Roosterfish Dreams

I heard a key scratch in the lock. The door swung open to reveal a maid, the hotel manager, and a Mexican policeman. It occurred to me I should have tipped the maid.

That’s in hindsight. But all lessons are learned in hindsight. The manager shouted something incomprehensible and I barely had time to grab my rod tube. I didn’t test my Spanish. I didn’t try to explain I would only be there long enough to chase, on foot, the big warm-weather roosterfish teeming off the Baja coast. It sounded foolish enough in English.

In the parking lot the cop tossed me my bag. The manager locked the gate. “No pesos, no servicio,” he said. This I understood.

It started much more promising. “Listen,” Greg announced over the phone. “Get back down here. It’s like a hatch of roosterfish. And Crazy Philbert’s has a special. Some kind of beer war, a bucket for three bucks. Can you make it?”

The answer was yes.

I emailed him my itinerary. “I’ll be in Cancun and miss the first day,” he wrote back. “Make yourself at home.” Greg is a tequila salesman. Home is a suite at the Las Palmas Hotel, north of Cabo San Lucas.

I got off the jet in busy Los Cabos Airport with just my gear bag and rod tube. In the Hotel Zone I lucked out and found an extra seat in a cab full of drinking touristas. Then I caught a diesel bus with cooks, maids, and waiters, all heading home. Million dollar condos glinted from the hills above. I caught a lone figure staring at the ocean from a broad patio. I guess I’ll never own a million dollar condo with a view. But that guy will never ride in a Mexican bus with a fly rod. I leaned back, feeling lucky indeed.

My luck didn’t last. Trouble started once I tried to check in. The Las Palmas had seen better days. A former all-inclusive, it ran as a budget place catering to backpackers, retirees, and small-time businessmen. Half the hotel sat empty. The ocean breeze blew through broken windows and vultures circled the roof. I walked past an empty pool to the concierge desk.

A bored manager sat eating a sandwich. “There is nothing.”

“What about Room 216?”

“It is taken.”

“Of course it is taken,” I told him. “I am staying with my friend, Señor Greg Flores. Señor Flores is away on business. He has left instructions with this desk…”

“I see nothing,” the manager said.

“How much for the night?” I was hot and dusty. I reached for my wallet.

“Five hundred fifty dollars.” The manager smiled. It was a very false smile.

I put my wallet away. “You can take your room, Señor Manager, and…” I left it at that.

I walked across the street to Crazy Philbert’s. Standing at the bar I drank a beer, ate three 25-cent tacos, and watched an assortment of men climb the walls of the Las Palmas and disappear over the other side. “What’s the deal?” I asked the man next to me.

“Shortcut,” he said. Or something like that.

The bartender clued me in. “The men are going home. Less walking. Much faster.”

I’d heard enough. I tipped the bartender and crossed the street. After tossing my gear over the wall I jumped and pulled myself up. Broken bottles, mortared into place, covered the top. I’d been very lucky. Two inches either way and I wouldn’t be typing this. I dropped back down.

“Señor!” I turned around. “Not like that.” It was a young man. I watched as he slung an old, heavy piece of carpet over the top. Over he went. I followed carefully. Very carefully.

I found Room 216. When a maid walked by I stopped her, explaining what had happened. My roommate had left me at Crazy Philbert’s. He went downtown to see his fiancé. She is angry with him. Muy enojado. A beautiful woman. Beautiful but angry. He will return tomorrow. But look! He has neglected to give me the key. Would the maid be so kind as to let me in? She would? Bless you, Señora!

Ah, Mexico. The splash-pause-splash of waves sounded from the beach. A hint of ranchero music wafted past. Tomorrow I would have a big egg and tortilla breakfast before heading out in Greg’s battered Jeep with my fly rod. The fishing started forty miles north, where the surf flattened out in a long sandy curve. I could just see a big roosterfish cutting a “V” as it chased a school of mullet. In my mind I felt forty yards of high-tech saltwater fly line zip through the guides, the big plumed hook dropping a foot in front of that crazy-looking rooster fin…

And that’s when the door opened and a very irate hotel manager took the place of the giant roosterfish of my dreams.

Water splashed along the ancient pier. It looked like the bones of some beached whale. I sat down, first brushing sand from the boards. All the thrill had worn off. What’s a homeless man do in Mexico? I put my back against a pillar and watched the beach vendors heading home. An old man opened a case of jewelry. I waved him off. He closed the display and sat down.

“Buenos Noches,” he said.

“Buenos Noches.”

His ragged straw hat looked half-eaten by a mule. When he smiled his dark skin wrinkled tremendously. “How do you like the beach?” he asked.

“Fine,” I told him. He pointed at my gear. “Fisherman?”

“Fisherman,” I said. “Roosterfish.”

“Ah, yes. Mucho roosterfish. Mucho largo.” He pulled a cork out of a coke bottle. “Drink?” he asked.

What the hell.

I don’t know how long we sat there. Whatever we drank bit like gasoline. The sun vanished over the deep blue Pacific, and we talked. All the big fish, he said, were right here at the pier. “Aqui.” He passed the bottle.

“But be careful,” he warned. “Mucho quidado. Once, my friend Paco speared a big roosterfish right here in this bay. The biggest. But the line caught his ankle and he was pulled out to sea. We heard the scream, but could do nothing. All night we mourned, and built a great fire, drinking and crying. In the morning an idea came to me. I took a wheelbarrow and threw buckets of shrimp into the water. Soon we saw it. A huge roosterfish with a spear deep in the side. I grabbed the line and pulled, and at the end was Paco, coughing. Now, if you should ever see a fish such as this…”

I must have fallen asleep. I don’t remember another thing the old man said.

What I remember is waking up with a mouth as dry as the Sonoran Desert, and a pink sunrise just beginning to show along the rugged Baja hills.

“You spent the night where?” Greg asked in disbelief.  I told him the story as he grew more and more angry.

“Don’t worry about the manager,” I said to Greg. “All I care about are the roosterfish. Plus, I got something out of it. I heard the greatest fishing story of my life.” I told him the old man’s story.

“Are you sure you didn’t dream it? That was home-made agave you were drinking. It’s like white lightening.”

“No one could dream a story like that.”

My friend wore a pressed shirt and a Dior blazer. He’d just returned from Mazatlan and was all business. “Let’s get back to the hotel. I’ve got someone I want to talk to.”

We walked into the lobby of the Las Palmas. The manager sat with a cigar and a newspaper. Greg marched behind the counter and pulled out a bottle of high-end tequila. He held it to the manager’s face. “No servicio, no tequila,” he said.

I believe we all understood that.