INTO THE GULF OF MEXICO WITH SOME FOOLS, 2002

After a few days of writing random pieces, I am ready to return to a more or less chronological order to my memories. Where I left off a few months ago, was somewhere in the time, we spent in Texas from 2002 – 2005. My jumping around between places and times is purely unintentional. It happens because all of a sudden a memory will come streaking past, giving me the middle finger. If I do not immediately grasp it and put it to paper, then it could be forever gone. It may or may not ever come past again.

This particular memory takes place in the late summer of 2002. We had been in Texas for a few months and were well settled in. One particular day, I am minding my own business, working away and for once, not pissing someone off. Into my office saunters one of our Marketing guys and plops himself down on a chair. “JimboRed”, he says, “we are going to have some fun and you are included!” The hackles on my neck stand up, and right there I should have run. But not old JimboRed, rather, I leaned across my desk and said, “let’s hear about it.”

In his most conspiratorial tone, he says, “we are going to charter a fishing boat and go into the Gulf of Mexico and catch red snapper”! I ask, “so who’s going?” He then names off, everyone of the company fools, and didn’t miss a single one. “Are you in”? He has his hand poised above his head ready to high five me, if I am. My brain cries out, “just say no!”. My mouth opens and I holler out, “you damn right, I am”. We slap hands and my fate is sealed. Now there is no way I’m getting out of this.

That evening I am extra nice to ol’ Bubbaloo, and when she is at the height of relaxation I spring my news on her. A frigid silence invades the room. She puts that, “over my dead body”, look on her face and closes her mind to even considering my news. I know that look, but this time I am prepared. Now I puff up to tell her, “I’m not asking, I’m telling you how it will be!” But what comes out is, “come on please, please, I’ll do anything you want” I then drop a little pearl sized tear down my cheek. I am so weak.

Ol’ Bubbaloo, puffs herself up and says, “don’t you know my sister Lalitas is coming this weekend?” Well I don’t, but just stay silent. “you can’t just leave us alone while you go partying with your friends”, she continues. Now she has a full head of steam. I don’t see a possible win in this. Bubbaloo is now beating me up, my history, my lack of feeling for visitors, and many of my past faults. She still remembers me abandoning her in an airport in Japan, many years before. Even though, not true, she brings it up and hits me with it.

It is just about the time, I am ready to give up and try to think of another strategy. She now senses my vulnerability and springs her evil trap. “Well”, she says, “there is one way”. My body shudders, as if a goose has just walked across my grave. “We will just pick Lalita and lil’ Cliffie at the airport and we’ll all go together”! Hold it, my mind is screaming, I didn’t hear any mention of wives being included on this trip. “In fact”, she continues, “I’ll just phone the Columbiana, (the organizer and chief partier’s wife) and tell her we should all go together. I manage to gasp out, “don’t you dare”! I know these guys had not planned on having wives along!

Now she knows she has got me. So with the threat of (her) contacting the other wives, hanging over my head, I reluctantly agree that they can tag along. But under no circumstances, are they going fishing with us! How embarrassing. I now have to explain to the group organizer, that I am not allowed to go unless I bring my wife and an entourage. He looks at me with pity and says nothing, just crosses his eyes. You cannot believe the outpouring of sympathy that I got from the others. NOT. I was forever diminished in their eyes.

The plans progress. They, in a rented party van and me with a car full of women and children. Geezus! Oh well, I try to make the best of it. I study a bit about where we are going, what the water conditions might be and what fish we might catch. At this point, I knew little of the Gulf of Mexico, but soon found out some interesting facts. Things such as, it contains 27,000 oil and gas wells. Also, as far as Gulf’s go, it is the largest in the world (about the size of Alaska or twice that of Texas and about 1-1/4 times the size of Peru), also there are something like 750 shipwrecks in the Gulf, etc. etc.

Armed with that valuable knowledge we head out on a Friday evening in the fall. We drive south and a little bit west of Houston, to a place near Freeport named Surfside Beach. Ange and her cousin are jumping up and down, in anticipation of some beach time. Deysi and Lalitas are jabbering away in Peruvian, catching up on gossip. I am cursing my bad luck for not being in the party van having a beer, along with all the other “normal” guys. After arrival at Sunset beach and check in to a motel, I take everyone for a family dinner, while the fishermen congregate in the local pub, to discuss fishing strategy.

I couldn’t see it at the time, but having the family along was probably the smartest thing I had ever done. Apparently, or as legend has it, the pre-fishing get together extended for quite a few hours. I wouldn’t know because I was in bed at 8:30pm. I pretended, I didn’t want to have beer and fun anyway. What I understood was that the fishermen got involved with the locals trying to demonstrate how you drink beer in Texas. A few gallons later they started to fall and stumble their way to bed.

Some made it, others didn’t. One, in particular ended up sleeping on the welcome mat in front of the door, outside of his room. That is where the police found him a couple of hours later and hauled his ass too jail. They kept him for a while, cursing and swearing and being obnoxious. After a couple of hours they kicked him out, just in time for fishing. It is safe to say that I was the only one that had a sleep that night. I woke up early, fresh and ready to go catch fish. Not so, for some of the others, I might say.

The fool that spent a part of his evening in the slammer, upon release, fell into a deep, deep stuper and could not be wakened for the fishing, no matter how hard we all pounded on his door and window. His trip was done. Eventually his wife had to come down and pick him up to take him home. I was so happy it was not me waiting for the little woman to come get me. The story he must have put together explaining why we were all out fishing and he was still in his room, must have been something to hear. Anyway we had to leave him behind, he was sleeping the sleep of the dead.

We met in the parking lot before dawn, and headed for the port. I was full of chatter and questioning guys about how much fun they had last night. Nobody seemed too happy with my cheerful mood or my probing questions. All I got was a few growls, curses and less than polite instructions about what I should do to myself. They could not break my spirit, I was feeling somewhat righteous. I hate to admit it, but ol’ Bubbaloo had saved me from a major class 1, hangover. I am heeheehee, ho,ho,ho all the way to the docks.

It is early when we arrive dockside. Our fishing boat is there. It was a 35 foot inboard with a full cabin. We holler “ahoy”, and out jumps the skipper and the swamper, with big old grins on their faces. They are slapping backs and pumping hands, trying to raise the enthusiasm of all of the fishermen. I might say, that looking around, there were three of us in good spirits (the skipper, his helper and me). The rest of them looked somewhere between death and mortally wounded. It seemed as if there was a green tinge on many of the faces. I was so happy, I could have just hugged myself.

With a round of high fives, we all pile into the boat. The skipper yells “hang on”, and turns his boat around steeply, then heads for the nearest wave at top speed. We fly over it, bounce into the trough and jump the next wave. My stomach is in my mouth, but I hold it in. Not everyone was so lucky. With the wharf still in sight, we have three or four fishermen leaning over the side and apparently looking deeply into the water for something. Another of the guys, who was in a little better shape, than the one who spent the last few hours with the law, was now stretched out full length on a bench. He didn’t look so good.

Our fishing guide/swamper tells us we are going 34 miles, straight out into the Gulf of Mexico and will be pounding waves for the next two hours. All I can think is, “Oh Goody”. The swamper, seeing the state of the worst of the partiers, helps him into the cabin and onto a bunk. There he was to remain for the rest of the day. We never saw him again. I’m thinking, “what good value for his $500. He got a ride to the Gulf of Mexico, and an 8 hours sleep on a bunk made for a pygmy. All the while then being tossed around with every wave we jumped. He must have had so much fun.

The rest of the guys were only marginally better than Sleeping Beauty in the bunk below. A few of them lost about $100.00 worth of beer, from the night before, back into the water. The swamper, seeing the state of these guys, goes below too bring out her magic cure for seasickness. It was a big, 5 gallon barrel of Texas sized dill pickles. She tells these guys to grab one of those big ol’ boys and chew it down. Her position is that something in the dill pickles settles the stomach and is an instant cure for hangovers and seasickness. Now I don’t know if it was true, but the two guys that couldn’t eat dill pickles, suffered all day.

For the next two hours we bounce, slam, jump, and vibrate our way across the Gulf of Mexico. I must say, that two hours bouncing around in that boat, seemed more like twelve hours. Only to think, in a few hours, we would get to do it again, going back. Geezus. I must say something now. I had been on many boats, both for work and recreation, over the years. However, I never ever felt 100% “on top of my game”, while on the water. There was always a faint queasy feeling in my stomach. This trip was no exception. Even though, I was in the best physical shape possible, full of rest, hangover free, well fed and fortified with instructions, from Bubbaloo, regarding my behaviour on this outing.

After what seemed like hours, we arrived at the fishing grounds. How in hell he could tell where we were, is beyond me. More than 1-1/2 hours before, we had lost all sight of land, in any direction. It’s not like there are any landmarks out there, unless you memorized the drilling platforms and their locations. They were dotted all over, in any direction you looked. Anyway we arrive and the swamper jumps into the captain’s chair and starts driving. I might add that this swamper was a female and the spouse of the skipper. He now takes her place getting the gear ready. She seemed to be directing much of the action. Makes you wonder who was really in charge?

We finally settle into a slow circle in about 250 feet of water. Down goes the gear. It does not take long before we have our first bite. At 250 feet, the weight required to get the hook down near the bottom, was almost as much as some of the fish we caught. So let’s just say that when you had a bite, your rod was not jumping up and down as if you had caught a 500 pound marlin. Rather it took funny little shakes and quivers to signal that there was a fish on. Once hooked, the fish plus 250 feet of line, with all of its weights, had to be reeled in. The “guns” (arms) were given a real test.

Each fish we caught had to measure 16 inches long, before it could be kept. The first small one we caught provided me with a valuable lesson. The skipper (now swamper) unhooked it, laid it against the measuring stick and declared it, “too small it has to go back”. With that he pulls out her fillet knife and gives that fish, two stabs in the abdomen. Plop, the fish then goes back into the Gulf! I am amazed, and ask him why he had killed that fish. “It’s not dead” he says. According to him, what happens is, as the fish is brought up from 250 feet, its abdomen fills with air from the sudden decrease in water pressure.

Once it gets to the surface it is full like a beach ball. If it is released it is so buoyant that it cannot swim back to the bottom. Eventually it dies. So in a way, it was a humane way of returning the fish to the water, too fight another day. He said that stabbing the fish released the air from its abdomen and allowed it to swim back to the bottom. This was called “venting”. Over the years, I have repeated this tale too many people. One of these a salmon fishing captain, who stated very loudly that, “I was bullshitting him”. There is no way, he protested, that a fish could survive “two in the stomach” and still live.

Now, I know, many of you think that ol’ JimboRed may stretch the truth a wee bit in his writings, However, I will say that I stand by my story. Over the course of the day we caught other small snappers, some, with small white scars on their sides. The skipper/swamper told us that these were the result of that fish having been caught previously, stabbed and then returned to the water. It was a long, hot day out on the gulf, bobbing up and down in the waves. We had great fun, except perhaps for the fish reeling part. 250 feet of line and gear is a lot to haul up each time there was a fish on. The fishing was excellent and it seemed like someone was pulling up a fishing, almost constantly.

We were allowed to keep 4 red snapper each. There were 8 of us on the boat, if you count Sleeping beauty, still below and still passed-out, from the previous night. And considering we caught each and every one of our allotment, plus a few “bonito”. And that we threw back many that were too small, it proved to be a long hard day of fishing. After everyone had reeled in a couple, it seemed like the rush too grab the rods grew slower, as the “guns” tired out. Somewhere about midday, the lunch was brought out. It was not prepared fresh for us, like in the Seychelles where Bubbaloo and I had fished years before. See our story about our travels while working in Africa in the late 80’s.

Our lunch consisted of big Texas sized sandwiches and more dill pickles, washed down with Diet Coke. I noticed that there was a lot less beer consumed, than had been the night before. There was still a green twinge on a few of the faces. I might say though, that the organizer, a big, big boy, never slowed his consumption one bit. It seemed like he had no upper limit to his beer consumption. I was on strict orders not to drink, because I had to drive back to Houston when we finished. It was not that much of a hardship. By this time in my life, I was consuming about 12 Diet Cokes each and every day. Seemed as if I had found a replacement for beer. I wonder which was worse?

The time passes and somewhere around 2 in the afternoon, we had pretty much reached our limit of Red Snapper. The swamper stows the gear and resumes his job of skipper. Now he points his boat towards Houston, I guess, and with a mighty roar, slams into the first wave. Going back, I would say, was even less fun than coming out. Now I was tired and hot. My arms hurt, I was full of sandwiches, cokes and dill pickles, all of which were churning around in my stomach. The constant shaking, slamming, vibrating and shuddering seemed as torture. “Mama, please let the fun stop!” After what seemed like hours we arrived back at the dock.

In the meantime, while I had been hard at work in the Gulf of Mexico, Bubbaloo, Lalits, Ange and lil’ Cliffie had been frolicking in the water in Galveston Bay, at a place called Surfside Beach. This area covers miles and miles of sandy beach and hot, hot sun. The kids were in paradise. Bubbaloo and her sister worked on their tans, ate their bonbons and sipped exotic drinks. At least that is how I envisioned it. They also managed to jam in a couple of hours shopping in the local city, Freeport. They whiled away the day waiting for me to return and pay penance if I had, had to much fun. Lalitas was right into the penance thing, so she eagerly awaited my return.

There waiting patiently was my full entourage, led by Bubbaloo. Note; she says to add here, that the rest of the fishermen were so jealous, that I had these beauties picking me up! They are fawning all over me. I am obviously their hero. Man vs beast and that kind of stuff comes to mind. We unload about 40 fish onto the dock, take pictures and split up the spoils. I’m going to estimate that my share cost about $100/pound, once the transport, lodging, food, fishing and the girl’s shopping was considered. Soon Bubbaloo brings me back to earth. Say says, “Ok that is over with, now get us back home and make us some dinner. we are starved!

On our return to Houston, I did just that. We cooked up about $500 worth of fresh Red Snapper and ate every shred. Even the kids dug in. I remember Lalita’s telling me that it was the best fish she ever ate, and that I was possibly the best fisherman of all time, as well as being smart and handsome. The kids agreed. I think Bubbaloo did also, but kept her enthusiasm to herself. And thus ends my memory of fishing the Gulf of Mexico, and the end to a long and probably boring memory.