had a drink in nearly four years, haven’t wanted one. Can’t remember the last time I blew up in one of my famous rages, even stopped swearing. I don’t worry much anymore. And I have a sense of peace that I can’t begin to describe.”

“Terry, stop. I’ll save you some time. No thanks, not interested, not for me.”

“Dad, that’s exactly what I said when Roger first started with me. But I’ll tell you the same thing he told me: think about it. I know Jesus can make a difference in your life, too. It’s what he does.”

“Terry, I’ve got to go. Got a plane to catch. Son, I know you care about me, what you’re trying to do. I appreciate that, but don’t expect me to be you. That’s not going to happen. Too many burned and broken bridges behind me, too much wreckage. It’s too late.”

“But you don’t know Jesus, Dad. It’s never too late.”

Then Terry came close and hugged me again, and I remember how good it felt. “You know if you go to La Paz, Dad, that’ll be your last stop. No more places to run. Dead end. When you hit the wall there, what are you going to do?”

“Hmpf. I’ll figure it out when I get there.”

“Try to remember that Jesus loves you. Me, too.”

“Yeah. Right.”

Deep in my gut, I thought maybe what Terry had said was true. I was scared, but that wasn’t enough. I still couldn’t accept it, wouldn’t accept it, wouldn’t deal with it. Jesus, for me, was unattainable. I let him go and there was nothing more to say. As I turned my back on my son and walked away, I heard him say, “Goodbye, Dad. I love you.”

So one more time, I sprinted. I sprinted to my rental car, I sprinted to the airport, and I sprinted to La Paz, away from my son, who in spite of my carefully contrived masks, saw me for who I truly was and loved me anyway. I sprinted away from my lovely daughter, who once saw me as her hero and friend and was now so repulsed by my manipulation and bullying and cowardice that we were estranged, perhaps irreparably so. My sweet, sweet girl and I had not spoken for more than five years now, and I feared we never would. I sprinted from Anne, my wife, who knew me better than any person alive, who could no longer live with my scapegoat excuses of why our marriage didn’t work and why my business deals preempted everything in our lives together. I sprinted from it all, all the way to La Paz. Ironic name, that: The Peace.

As the Estrellita Brilliante approached the anchorage off La Posada’s beach, a dozen or so Mexicans and tourists were on hand to meet the boat. They had seen our two sailfish flags and came to the shore to see the catch. Some of the Mexicans carried long knives and tin plates and sacks in hope that they might take away some meat. I always try to let them have some, for there are sections of La Paz where hunger is very real. It is not a wealthy city.

Ashore, Enrique hoisted our catch up on the crossbar setup and weighed them. The Antello’s took happy pictures of each other with their sailfish.

A tourist, probably from the Los Angeles area – he had that look – approached Gil and asked, “Would it be okay if my wife and I have our pictures taken in front of your fish?”

Gil looked at his wife and children and asked, “That okay with you?”

“Sure, go for it,” they all agreed.

The man stood by the fish holding a fishing pole while his wife took his picture, and then he took her picture. Then Enrique took a picture with their camera, both of them holding poles, and everyone knew that this man and woman would return to Los Angeles and unashamedly lie about how they caught these fish, and how exciting it was.

But these turistas would know nothing about the dignity of the fish, or of the life and death struggle the men and women on the Estrellita had engaged in, or of the disparate feelings created by such an act. Privately, I thought the Los Angelinos fools, for indeed, who knew better what a fool was than I. After their vapid exhibition, they left and Gil settled up with Enrique and me.

Gil said, “Paul, Enrique, thanks so much for a great day. We never figured on catching two sailfish. This was really terrific. And Paul, just gotta tell you, I, uh, I really admire the life you live here. Wish I could do it, too. It must be wonderful to have a boat like this, to be able to go fishing every day, to be your own boss. Thank you, thank you for a great day.”

Diana took my hand and said, “Paul, it was wonderful to see you again. What a nice surprise! And thank you for such a wonderful day. This was an experience we’ll always remember. You have such a great life here, fishing like this, owning your own boat. Terrific. Just terrific.”

“Thanks, Diana. Awfully good to see you, too. Say, guys!”

They stopped, turned. Gil said, “Yeah?”

“Enrique and I are going up to La Posada and have a beer and some hachas. Why don’t you join us? My treat.”

“Sure, sounds good,” said Gil. “Okay, everyone?”

Up on La Posada’s patio, we took a table, ordered Dos Equis and sodas and hachas with lime and salsa. Gil took a sip and said, “Ahhh, this beer is nice and cold. And these hachas are just doggone good. Umm. This great day just doesn’t end, does it!”

Kim asked, “Paul, what are hachas, anyway? They look like scallops.”

“Hachas are the adductor muscles of the big local pinna clams. We put them on a plate, raw, squeeze fresh lime juice on them, the sun sort of cooks them.”

“Mmm. They are sooo good.”

“That they are,” said Diana. “Be nice if we could get these at home.”

Surrounded by palms and bougainvillea and hibiscus, cooled by onshore breezes, we talked about the day’s adventure, about our joys and pleasures and as the afternoon waned, our camaraderie flourished and I knew a level of contentment, a furtive one that I had pursued and missed most of my life. It was good to be here, to be with these kind and gracious people.

Around four in the afternoon, a group of mariachis, splendid in their traditional costumes of black with elaborate gold trim, began to play at the far end of the courtyard. One of them, a stout and jovial fellow, carried the pregnant looking guitarrón, the bass guitar; two others played guitars, and the fourth brandished a silver trumpet that cast off clear and shining notes.

The music of Mexico is music of the soul, expressive and poignant, joyous and deeply romantic, and it always raises a nostalgia in me. These mariachis played with pride and feeling, certain they were welcome, that they would bring us happiness and celebration. All the guests on the patio were watching them, anticipating when they would come close to their tables so they could ask for a favorite song.

Then I heard a voice crackle behind me, “Oh, wonderful! There they are! I was afraid I would miss them! Paul, Paul, please help me. The baseball team from Jalisco is here to play the La Paz team tonight, and they’re staying at the pensión. They’re all over there right now in the dining room, and I wanted to come and take the mariachis over to play their state song. Oh, this will be wonderful, just wonderful!”

I had to smile. Dorothea. Years ago, she came to La Paz to find solace after the death of her husband. She never left. We lived in the same pensión, she in her three downstairs rooms, and me in my upstairs apartment. Dorothea was one of those bright and spontaneous people who barges through life, infecting everyone with her vibrancy, occasionally offending or at the very least, irritating some, oblivious to her effect. She had a great and good heart, did everything at full speed and was forever inviting everyone to join in her celebration of life. Those who did always had a good time.

Enrique nodded cordially to Dorothea and our group, and said, “Dispenseme, por favor, I must make arrangements to transport the fish to the orphanages, so I’ll say adiós. Everyone, thank you for a special day. I’ve enjoyed meeting you all and being of service to you. Pablo, hasta mañana.”

I said, “Adios, Enrique, y gracias. Dorothea, these folks were our charter this afternoon. Can they come too? I think they’d get a kick out of it.”

“Oh, by all means! Please, please come with us, and join us for the baseball game, too.” Glee and smiles flavored the Antellos’ acceptance.

I helped Dorothea load everyone – the Antellos, the mariachis, their instruments and me – into her infirm VW van. Squeezed together like ripe seeds in a pod and with much blue exhaust trailing behind us, we rattled off to the pensión.

Dorothea parked a block away and on tiptoe, led us to the edge of the pensión’s big front window. Carefully, she peeked in, then signaled each of us to take a quick look. Inside, the Jalisco baseball team, a dozen men, were seated around the dining room table playing poker with solemn intensity. Theirs was a most serious game of poker. They neither spoke nor laughed nor smiled, for a silent and deadly battle was under way, a battle for the mastery of the one who would win over those who would lose. Expressionless eyes set in concrete faces recorded the value of the cards, then imperiously challenged the other players with the bet, the raise. Not one of them ever folded, for that would be an affront. They raised their bets, then raised again, raised and raised again. Then, as if by some unspoken signal, they all laid their cards down, the winner nodded, raked the pot, and the dealer spun off the cards to begin another hand. No one said a word. They signaled for more cards with taps of their fingers. I wondered how this dour audience would receive the raucous and joyous music of the mariachis that Dorothea had brought.

Quietly, she arranged the musicians outside the window, two to one side, two on the other. With her index finger before her lips, she quieted us, then gave the downbeat. The bleat of silver trumpet carved the air, clear and pure, like great, blue spark. The mustachioed voices, raised to the finest and fullest expression of their musical careers, rang out, “¡Ay, Jalísco, Jalísco, Jalísco tú tienes tu novia que es Guadalajara!”

We peeked around the edge of the window.

Nothing changed. It was as if the baseball players had all gone deaf, for they gave no credence to the musical explosion. Their deadly battle continued with eyes slitted, faces masked with icy control, cards and chips falling with lethal precision onto the table.

The mariachis, not to be outdone by the card player’s stoicism, continued their concert at full volume, drawing curious neighbors out to the street to see what occasion this was. Dorothea, quick to seize the opportunity, opened the front door of the pensión and herded everyone inside. Directing the daughter of one of her many friends, she said, “Angelita, go call el dueño. Ask him if he would honor us with his presence.”

Soon, a portly, older man, entered, poised with the dignity of his position, displaying beneficent pride in his most worthy establishment to all in the dining room. Dorothea saw to it that he was seated in the place of honor. A cold cerveza materialized in his hand, which he used to keep time to the music. Neighborhood men and women and children quickly filled the room, along with two dogs and several chickens, all attracted by the noise and the activity and the promise of food. After snuffling around the floor, the dogs found places to relax under the table. The chickens skittered and squawked, avoiding people’s feet as they pecked crumbs from the floor.

The ballplayers remained oblivious. All that mattered to them was the game, and the winning of it. The band, the crowd, who cares! Such things have no meaning to men of baseball and cards. Honor was to be had here, pride and pesos were at stake!

A chicken pecked at the bare toe of a card player. He refused to acknowledge it. The chicken pecked again. The toe remained immobile as the player anted three chips into the pot. The chicken moved on.

Neighbors had now become so plentiful that the ballplayers were losing room for their card game. More people had entered the room who neither knew the reason for the celebration, nor cared, for this was a time to enjoy la mứsica y la festividad y la cerveza.  Everyone had a Dos Equis or a Carta Blanca. El dueño smiled pleasantly, and good cheer abounded. This was a serendipitous moment of fun and fellowship, like an unplanned expression of art that paints everyone on the canvas with a brush of joy and delight. I, along with everyone else – except the ball players – was caught up in the elation.

Then, as if someone gave a secret signal, the baseball players threw their cards face down on the table, elbowed their way through the crowd, loaded into cars and drove off to the ball field. The mariachis stopped playing.

“Gracias, señores y señoras, gracias, muchas gracias” they said, as revelers dropped pesos in their upside-down sombreros. We clapped and cheered, “olé” and “muchas gracias” as we herded out into the street. Neighbors dwindled away to their homes. Dorothea packed three of her pensión companions into her van, leaving a trail of blue exhaust on the way to the game. The Antello family crossed the street, waved farewell, and headed back to La Posada.

Something akin to panic rose in my gut as I willed the festivities to continue. I did not want this to end. I ached for the spontaneity, the gaiety, the pageantry that had immersed us all only moments ago, wanted the people and the dogs, even the chickens to return, to drink and sing, to dance, to listen to the music, to laugh. I wanted this happy, happy group to last forever, and to be a part of it.

As the crowd diminished, I searched for faces I knew, but there were none. Diana and Gil and their children were far down the street. I waved. She saw, and shouted, “Paul! What an amazing day! Thank you, thank you! This has just been fabulous! What a life you have!”

Then the lovely family turned the corner and like wisps in the dusk, they were gone.

Desperation jabbed my gut as I wished Diane to sense my loneliness, to look back around the corner and beckon, come with us, Paul, come with us. For a moment, I thought to run after them, to plead, ‘Me too, me too!’ but my feet became like stones and anchored me to the road.

The haze of dusk feathered the sunset in cerise and gold, an unbidden farewell to the day. Like the lifelight I had so long ago seen reflected in the eye of a dying sailfish, something within me flickered, then died.

As evening fell on the empty, silent street, I stood there, watching a scrap of paper lift in the evening breeze. It whirled around, once, twice, then fell back to the ground.

 

Copyright © 1993 Peter K. Schipper