Springtime, and an old mans' mind turns to

FISHING. Woodrow C. Carpintero (a certified bon vivant, formerly of Stinson Beach and Boyce to Men) and I went a fishin' yesterday, or as I call it, a Quality Control Expedition). Went up the east side of Cerralvo after our trused native compendium, Enrique, had way laid some formerly happy caballitos. For the last 6 weeks or so all the yellow tail had been coming from about a mile offshore, in 140 feet of water. So I dutifully went around the corner to BajaMarks' tackle emporium and stocked up on circle hooks, heavy sinkers, and sabikis. Well the best laid plans of mice and me. When we got up on the island Enrique decided to shift gears. There are now tons of sardines, nice 4" portly critters, along the shore between Las Pillis and the purple rocks. He eyed the water, and surprised us by throwing his net, seemingly in the middle of nowhere, 75 yards from the shore, and could barely lift it into the boat, 80 pounds of sardines. We started to slow troll live sardines while he ejaculated chum like a leaf chipper. We were using 40lb. fluoro leaders and #2/0 j hooks. Fish were boiling in the sardine highway that Capt. E was layin' down, and soon I was fast to a fish that just as quickly scraped me off on a rock, leaving my line looking like the curly ribbon on a birthday gift. Retied, resardined and out again. I caught went that was nudgin' 45 pounds, a good long fight, with some very impressive run, but the good guys one. We continued, with pangas stackin' up like 727's over LAX, watching people hook, and often land fish. After an hour or so it slowed considerably, with only an occasional boil to be seen. On the full moon like this there is a fairly short period of the current in which they're biting but boy it was boiling there for awhile. Enrique mentioned that it was time for our third load of bait, and we should go off to Punta Perico to try for pargo. Woodrow and I nodded, 'cuz that's what old guys do. While clearing his net we saw a flurry of boils and decided to take one more pass. W.C.C. hooked up and was whoopin', yes he was, and crankin'. Got another nice tail to the boat, in the upper 30's, and we were off. The ride to PP was spectacular, very calm shiny water, boat whooshin', us eatin' and talkin'. I looked around and saw magic. There we were at full throttle on the open ocean and our Capt. wasn't using his hands, in fact he had assumed the full glamor pose, while we rocketed on. . I did a little research to discover where exactly the tiller was, and let me just say that modesty prevents me from detailing this research. You can figure it out. I caught one nice pargo, upper teens, we lost a couple, and Woodie and I agreed that an early arrival at the beach would be just swell. One of the advantages of living here is that if you decide to go in a little early, it ain't as big o' deal as if you've come down for your 4 days a year, a situation in which you understandably want to milk out all possible drops of time. We had a wonderful day, great weather, great company, couple or three fish to be proud of, Captain made magic... it just don't get a lot better for old guys. Thanks, David

I miss you Ron

This is not a fishing report, I'm sorry my General, but that's that, ain't it? Just listenin' to some of the 26 Megs that comprise the Complete Europe '72 package from the Dead. For those of not Dead inclined, my condolences. The early 70's was one of their high points and it sure is a pleasure to listen to the courage and sincerity with which they played at that time. A strange group of guys who at one time I knew and saw regularly. When I was in my sub double digit years I played the trumpet. I took lessons at Dana Morgans' music store in Palo Alto. Every Tuesday Betty would take me down to PA, at a little before 7 for my lesson with Dana Jr. She would sit in the car and read while I rendered inspiring compositions such as Greensleeves and Bolero. Every week we would pass a fairly hirsute young man, walking along our route, carrying a banjo case. After a few weeks of that Betty said, "You know, that young man must teach at Danas', I see him get there in the middle of your lesson. Maybe we should give him a ride?" "Jeez Mom," I said in my best Jerry Mathers' voice, "He looks a little weird." "Well, I'm sure that he's a nice man, let's offer him a ride." One of the thing that I always respected about my Mom and Dad is that they never judged a book by the cover. Well when that swarthy gentleman got into the car Betty introduced herself and me, and he replied, "My name is Jerry." Well, it ain't never been the same since, and I couldn't be happier with that. The band, not yet formed, sorta hung out at the store. Dana Jr. was playin' bass (because he Dad had all the equipment I think), Bobby was barely a high school punk at time, and then there was the Pig. Ron "Pig Pen" McKernan was the janitor. If you thought Jerry was swarthy, then Ron was the swarthiest. His Dad had been a disc jockey, KDIA "The Lucky 13" I believe, spinnin' wax in East Palo Alto, the blues and some of that new MoTown stuff. If I thought that Jerry was "a little weird" then Ron was downright scary. A truculent seeming man, of few words, who carried a big broom. The trumpet, Dana, and I drifted apart 'til one night a few years later at Magoos' Pizza in Menlo Park I saw them again. Ron had traded in his broom for a microphone and harmonica, and was fronting a band that was loud. Jerry had traded his banjo for a big Guild electric guitar, and Bobby still didn't play very well (he later took care of that). Ron was the counterpoint to the whole thing, not the undead, but the antiDead, not into the new drugs, he exclusively indulged in drinking the old stand by drugs, Ranier Ale and Southern Comfort. While the others worked hard at exploring the inner Cosmos, Ron just got it done. We crossed paths a lot in the ensuing years, usually with me the audience, and as the band grew in skill, confidence, and celebrity, there was always Pig Pen. When he got in front, singing "Good Lovin'" or "Too Hard To Handle" he was the ground strap that connected those striving spacemen to earth. With long, funny, often obscene rant/raps in the middle of songs he charmed and amazed. Even though exceedingly politically incorrect, particularly when it came to the matter of inter gender relationships, he got it done. And the women in the audience seemed to enjoy and participate as much as the men. Lo and behold these intellectually based masters of improvisation and space, would eagerly fall in line and back that boy up. The band would flow and crest behind and underneath Pig Pen, following his lead, and clearly enjoying his talent and charisma. I'm pretty sure they weren't exactly sure what would come out his mouth next either, but they were just as eager to find out. I'm afraid that for those of you who never got Pigged, this explanation falls sadly short, but those of you who know, know. He was old school before anyone ever said that, barely tolerating the voyages beyond which the rest of the band were so fond taking. "Get yourself a shotgun, a pocket full of shells, and we can while away the time". As I come to the point where there is clearly more road behind than ahead, I'm very grateful that he was there, doing that which he uniquely did. I remember him fondly, and wouldn't have wanted a world, even my little one, without him. Without the correct seasoning, it just don't taste right. david

Dr. U and his bag o' smelly tricks

We were once again blessed with the arrival of one of my favorite fishing gangs this last week. Led by Dr. U (who does not time travel in a phone booth, he uses a Mini), this posse descends upon us a couple o' times a year, organizes their massive pile of armaments, and goes to do battle with the denizens of our local deep. You have seen some pics in the last week of their yellow tail catch. On their last couple of days, having taken sufficient 'tails to ensure a slow passage through the airport, they decided to concentrate on variety rather than tonnage. These guys are very good at this. Dr. U himself is a student and teacher of the Japanese art of dealing with fish for food, especially the proper preparation of some of the smaller species. He and his assistant/boss, Madame D, are skilled at the art involved in small fish cookery. We benefit from their largess on each visit with some obscure part of some obscure fish brought to our table, prepared in ways we wouldn't dream off after eating a pepperoni pizza before bed time, and it is always excellent. They head out in search of a veritable enselada de pescadidtos, all safely stored in the Dr.s' magic bolsa de fuchi, each fish processed whole, and later lovingly turned into the best thing that you've eaten lately. Suffice it to say that these guys are not your average fishermen, enough said. This pic displays the variety of one days catch, with clavallinos, leopard grouper, ojoton, lisos, and some brown ones, and some green ones. Fishing is not always about size, even though most fishermen seems obsessed with just that. Dr. U and his trusted plenipotentiaries bring an art to this stuff that we don't see much of, and it's pretty frio, And then, as further evidence, a picture of one of the time machines (the whole crew has 'em) loaded to the gills, with gills. David