I
had told Vance that in Bahìa de Los Angeles there would be people, and
hotels, and good food, telephones! We played Jimmy Buffett when the vast
island-ridden bay appeared, and soon learned that Bahìa de Los Angeles
was nearly deserted. 'Stashed his trash in Ecuador Bought a good suit
and clothes Flew on up to Mexico.' A small town of fish camps, motels,
and a few restaurants.
It
was also the most breathtaking place I had been in weeks - wide, unspoiled
beaches. Two sailboats moored against a sandbar; giant islands shadowing
the bay. Despite my misperception, there was beer, and it was for sale,
so we drank in the hundred and ten degree heat, and pitched camp under
a palapa north of the city.
"We drove here," I told Vance. 'I dial your number for you' the lady next
to a large fan said, drinking a soda with ice, pat in her comfort. I called
my mother on a satellite phone, "I didn't know you could drive to places
like this!" I said, and before the line went dead, she said, "You know
that the elections." I took to a shower stall near our palapa - cool water
- a man in the stall next to me was singing, "Mary had a Little Lamb"
in a whispering falsetto.
It seems that the heat was getting to people. "You know that the elections." I thought about it for a while. The elections! No cervezas to be sold
on election weekend. Zedillo! Fox! I suddenly had some appreciation for
our struggle for beer. My mother, a constant reader and observer, was
more in touch with Mexico than we; the plight of travel, of being out
of touch, had caught us.
But
there was a 'who cares?' line in there somewhere, and we snorkeled the
shallows to get an idea of the life here - plenty of wrasses, sea bass,
a grouper or two, skates. Most of the fish were oversized, well fed. It
made sense: the Sea of Cortez is a natural fish-trap, and holds more species
than any other region in the world. Vance went to sea, paddling in the
vicious wind. I hacked away chest-deep, fly-fishing north of camp, in
a spell of utter concentration, and a sloppy fly-line ripping at the water.
Fish
were passing beneath me. Jumping feet from my line. I pulled a Corona
out of my pocket, drank it, and soon my line was flying right, back, forth,
back, forth. The fish kept jumping around my line, mocking me. But I drove
here, and I couldn't give a fish-gut for a bite, I was chest-deep in the
sea, exactly where I wanted to be. We took to dinner at a second floor
beach-restaurant; the only restaurant in five miles, which was called,
"Restaurant." The owner, Reno, offered us Margaritas (seeds at the bottom
meant he used real limes) and we ordered fish tacos - the taste of the
fish dominated, which meant this was caught locally, probably by the guy
with a fishing pole who was yelling at Reno from the beach.
