One Of The Boys
It’s mid-September on the southern coast of California. The tourism has died down, the water is warm. Early morning walks on the beach are quiet and connected with the sound of waves beating the shore and seagulls gulling. Simply the most magical time of the year.
Voices from the living room make their way up the stairs and the words “she’ll just have to be one of the boys this weekend” hits my ears. A warm feeling overtakes me and a sneaky smile appears because I know exactly what that means. The boys are doing something that consists of an early morning and dirty hands; or in other words, something good for the soul.
Its time, 05:07 to be exact. His old Tacoma pulls up to the house and through the open bedroom window I know the day has started. Pauses between the whispers to take a sip of strong black coffee confirm the day is going to be a long one. Tackle, rods, beefy spear guns, camo wetsuits, coolers, kill bags, it’s all waiting to be loaded up. Jumping out of bed and into a suit and sweats, I excitedly shoot down the stairs and out the garage door. Time flies with the helping hands of 4 people and before you know it, we’re leaving the dock with everything meticulously in its rightful place. Beer in the cooler, rods in the holders, brother at the helm, and me… comfy on the stern anticipating action as the purr of the Yamaha 250 warms up. I admire the sunlight as it quickly replaces the flat grey light conditions of early morning. It’s not long before a target appears in the distance. A garage door sized kelp paddy perfectly suitable as overnight accommodations for any pelagic species.
I snap up to the thud of a dorado hitting the deck and a spear gun sliding into the boat. Just a few seconds later comes the salty spray from a pleased diver. The first thought that comes to my mind is “dinner tonight.” Between the sounds of excited grown men and a line going out, I’m up and aware that fish are on. Grabbing a rod from the holder and joining in the commotion, I find myself blending in with the boys. “Let the casting and reeling begin” I think.
Seventeen casts. Four kelp paddies. One sandwich. And thirty-seven minutes of reeling in what felt like a tow truck. That was the magic number. The minutes seemed like an eternity of an arm workout but by the time my tuna reaches the boat, I am assured the struggle was well worth it. Jer grabs the hook and patiently waits for the fish to swiftly swim close enough for a clean jab. Within seconds, the glimmer of scales come up into the boat, tail beating like a drum solo. Sweat dripping down my back and smeared sunscreen, I reach for the fish, remove the hook with the help of a seasoned fisher friend and hold up the prized creature for a picture. The feeling of blood and guts running down my forearm serve as a reminder that often the most rewarding things in life require some time, grit, and patience. “Fins and grins, baby!” rolls off the tongue as a smile consumes me for a flick.
Combined efforts, seven fish are tightly packed into the biggest cooler bag I have ever seen. The sun is commanding its way west as its amber light pours down over the subtle white caps due to the western breeze. All the signs that the day is coming to a long-awaited night of fellowship over freshly grilled fish and salt rimmed margaritas. Just short of an hour and a half back to the harbor entrance and it feels as if the day is just getting started again.
Back at the dock, our four sets of sun-kissed shoulders put in the last bit of labor before the night begins. A clean boat, empty beer cooler, full hearts and some dirty bare feet later, it is time to reap the reward. The evening consists of phone calls to family and friends for a feast. As the night escapes into laughs and banter, I am overwhelmed with gratefulness for doing the tough things that often lead to the greatest times.
