San Jose del Cabo, Mexico --

If the eyes are the windows to the soul, then what existed behind those pale green portals was a wild, frantic, swirling vortex of chaos, ready

"We looked around to see the water boiling with fish. Every pass through the mass of slashing sierra yielded fish."

to swallow up any man who was reckless enough to think himself invulnerable. But my hands felt good on her hips. The night was hot. The music was loud. The dance floor was a mass of slinking, dipping, grinding, shaking, sweating bodies. Of my vulnerability, I had no illusions. For hours we danced and shared margaritas. Her gaze making my hair stand on end. At five in the morning, she was in the grasp of the conga player.

I went back to my little room to get whatever sleep could be salvaged before going fishing in an hour. Timmy was in much better shape - he had not been foolish enough to try to sleep. He roused me as the sky began to turn red.

It was to be the "maiden" voyage of the 14-foot aluminum boat Jay Crawford had just hauled 1200 miles down Mexico 1 from San Diego. It had been advertised as having been stored in a garage

PK

for the last ten years. Jay swears that it had been more likely stored at the bottom of some muck-filled pond. The shallow-veed, generic-looking craft was now a gleaming white, sporting four recently installed PVC pole holders. The ancient wooden oars had been lovingly varnished, looking almost too quaint to be functional. On the stern was the familiar 18 horse Evinrude that for the last month or so had been getting me around on the Zodiac. The three of us dragged it across the sand at Playa Palmilla and with the dog set forth to see if it could catch fish.

On the promise of a week of non-stop fishing, Timmy had been able to squeeze into a winter that refused to go away, a second trip to Mexico. He was holding in his hands a stout five-foot pole, a yeomen Penn reel filled with new 20-pound monofilament. It was on an easy sea with the powerful Baja sun buffered by a sky of high thin clouds that we started to catch fish. Sierras. Lots of fish. We looked around to see the water boiling with fish. Every pass through the mass of slashing sierra yielded fish. Double hook-ups. Triple hook-ups. Our green and orange Rapalas were quickly beginning to look like the kind of chewed up lures you wished your tackle box was filled with. We long ago lost count of the number of fish that had been poured into the fish sack. Displaying the same well-documented behavior of walleye fishermen, the area was soon filled with other boats. Everywhere you looked, the poles of fishermen were bent over double. Fish being hauled over the sides. Birds swooping and diving for baitfish and ambient bits and pieces of fishing carnage. The thumbs-up signal replaced the polite wave as a greeting by the occupants of passing boats. Timmy’s Sea of Cortez fishing odyssey was off to a fine start.

On the ride back to Playa Palmilla the heat of the desert sun was beginning to sear. Tequila-tainted sweat was beading up on my forehead. Sleep deprivation was beginning to turn my saliva faintly metallic tasting. And those pale green eyes gazing back at me every time I began to nod. Eyeyeye eyes. Funny how when you’re catching fish, nothing else seems to matter. Actually, it’s pretty scary.