The end of another fishing season in La Paz. While the dorado continue to bite, the customer flow is starting to dribble. Some of the best weather and fishing of the year is going to waste. Had Robert Glenn and his band from Boise down this week, and like every year their coming signals that winter is somewhere not too far past the green flash. Bob is one of my favorite guys, an old school gentleman, literate and well mannered, yet ribald and baudy at just the right times. The kind of guy that it's really hard not to admire.
Mag Bay is still rippin', giving us a fine counterpoint to the last refrains from our home town. Chris had some fellows that purchased a trip that we donated to the Make a Wish foundation and even though they had some windy days, they also caught tuna, dorado, wahoo, and striped marlin, and in fact one of them wants to come back down, this year, with some other friends. I think that we can get that done for him.
My thoughts turn to baseball. I was born in 1952, the Giants moved from N.Y. in 1953, and then we both waited. Through some great years for S.F. baseball, the Dodger rivalry, Marichal boppin' Roseboro on the head, watering the base paths for Maury Wills, The Baby Bull. Then came 2010 and all that waiting seemed as an instant. I was so proud for my team, and happy. And now, they're doin' it again, differently, maybe better. Although this team seems to me as a bunch of selfless guys, a real team, gettin' it done everyday, different heroes, no goats, all covering each others' backs, it must be to their opponents as though they are facing an unforgiving reptile. You make an error, bobble a ball, send a runner at the wrong time, hang a slider and you're toast. Like a boa constrictor they throw their coils around you and wait. If you exhale, even the slightest bit, they tighten up accordingly, and slowly, without a lot of fanfare, you become dinner. Good luck Detroit, and I don't mean that at all.
David Jones
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