In Deep – Mexico

Back of open air truck taxi on way to pier

We file out onto a street behind the marina and are automatically uneasy. The sunny, beach, summer feel of the resort has faded to the dismal reality of a poor, underdeveloped country. Aged buildings and fences aren't even a good enough canvas for graffiti. People aren't smiling. The driver of our taxi, which is really an old Chevy with two benches and a tarp set up in the back, comes around and demands the same tip Brad gave him from each of us. Brad, who has taken the leadership role, motions for us to give him the money. I could say no, but the driver's demeanor and the scuzzy setting of the place he's dropped us off is enough for me to hand over the cash. As the taxi slowly drives off, we do a 360-degree turn and see that no one is here to greet us. We're supposed to go deep sea fishing; we head towards the docks.

Tony was the man at the resort who set us up on this trip. I didn't trust him; his black eyes and black moustache, his over-starched clothes and gold tooth. He's popular in our resort, though, and the others didn't have a problem with him. He promised a nice, big boat with six lines and a case of cold beer. He wished us good luck when he sent us off from the resort in that cab. Perhaps we'll need that luck more than we thought.

Minutes later we are wandering the pier by ourselves. This one seems to be empty, except for a handful of cats, too leery for our affection. We hear someone calling from behind. We turn to find our kind taxi driver once again. Did he want more money? No. He dropped us off at the wrong place. We file back into his cab and hope that he won't demand another tip.

We are let out again, presumably at the right pier. The small shacks, the boats, the dock, even the ocean look grey and dirty. It's a stark contrast to the palm trees and blue waves we've grown used to over the last few days. Kelsey takes a banana out of the lunch bag the resort staff had packed.

"You go fishing?" asks a man from behind us.

"Yeah that's us," says Brad shaking the man's hand. Our captain is short and fat. He looks like the enormous kid you see by himself playing with a soccer ball because his mother has finally realized that he should lose a few pounds. We learn that this man doesn't speak English very well; he points to Kelsey's banana and waves his arms like an umpire calling safe. The bananas aren't safe, he explains in broken English, they bad luck for fishermen. He leads us onto the boat; we are followed by another man, thin with long, coiled hair and a beard – he looks like Jesus.

The boat is nowhere near the luxurious watercraft we had anticipated. There are only four lines, not six. There is no deck for tanning – there is barely any room at all for the nine of us to stand. The toilet is simply a hole that leads to the ocean. The boat is dirty, a surprise to me, it smells like old fish. It seems as though these are not professional tour guides, rather standard fishermen who make an extra buck by taking tourists along on their daily routine. I wanted a more cultural experience to balance the nights of drinking and dancing, I think, this is it.

Catching seabirds

We can still see land when a commotion ensues as we make our first catch. A large sea bird has snatched up the bait on one of our lines and is trying to fly away with it. (Sea birds are often hassles for the fishermen as they are usually the first to go for the bait while the boat is heading into deeper (bird free) waters). While escaping, it wraps the line around another bird's neck and the two plummet into the Pacific. The fat captain, annoyed, reels the birds in, unhooks them from the line and throws them into the ocean, as the rest of us look at each other confused. Is he really going to throw them back into the ocean with wet feathers, hence killing them? Jesus, who is up on the next level navigating the boat, yells something from the window in Spanish to the fat one. The fat one rolls his eyes and fishes the birds out of the water. The birds sit on the deck and look up at us like children lost at sea who have just been saved from the waves by a group of pirates – wondering if a watery death was perhaps the better way out. Eventually the birds use their blue, hooked beaks to propel themselves out of the boat.

Once the commotion settles, I remember my wobbly sea-legs and feel my stomach churn. I decide to lay as still as possible on the plastic cushioned bench in the cabin while the others start to munch on ham sandwiches. The smell and sounds of lunch make me vomit a little in my mouth; I wade in and out of an uncomfortable sleep. Faded mumblings turn into loud yells; I spring to the cabin door. We've caught a fish! But the line has split down the middle; half of it is shredded at the top of the rod and the other half holds precariously onto our catch. We could easily lose it.

The fat man guides Keith into the chair and shows him how to properly reel in the fish. Out 200 to 300 meters in the ocean, it bursts into the air and gracefully folds upwards into a U before straightening out and diving back into the water, barely making a splash. The struggle lasts for about half an hour – each of the boys takes his turn reeling it in. I politely pass on my turn. I am going to be the one to lose this thing.

By the time the fish is alongside the boat, I am aware of her massive eight-foot body – from her spear-like nose to her tail – a sailfish. The fat man reaches in, grabs it by the nose and drags her eighty-pound body over the edge of the boat and onto the deck. Her scales are still wet and shiny, a brilliant periwinkle. The gigantic sail is open on her back. Long bone like partitions separate each section of her fin like a giant fan.

The sailfish right after it is was pulled up on board

Out of nowhere the fat one grabs a solid baton, half the size of a baseball bat, and starts bashing her in the head. Blood splatters up in the air; I bury my head into Jarret's shoulder. What else is the captain supposed to do? He can't keep her alive on the boat the whole way back. This is clearly not a catch and release kind of thing. But I feel ashamed for him and his apparent lack of emotion when killing her. There wasn't any hatred or "meanness" that you would see in a kid swinging a cat around by its tail. But there was no pity, no joy, no gratitude towards a creator for the gift, no respect for the fish. There was nothing.

Her body beams a luminous turquoise and curves in a spasm before giving up and laying lifeless, but alive, on the deck – syrupy blood oozing from her head.

Jesus, who has been navigating the whole time, makes a call on the radio and then comes out to hoist a blue flag up from the boat – one blue flag means one sailfish caught.

Erinne looking forward to solid ground

We turn around, head back to the mainland, although it feels as though I am going in the same direction all the while. We see groups of dolphins as big as VWs and the tail of a blue whale in the distance, but the ocean's wild beauty seems irrelevant to me – the dead sailfish's eye looking through me. The boat smells of fresh fish now. I wonder how much the fish will sell for in the market. We are welcome to purchase it from the fishermen if we want, however, the cost now and the cost of the embalming later aren't worth it to us.

As we slowly pull in to the pier, we pass other fishing groups – most without flags. We grab our bags and giggle as our legs readjust to solid ground. Posing for pictures, our fish hanging upside-down from a giant hook, I feel proud. I caught the experience that I was looking for, just not the one I expected.

At the resort later that day, as I order a round of tequila-poppers, I hear Tony standing at the tourist desk. He's talking to an older couple in matching tropical shirts. It's the same pitch – giant boat, six lines, cold beer, a deck for his wife to lie out in the sun. "They caught a huge sailfish just today. Eight feet. Beautiful fish."

I smirk and hope that the old woman can handle it.

Photography by Brad Campbell and Cassie Galley

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