Mahi Mahi for Me

I have to say, I'm awesome at hooking fish. Pretty much every time I toss a line out something (mostly mahi mahi or dorado, these days) takes my lure. The problem tends to come with actually getting to eat the dorado. The first few dorado I hooked threw my lure—but then I switched to barbed hooks and worked on perfecting my 'getting them to the boat technique'.
Once I had a way to keep the fish on the line, it was time to learn to play them. I find hand lines easier than rods to use and like the control of pulling in hand, over hand—while trying to keep the fish on the surface. This has worked perfectly for about the past 5 fishes. The first time I sorted it out was with a female dorado. Once I got her to the boat I simply pulled her aboard. Once I got her on deck the fish was tired, I was triumphant and Evan was off in a locker... Somehow we had miscommunicated what it was that I was doing, and he went to find a glove to hold the fish. The fish and I looked at each other for a moment or two, then she heaved herself off the deck and swam away.
The next efforts had a similar outcome. I'd get the fish to the boat and we'd try one technique or another to land it and then the fish would swim away. Other cruisers began to feel sorry for us and just give us fish—because while some fish stocks are low, there's no lack of dorado these days and everyone (but us) is eating plenty of it.
Jim on Hotspur finally took pity on our situation and walked us through baby step, by baby step what to do when we hooked a fish. Then today—while making the long passage from Santa Rosalia to San Fransiquito (Yes! We've headed north.) we got to put his tips (and the gaff Hotspur gave us) into action. I played the big bull dorado for a bit while Evan got the gaff, and Maia and Carolyne grabbed the towel of death, a knife and a bucket. Then I pulled the fish alongside the boat (but not out of the water) and Ev gaffed him (simpler to write than to do), then Even brought him to the deck and we covered his head with the towel (which soothed him), while he relaxed Ev tied a line to his tail (overkill but...), then we lowered him headfirst (towel and all) into the bucket and Ev lifted the towel enough to see and slice his gills.
Okay, fishing is gruesome.
But with Maia a newly declared vegetarian it's the only meat she will consider eating. And it's her birthday today so this means rather than the spaghetti and veg sauce she had settled on (after every other option got ruled out due to lack of ingredients) she gets to have fresh grilled mahi mahi.

Maia got fish, fireworks and a b-day cake for her 9th b-day

and a trapeze from dad:)

 For our next post we'll write about our 80 mile sail. Evan figures he reefed and unreefed both sails 7-8 times through the early morning hours. Our peak speed was 12 knots (which was when we put the double reef in the main) and our lowest speed was two knots (we shook the reefs out for that one). Suffice to say it's going to be a low key b-day celebration. But we're all thrilled to finally be close to our planned 'summer' destination...
Fishing info: We use two 60' polypro hand lines to fish (one from each hull). One has a pink squid the other has a cedar plug. Fish like both lures pretty much the same. Although tuna tend to lean toward the plug and dorado seem to prefer the squid.
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Flying Free from the Sea

Smack! Without warning, a mobula emerges from below the water near our boat, its long flat body glistens in the sunrise. Flap, flap, maybe a somersault or two, and then smack! It happens all around us. Elegant flips. Comical belly flops. Choreographed group leaps. I see one mobula leap a few times in a row; while others leap only once and then disappear. Then the school moves away; wing tips at the surface, they fly on.

 Both mantas and mobulas are members of the Family Mobulidae, a group of fish that we know very little about. I recently learned that we weren't the first to mistake mobulas for small mantas. Many people use the names interchangeably. With the locals, there is no distinction; any of the four species of mobulas in the Sea of Cortez (tarapacana, thurstoni, munkiana, and japanica) go by a single name: cubana or manta.

  In this anchorage, today, we have hundreds around our boat. It sounds like gun fire as they leap and tumble. There is no shortage of explanations for why they jump. Some researchers think it is to dislodge parasites. Others think it might be a crazy way of keeping fit or simply playing. Others believe the sound of the slap immobilizes krill—which makes it easier for them to feed. Maia believes they just want to fly—just like she does.

 It is hard to imagine, but this fish, which we know so little about, is under pressure. As the food fishery in the sea continues to fail, local fishermen are turning to the cubana. The meat is said to be stringy and strong tasting. And it barely earns the fishermen enough to pay for gas. But when there is not much left to eat you catch what you can.

 While we watch them leaping free from the sea it is hard not to feel shame. In John Steinbeck's memoir Log from the Sea of Cortez. Steinbeck wrote of a sea that was “ferocious with life.” “There was food everywhere. Everything ate everything else with a furious exuberance.” We are warned against anthropomorphizing the motives and emotions of the animals we encounter. But with creatures of the sea—which are so foreign and fantastical, it's hard not to imagine what they feel. Steinbeck called it “joyful survival”.

There are moments though when I encounter a reef, which should be thick with life, but it is nearly deserted that I long to see joyful survival. But then, the mobulas come. Few people have ever seen a school of rays glide by underwater. It's truly a thing of wonder, the salt water thick with strange and wonderful creatures as they fly past, living a life we barely understand.

 Once they go, I worry for them. They are easy prey for fishermen and there numbers are dwindling. But still they live with such exuberance. Explain those spectacular leaps however you will. To me it looks like joyful survival.

Dead Beach

 Dead Beach

Mostly our trip has been about life. It's been a celebration of all that is magnificent and bountiful in our world. It's been our chance to immerse Maia in forests, deserts, oceans and wetlands so she can revel in them, but also so she can understand why we use resources carefully, take only what we need, and minimize our impact on the land and ocean around us.
We talk about the environment a lot on our boat. It's impossible not to, when you live in it, and see how connected you are. What we don't do though is focus on the doom and gloom. "If we want children to flourish, to really feel empowered, let us allow them to love the earth before we ask them to save it." David Sobel's words in Beyond Ecophobia: Reclaiming the Heart in Nature Education have been my guide since Maia was tiny. It's not that we're avoiding reality; it's simply that our planet's problems are so huge that her 8-year-old heart shouldn't have to bear them quite yet.

Dead Beach snuck up on me though. Maia named it. She came across it. It's a beach, near a reef, like so many in the Sea of Cortez, where the fishermen are trying to stay one step ahead of the conservation laws. Armed with spear guns, nets, knives and hookah dive rigs the fishermen come, day after day, until nothing is left. They take the baby sharks, the rays, the big fish, the small fish, the clams, and the oysters. From the sharks they take the fins. From the fish they take rough filets. From the reef they take the life.
The beach we found was one of death. There was stink, a pile of carcasses, and vultures. And at its edge, knee deep in water, confused and broken hearted, stood my daughter.
"Why is there such a place as Dead Beach?" Maia asked me as we hiked this morning.
Some people are greedy?
They don't think?
They are desperate to feed their families before it is all gone?
Ignorance?
I cycled through the possible answers before choosing; "I don't know, but it makes me sad," I said. Then Maia told me about her grief for the baby sharks; "Why do they waste a whole shark just for a fin? Don't they know the ocean needs sharks?" Her anger; "I'm so mad they are killing everything and not giving them a chance to grow." Her despair; "Don't they understand there will be nothing left? Nothing…"
Our children see what we are doing to the planet. In some deep part of themselves they know Dead Beach isn't just one place. And they want answers from us; an explanation. I didn't have one for Maia. So I led her on a hike away from Dead Beach to look over a small cove that was alive and thriving. We sat and watched the fish swim and the waves wash over the rocks.

And I hoped her heart healed a little.
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Fishless

One of the first things we did when we arrived in Mexico was buy our fishing licenses. I've been dreaming about Sea of Cortez seafood since the last time we were down here: visions of sierra and corbina danced through my head.

The reality is we've caught only three fish and kept just one. It was a good fish, but it wasn't the bounty we had in mind. It turns out the other cruisers we've been meeting have had the same experience. They've all caught a fish here and there, but fishing has been nothing like what we experienced 14-years ago.

The sea is full of fish-but they are small reef fish, not food fish

It turns out the world-wide trend of over-fishing ,which has depleted the ocean of 90% of world's big fish, has hit the Sea of Cortez. And it's not only cruisers who are feeling the pinch. All the fishermen we've spoken with are catching less, and working harder to get it.

Hard to imagine that a panga with two guys can be the cause of over-fishing

The good news is Mexico is recognizing that their sea (one of the most abundant in the world for dolphins and whales) is at risk and NGO's are rushing to sound the alarm. We met one worker in Agua Verde. Salvador spends his days recording what is caught, where it's caught  and noting the trends--his hope is the country (and the local fishermen) will see the need for reserves and preserves and save the fish in the sea.

For our part--we're living life with less fish. Savouring what we get, but choosing not to add more pressure to the ecosystem.

A lovely yellowtail, a sight that is becoming more rare

El Pardito

Of all the desolate places to live in the Sea of Cortez: Isla Pardito--which rises to about 40', is less than an acre in space, has no vegetation, and is one of the Sea's few inhabited islands—most begs the question why. We were told about fifteen people share the island—which has no water, no power and is quite terrible to be on during a storm.
When we anchored off the island the local pangerous came by to wave and point the way in. As we closed on the shore a fisherman waded out and helped us pull in the dinghy. We wandered through the tiny village—checking out the whale bone museum, stepping into the tiny church and buying shell necklaces from Senora Clara.

When we asked why people lived on the islet Clara explained in rapid fire Spanish how her husband's family had, had fish camps in other locations but then ended up permanently on Pardito. She may have told us the reason they ended up on the strange little rock—when all around are comparatively lush islands—but our Spanish wasn't up to the task of sorting that one out.

We learned from Clara that water and food come from San Evaristo—about 6 miles away. Or La Paz, 50 miles away. And that the children (there are currently five living on the islet) are schooled and boarded in La Paz and only return home for holidays. Life on Pardito is hand-to-mouth subsistence and we bought a half dozen pieces of Clara's pretty shell and bead jewelry—knowing the money makes every bit of difference.
It's hard not to feel like a tourist in a strange land in a place like Pardito; and wonder what life would be like there. Maia speculated we could walk around the entire island, including zigzagging across every dusty trail, in less than ten minutes. And as we wandered down to the shore, where the fishermen were preparing their day's catch to take to market, we tried to imagine ourselves living in such a place.

There were five other boaters down at the fish shacks—charter guests from Mexico city. They invited us to have freshly made (as in in front of our eyes) clam ceviche with them. As we chewed through Chocolate clam after clam doused with lime and chillies, one of the Mexican men told me he had been visiting the island for 30-years and that it hadn't changed in all that time. He told me that it was a special place that he loved bringing people too. I looked around at the weather-tired shacks and barren rock, and glanced at the jagged reef, washed with currents and bubbling with fish—and saw a hint of what he seemed to feel.
I asked if he knew why the first fishermen had settled on Pardito. "I never thought to ask them," he told me as he passed me another clam and with that simple gesture teaching me: it's enough that they are here.
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A Fish Story

Maia caught her first fish this morning. She's been a part of catching other fish, but this was the first time she cast with her new pink rod, wound in the light-up reel and ended up with a fish on deck. The problem, once she pulled the little striped bass aboard and looked into its little pleading eyes, was she had no desire to kill and eat her fish—so she released it back into the water. Then went back to casting, without a lure.
We do like fresh fish though. And despite trolling with a meat hook during the past two days of travel we've come up empty. There is something not right about being fishless in place like this—where the clear blue water advertises schools of fish that are being caught by everything from pelicans to sea lions (just not us).

 We're in an anchorage called Caleta Partida, about 20 miles from La Paz. The protected bay was created when an ancient volcanic explosion divided the one island into two. Before the afternoon winds came up we decided to take the dingy through the shallow channel between the islands to the rugged and exposed outside to visit some sea caves. On our way there we noticed the fish camp had someone in it, someone who (given the enthusiasm of his wave) seemed friendly .

While catching our own fish holds a certain type of appeal, Evan and I both take after Maia when it comes to buckling down and doing the deed required to turn cute swimming fish into filets. So when we have the chance to buy pre-killed, pre-cleaned and pre-fileted fish we'll mumble something about supporting the local economy, or having a cultural experience and get our fish the wimpy way...

 After our sightseeing trip, where we debated the colour of the cliffs (which range from ocher, to lilac to salmon (or pink, purple and yellowy-orange) we went ashore and introduced ourselves to Arnoldada or Arnafa or something Arnie-sh (despite getting him to repeat his name several times we still weren't sure...) The fisherman offered us a roosterfish, but didn't want money for it, he wanted to trade and said he needed sunglasses. We have loads of sunglasses aboard. We find them, we buy them, they get forgotten by guests... So Ev headed back to the boat to get a few pairs for him to choose between and while Don and Maia built sandcastles, Alison and I chatted with Arnie.

My Spanish sucks. Arnie said his Spanish is pretty good, but his English in non existent. So while I don't do tenses and when I get stuck I throw in random French words, the conversation was in Spanish. Which meant it went something like this:
A: Something, something over there, something cave, something pictures.
Me: There is a cave over there with pictures? Can we walk there, can we enter the cave? (at least this is what I think I said)
A: Yes. Something, something, something walk, near something, over something something cliff. Beautiful pictures. First cave no, second cave yes.
Me: So if we go in the second cave, which is over there near a cliff, we'll see cave pictures? Or we should take pictures?
I also learned that the next two days may, or may not be windy or may be very windy, or only windy at night. And that it's easier to catch fish at either a high tide or when your battery is charged—not sure. And he has seven children, between two families the youngest is a new born (this I'm certain of). And his goes to the fish camp five weeks on and three weeks off and his family joins him during holidays. And he likes it when the yachtes visit him, but most just wave and keep going.
As far as the cave goes—that adventure is still to come. We had fish that needed to get back to the boat and be made into delicious tacos.
On the way back to the boat I saw yet another pelican catch yet another fish, and this time rather than feeling jealous I felt smug. My fish not only had been deboned it had come with a story—a good story, even if I didn't understand all the words.
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