I dream of fly fishing, eyes wide open, the house is still, it's early morning, the animals feed, wife is sleeping, I'm staring at the television, it's off but my mind isn't. This is how it gets done. I'm in my sixties now yet I dream of fishing adventures South, beyond the international border that I hear so much about on the television. I drive the three hours south across the Sonoran Desert, across the Barry Goldwater Bombing Range in the dark. I've seen something in the sky go from horizon to horizon in a minute, not in space, leaving a contrail. I'm thinking something out of Edwards Air Force Base or more likely, Area 51, it was that fast.
Yes, the drive to fishing is a part of my memories and often it is surreal.
Sipping my coffee, I'm putting together my newest adventure. I usually go alone, up at 2:30a, on the road by 3, at the border by 6a waiting for the border crossing to open. It's a 4-hour drive to the Sea of Cortez from Phoenix, the fifth largest city in America. Not really known for fly fishing, especially fishing in the sea. It's a bit stressful, the Mexican border crossing, instantly you can tell, not in America anymore, the law is different here. I drive the last hour across the arid desert, in the distance I can see the edge, the once sleepy fishing village that once was. Now it is a struggling tourist destination, the tourism hurt by reports of cartels, tourists getting car jacked, stories of people crossing the border and forgetting a box of rounds and getting detained until the United States and Arizona Government gets involved to get the detainee released. I do a mix of day trips, at the beach at 7a, fish until I get hungry, go into town for street tacos and back across the desert, reversing the trip in the hottest part of the day, I'm home for dinner.
Did that even happen?
So many things to think about but experience reduces the objective dangers. You learn to mitigate them by studying and avoidance. If I study and execute my plan, I'll be fine. I can be a beach fisher, a do-it-yourself Bonefisher or hunt for the elusive Corbina. Speaking of Corbina, I used to read about the Corbina Patrol in Dan Blanton's forums early on in the timeline of the Internet. There were the West Coast community hunting down the ghosts of the surf. I was reading Scott Sadil's stuff, as a fly fisher, he fished Blacks Beach. I used to fly my hang glider there above at Torrey Pines and surf there too. I'm no stranger to adventure, fly fishing helps quench that thirst and fishing the tidal estuaries and flats, the surf in the Sea of Cortez was within my grasp in a day and just like those dreams, decades ago, I'm dreaming up version two, my return.
We remember moments...
Recently, I had expedited my passport, back then you didn't need one, you just needed Mexican car insurance, better have it because if you didn't, you payed a formula of cash in order to not be detained if you had an accident. I always had it. I always mind my mannors in Mexico, never being an ugly American, always respectful, bringing down bins of clothing and driving into the local parts of the village and donating. Pumping up the good karma, stacking the odds in my favor so the magic will come and it always does.
The tides in the Sea of Cortez are world class. In the spring, the tide can swing up to thirty vertical feet. At the top and bottom it isn't moving as fast but before and after, you can actually feel the water rising on your legs, I did the math, nearly an inch per minute. The beaches are flat in my area and when I pick out a good tide, I have to walk out a half mile in some areas to meet the push and the fish stacked up. I'm always careful to note my path out. I've been caught in that trap, not paying attention to the sand spit I walked out on and in just a few minutes, many acres of dry sand now a foot deep in water. The push of the tide, all that water moving in the channels, the fish surfing in but now I don't know where my path back is and I'm moving fast to not be overcome by the surge.
I'm always on the move there.
I remember once, hiked way out on a spit of sand, the air still and these big pillows of wind cooling my neck, back at the truck, my two amigos drinking beer, I could barely see Dan and Brooks somewhere probably taking pictures. Again about a half mile out and what is that I hear? Just the lightest puff of wind but it sounds like a song, still, it's gone. It wasn't the song playing in my head, it was a guitar. The gentle breeze and there it is again. Yess, hook up, zzzzzzz, I play my fish, a yellowfin croaker, release and I'm headed back. I can see Dan playing guitar now but I'm too far to hear him in the still of Playa Encanto, the enchanted beach of Marua Estuary.
Earlier I had taken a nap right there on the sand, I was dreaming of fishing a few weeks prior. Again hiked out on a low tide and I had waded in as the breeze was up creating a wind swell. There were Pompano in the surf and I was picking them off with my six weight. Mind you, this is twenty plus years ago and I'm still dreaming of prior fishing trips to the area. The dolfins were pushing the sea trout closer in towards us but I love Pompano and that's what was within reach. In the wind you must be careful as the Blue Bottle get pushed together. A little bubble of blue snot and two foot strings of tentacles to wrap around your bare legs. Never mind the guantlet of sting rays, I've been stung, cried like a little girl, pain, writhing, no escaping it.
It's moments that I remember.
This summer, I had been coordinating with one of the Corbina Patrol, finally I was going to meet my West Coast allies. I had already been marching down the days, my hotel reservations in Bolsa Chica, my target was in Los Angeles. The text literally the night before, "I'm going to fish Beach X on Friday, you want to meet me there?" and I text back, "Hell yes, see you at 6a" We will fish between these lifeguard towers, I'll find you. Third in line, waiting, I had forgotten to get my fishing license, frantically putting in my card number, so excited to finally be meeting someone that can relate to my madness. Driving to the parking lot, there is the lifeguard stand, opening the hatch and putting on my stripping basket. It was still quite dark at 6a, there was a fog, like June gloom but it was July and I walked across the sand in the big grey room of where I could see.
In my mind, I put on my fishing goggles and started to look for structure as the push retreated. I started casting, I was alone, no one where I was as visibility was limited. I could see my new friend walking out of the mist straight for me. I swear it was straight out of a pirate movie. Fishing the surf here, the tide had a different impact on the fishing. My friend pointing, "Did you see that?" "Yess, I see the tail!" I had made a series of trips last year again alone. A couple of weeks prior, I was at another beach and had caught YFC. But I was casting from where I should have been casting to. I had been catching but not seeing. My friend corrected my vision, now I could see the game they were playing. Similar to mine, I just needed to know the differences.
In the fall, I'll go to Puerto Vallarta and there I'll hustle up a Panga Captain. I really want a Dorado. I have been hoping for a stray as I bartered for a Panga in "my area." I've fished in Pangas in Bahia de Kino and it's always an adventure.
It's time to close the laptop. I hope my passport comes soon. I have a trip planned in a few weeks. I may return to Beach X or if I have my papers, I'll drive south across the Sonoran Desert, joint my rod and cast for dreams.
