Seasonable Angler: Good Hombres

His name is Carlos Antonio Sanchez Cardenes. With a name like that, he should have been a bullfighter, classical guitarist, or the patron of an Argentine estancia complete with cattle, sheep, and gauchos. but instead, he was the taxi driver taking me from Los Cabos to La Ventana, Baja California. It was a two-hour drive through vast expanses of thorn brush and cordon cactus desert and along the mountains that seemed mysterious and magical. They seemed close enough to touch—yet simultaneously out of reach.

Looking out the window of Antonio’s SUV, I absorbed the sights of the wild landscape and silent villages, which we passed through so quickly that they seemed to fade and blend in my mind, like dreams. Each town had its own wandering packs of small friendly dogs, meandering chickens, and the occasional horse or cow that for some reason walked zombie-like down the middle of the road. And each small hamlet had its own empty cafés with tables and chairs all arranged as if they expected someone to sit at them, but nobody came. Occasionally, someone would be standing at a bus stop, even though I never saw a bus—anywhere.

When we arrived at La Ventana my buddy Gary Bulla came out to greet me, and we smiled and laughed at my comment that I’m not used to seeing him without a big fish in his hands. Gary is a good man with a kind, joyful nature, a big heart, and a deep love for the land, sea, and people of this place—his second home. He is also my friend, and I am grateful for this simple truth.

That night we shared a meal that began with some magnificent clams from Magdalena Bay that were diced and then steamed inside their shells—served open-face with a side of Pacifico beer. We listened to music under the stars with the soft, almost angelic sounds of the surf rolling across the moonlit beach. And we talked of fish and fishing and the adventure that was awaiting us once the sun rose over the Sea of Cortez. It was a good night.

In the wee hours of the morning I awoke to the sounds of surf and songbirds. I wandered from my casita to the kitchen and exchanged “Buenos dias!” with Senora Leonarda Lucero, who was busy making our breakfast of Mexican scrambled eggs, refried black beans, and fresh tortillas. She smiled and greeted me in return, her skilled hands forming the tortillas like a painter touches the canvas. Roosters crowed in the darkness as the first sliver of golden light appeared across the Gulf. And I sipped dark, rich, delicious coffee while speaking in hushed tones to Gary and my new friends, and father/daughter duo, of Steve and Mari Beltran.

We had set up our gear the previous night as I sipped a glass of chilled rosé wine from Valle De Guadalupe in northern Baja. Now all we had to do was load up the van and head out for the forty-five-minute drive to the sheltered bay where we would meet the captains and their boats. That place was called Ensenada de Los Muertos—Bay of the Dead.

On this first day, I would be fishing with Gary and our captain, Efren Ortiz Lucero. Over the next few days I would share my adventures with captains Israel Lucero and Adrian Lucero. Our lovely little hotel of casitas by the sea was managed by Pilar Lucero. Perhaps none of this would have come to pass without the deep friendship that grew between Gary and Valente Lucero, whom Gary described as being “full of honesty and joy with an almost mystical connection with the sea.”

Valente passed from this world not long ago, leaving a legacy of family, community, and a culture of caring for this place and its waters. I could feel the love and loss whenever his name was spoken. This fishing community is a family affair, with love for each other and the sea at the center of the family’s soul. Gary is a part of that extended family. I wish I was.

The panga slid across the sea from Ensenada de Los Muertos to Isla Cerralvo. We met the boats and boatsmen who net the flatiron herring that are used to attract gamefish within casting range. The herring are tossed overboard by the handful. Some will survive and some will be eaten. Once the predators begin striking the forage fish, we begin casting herring-like flies into the frothing sea and retrieving the line hand-over-hand rapidisimo until we feel the strike and can strip-set solidly. Some species require a nuanced hook-set—softer on roosterfish and harder on dorados. A trout-set will earn you a slack line and the title of pinche ranchero—an inlander who knowns nothing about fishing.

When you read that we tossed herring overboard so as to concentrate the gamefish, you might say, “Is that fair?” But as I discovered, it’s a big ocean, and casting randomly into the middle of it is just casting practice. Besides, “fairness” is an illusion concocted by humanity. There is no fairness in nature—only honesty. Part of angling is meeting the fish wherever they are, and you have to find them before you can meet them.

This is one of those places where if you’re fortunate you can quickly find yourself exhausted from fighting fish… but it’s a joyful exhaustion. Even before we made the decision to head out to the deep-water buoys in search of tunas, we cast a few times in the translucent shallows and managed to catch and release a few green jacks, also known as cocinero. They are attractive fish and modest fighters—perfect practice to shake off the first-day jitters that I so often experience.

Efren turned the panga away from Isla Cerralvo and toward the 4,500-foot-deep sea that contained a multitude of fish and marine mammals. A pod of dolphins appeared and then vanished beside us. Sea lions floated on their backs drying their fins in the morning sunlight. Flying fish burst from the water, skidded across the sea, and melted back into the blue.

A second boat carrying Steve and Mari Beltran paralleled us, and once we got out to the buoys it was fun cheering each other on as we hauled up one fish after another, including quite a few yellowfin tunas, bullet tunas, cocineros, black skipjacks, and one true skipjack. Undoubtedly the hardest-fighting fish I encountered were the black skipjacks, with their highly oxygenated deep-red flesh foretelling their ability to fight anglers well into the backing, again and again.

Steve managed to hook and land a stunningly beautiful and ultimately delicious dorado. While I am almost exclusively a catch-and-release angler who tries to limit my impact on each fish and the population of its species, I do believe in the legal, ethical, and responsible killing of a limited number of edible fish for personal consumption. The acts of ethical fishing, hunting, and foraging keep us closer to the Earth—our one true home.

To that end, the single dorado, several yellowfin tunas, and the one true skipjack were kept, and they fed us and the families of our captains for days. Gary runs an environmentally sustainable and conscientious operation. Each captain is a steadfast environmental steward of the sea and wildlands. I want more of my neighbors north of the border to be as connected to the land, waters, and wildlife. We save what we love; we love what we know.

Each morning the ride out to sea and toward the rising sun filled me with a sense of adventure and gratitude. Each evening, the ride back to the bay caused me to gather every sight and sound as if I were taking my last breath. In between, we fished outside the bay for dorados, along the shore for roosterfish, gafftopsail pompanos, African pompanos, and golden trevally, and in the deep blue water for tunas and marlin. The diversity of species here is staggering. The Sea of Cortez is a magical place. We need to protect it from the impacts of human greed and self-delusion. The time is now. It’s almost too late.

As I write this, I am listening to the Mexican band Mana and feeling the universal connection that music, poetry, prose, a love of nature, and the best of human nature can bring. And that’s how I feel about Mexico. For years I have only seen this land and its people through the distorted lens of a one-dimensional and distant perspective. Now, after seeing some of the best of my grandfather’s homeland, I know that while the human-caused problems of violence, greed, and apathy do exist on both banks of the Rio Bravo, so much more can be learned if we begin to see each other as neighbors. There is no “other.” Nosotros viajamos juntos. We travel together.

I had to meet Mexico and the Mexican people in this and other positive contexts so that I could see and feel all that is beautiful here, including a wonderful sense of family and community that is all too often lacking back home. I had to fall in love with the Sea of Cortez and the Bay of Campeche. I had to listen to my taxi driver tell me his story of moving to Cabo San Lucas in hopes of making more money among the wealthy tourists, and how unhappy he became, until he went home to his village by the sea and realized that he was wealthy beyond belief. There, he had family, community, and a sense of being home. And now I realize that part of my heart and soul remains south of the border. I yearn for the chance to return to this land of incredible food, music, laughter, sunrises and sunsets, fish and fishing, and so many buenos hombres y mujeres.

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Steve Ramirez is a Texas master naturalist, poet, and Marine Corps veteran. He is the author of Casting Forward, Casting Onward, and Casting Seaward. His newest book, Casting Homeward (Lyons Press) was released in September 2024.

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