Olympic Hurling

The tires of the Boeing 737 skipped across the tarmac as the pilot prepared to maneuver the plane to the gate where he had been directed. The aircraft taxied the runway and eased to a halt. One of the flight attendants addressed us over the PA system, "Welcome to Acapulco," she declared. There was a slight pause and then she continued, "Bienvenidos a Acapulco."

This was the first trip of many that my wife and I would take to Mexico. We had purchased a five day package on a PBS auction while watching television one evening and I figured a little rest and relaxation would do us good. Secretly, I had planned an action packed schedule which included golf, tennis, and most important, deep sea fishing.

As we departed the plane and entered the terminal we were instantly greeted by a barrage of Mexican sales people who were hawking everything from time-shares to tequila. My wife indicated to me that she knew how to deal with this dilemma. "Just tell them, 'no dinero,' " she said. I had a limited knowledge of the Spanish language, but I figured 'no dinero' angle had merit.

We pushed our way through a crowd of people and attempted to retrieve our bags. A porter approached us and I asked, "Puede ayudarnos con mis maletas?"(Can you help us with our bags)? I figured if I let him know that I knew a little lingo, we would have less of a chance of getting ripped off. He gathered our suitcases, hailed a taxi, and we headed to our hotel. Checking in quickly, we headed to our room and unpacked our bags. "Let's go down to the pool and have a margarita-fest," I suggested. After forty-five minutes of happy hour activity I quickly became bored, so I devised an out. "I need to go to the restroom," I told my wife. My premeditated journey brought me to the hotel lobby where I encountered the concierge.

"Do you know where I might be able to find a guide for deep sea fishing?" I asked her. Her eyes lit up like a jack-o-lantern with dollar signs radiating from her piñata like pupils.

"Of course señor!" she responded. Our hotel employs the best fisherman in Mexico." She picked up the telephone and arranged a meeting with "El Capitan T."

Within minutes the man arrived in a disheveled state, reeking of tequila. "Buenas tardes," the captain addressed me. "I am the greatest fisherman in all of Mexico," he slurred. "Me nombre es Capitan Tequila, and my fishing vessel rivals no other."

I examined the deep lines in his forehead and recalled every fish tale from Melville's Moby Dick to Hemingway's The Old Man and the Sea, and after a quick bartering session, I told him, "You have a deal." Returning to the pool deck, I told my wife that I hoped she had her sea- legs ready, because we we're going deep.

That evening my wife and I had dinner with a couple we met at the pool and I mentioned that we were taking a deep sea fishing excursion the following morning. Our new friends informed us that they had taken five of these trips and had yet to catch even one sailfish. "I'm sure the captain wouldn't mind if he had two more clients. Why don't you join us?" I was confident that the skipper's skills would not disappoint them.

While celebrating at a local disco for a few after dinner cocktails a waiter approached us and placed a bottle of tequila on the table. "What is this for?" I asked my new fishing comrade. He indicated that this was a custom at the establishment and since I didn't want to break a tradition for fear of bad luck, I slammed a few shooters rimmed with salt and called it a night.

At five o'clock in the morning we met our friends in the lobby and had breakfast, but the effects of the tequila had not yet worn off and I was feeling a little sick to my stomach. After breakfast we proceeded to the pier to meet the captain. The man was overjoyed to see that we had recruited two more customers (Mas dinero.) Leading us down the pier and stopping in front of a rickety old wooden cabin cruiser he grinned through yellow-stained teeth and said, "Entre, por favor."

Looking at my wife, I asked, "Does he intend to take us out on the Pacific Ocean in that thing?" To my dismay, her answer was affirmative.

"Look, I don't want to end up like Gilligan; maybe I should call this whole thing off."

"It's too late now honey," she replied; besides, he has probably done this a million times."

The captain proudly led us aboard and introduced us to the crew. The "crew" consisted of one Mexican boy who appeared to be no older than twelve. "Buenas dias," the boy greeted us as the captain fired up his diesel-powered clunker and our boat chugged out of the harbor into a thick haze. My friend from the evening before suggested that we sit on the top deck of the cabin and enjoy the view. We climbed the ladder to the upper deck, sat down, and took in the sights. "I have a surprise," he said as he produced two large Cuban cigars from his shirt pocket, "just a token of appreciation for the fishing invite." He took out his cutter and chopped off the ends in preparation for a "Mexican pow-wow." Before I could say no thank you, his lighter flashed and we were both puffing on the best Havana had to offer.

The dilapidated excuse for a fishing craft continued to churn through the aqua green waters for nearly two hours, while my face was turning a different shade of green from the effects of my partner's gratuity gift. I indicated to my friend that it would be best for both of us if I retired to the lower deck for a rest on the cabin bunk. With all my might I grasped the metal rails of the ladder and descended to the dungeon below. I lay down and tried to relax as I inhaled the musty fumes of diesel fuel that the engine emitted. Meanwhile the women sat and conversed, while applying suntan lotion as all good fishing wives do.

"El Capitan" had now determined that he had reached the happy hunting grounds and went to work setting up his downriggers. The "crew" worked furiously to set up four lines with what appeared to be a huge jig heads that had a piece of squid hooked to it as a trailer for bait. The lines were set out and the jigs skipped across the top of the water as the boat continued to troll at a rapid speed. Meanwhile, I remained motionless in a supine position on my deathbed. When the captain finished his chores, he unconsciously placed the bucket of squid in front of my nodding head. I closed my eyes and imagined a potpourri of tequila, cigar smoke, diesel fuel, and squid. The result was projectile vomit that not only horrified the crew but also the passengers aboard. Instantly the girls stopped giggling and pretended that nothing had happened. Mr. "Havana" descended from his skybox and upon realizing what happened decide to hurl in chain reaction style. His wife looked at him, and then at me, and followed suit. Chunks were flying everywhere. My wife sat and grabbed her People magazine and acted as if nothing had happened, while the captain and crew analyzed the situation and decided to have a beer.

Our boat continued to plow through the heaving waters of the Pacific, and we now had three people in sick bay sprawled flat on their backs. I glanced at my wife and saw her consuming an apple. "She must be some kind of alien," I thought.

Suddenly the captain shouted, "Pez vela" (sail fish). Three huge fins erupted from the water in hot pursuit of the skipping baits. Within seconds mass chaos ensued. The poles bowed downward with tremendous force and the lines criss-crossed in every possible direction. El Capitan and his crew struggled in an effort to keep the lines from crossing by changing the position of the poles.

Three sailfish had been hooked and they were putting on an aerial show that would have made the Blue Angels proud. The captain turned and addressed the members of team sick bay, "Ayude me!"(Help me) he screamed. My friend and his wife struggled to their feet and each grabbed a pole. The third pole was commandeered by my wife.

"This is your big chance," she said in an effort to raise me from the dead. I used every ounce of strength I had to lift myself up and take hold of the pole that she had been working, and as soon as the pole was in my hand, my nausea disappeared and adrenaline took over. I watched behind the boat and saw the fish launch itself like a surface to air missile in an attempt to shake the hook. After twenty-five minutes of hard work we landed two of the three sailfish. One of the fish had managed to throw the bait after a mighty leap. I recalled seeing the captain grab my fish at the side of the boat before I remembered I was sick and proceeded to collapse. The boat turned and headed back to shore as I went in and out of consciousness for what seemed an eternity. Finally, the boat reached the harbor and all motion came to a halt. I rose to my feet and did my best imitation of a drunken sailor while attempting to depart the ship. Once I was safely on the pier, I kneeled and kissed it, in the same manner the Pope kisses the ground after a flight.

I have developed a few ground rules for all future deep sea fishing trips. These rules include no tequila, no Cuban cigars, stay clear of diesel fumes and squid guts, and bring a barf bag just in case you Hurl!