As I took the fish back to the ocean, the thing skewered me in the hand. Soon enough, my hand turned the color of the ocean and puffed up like a balloon. The pain was excruciating. If you are ever in this situation, I found out later, stick your hand in hot water immediately. Better yet, do not go spin fishing with bait. The fly fishing Gods certainly have punished me for my transgression.
This year, contrary to the advice of my brother ("Stay away from the ocean fish dude"), I decided to try fishing again. My folks gave me an Scott A2 8-weight paired to a Lamson litespeed. The first couple of days I casted off some rocks to areas where baitfish collected. After working at this for a while, I decided that blind casting was ineffective. The only fish I caught was a toothy looking "Gar." Another fly-fisher I saw, however, was catching a ton of yellowfin tuna with a spey rod. He actually broke his rod on a roosterfish. The man was guide from Florida. So my failure may have been due to differences in ability!
A few days later, when walking on the beach. I saw a strange sight. A stingray jumped out of the water and then suddenly, the ocean erupted. A school of Jack Crevalle began a feeding frenzy on small silvery baitfish (Mullet??). They forced them against the shore, attacking after the waves crashed. My brother ran out into the surf and the fish darted in and out of his legs. I rushed back a half-mile to the hotel, ran to the room, and grabbed my fly rod. All the crank-baiters did the same. I tied on a big silver Enrigo Puglisi fly and started casting, placing a 40 foot cast behind where the Jacks were feeding. Stripping back as fast as I could, a 25-pound fish took the fly about 7 feet from my feet. The Jack proceeded to take the fly 100 feet out in the ocean. The fight was on. This fish was the biggest and most power I had ever seen, let alone caught. I gradually brought him back into 15 feet, despite the stupid ducks (cormorants?) cutting across my line. When we looked each other in the eye, the Jack cut to the side. All of the sudden the line went slack. I let some expletives and looked at the end of my leader. The knot had slipped.
Despite not landing the Jack or getting any pictures, my brother and I decided that it was a "catch." Only the locals brought in fish, using soda cans, raw tuna, and fishing line. When fighting the fish, I had put down my pliers behind me. When I turned around again, they were gone. A woman said a drunk guy in a trucker hat made off with them. One only knows why she did not bother to question him. Earlier, my reel case had disappeared when I was fishing. The thiefs, I bet, were fellow tourists.
Two other thoughts about Mexico. First, Mexicans and the average fat-American do not know what fly fishing is. Many times folks walked behind me while I was casting a size 2/0 clouser. They only bothered to ask while going in front of me to "see if I had any lines out." Second, fly fishing guides are sparse in Baja. The only "fly shop" I found offered trips where, the attendant assured me, only "minimal casting was necessary." She told me that the boat captains threw out chum to attract dorado, marlin, yellowfin, and roosters. Then one could just cast fifteen feet into the frenzy. My dad and I looked at each other and left. In all fairness, the shop could probably "accommodate" those who actually wanted to fly fish.