We could only get reservations for the afternoon, when the seas tend to get large and the fish aren't feeding as much, but still we hoped to hook up with a stray wahoo or dorado.
Our party consisted of the following scalawags:
- The three of us--Marky, El Cangrejo, and me
- A dweeb from Minnesota
- A very large, hairy, bald, pierced East Londoner with obscene tattoos
- His wife, along for the ride
- A young couple from the north of Wales who never ventured into the cockpit
When we boarded the boat, the annoyingly chatty Minnesotan and the taciturn Londoner hustled into the fighting chairs, regarding one another as odd specimens. They were both right. Within 15 minutes, both would be in the cabin holding buckets on their laps. The burly Londoner would wind up clinging to his wife's arm like a small child until she too succumbed to seasickness.
Mark, unwilling to give in to the rolling seas, put himself in a zen-like trance, never leaving his spot at the cabin entrance.
That left the fighting chairs and all the food and cerveza to El Cangrejo (above) and me. Although we had no strikes, we immensely enjoyed being out on the salt drinking Presidente and talking baseball with Chino and Chico.
Six miles at sea, we watched as a downpour drenched Puerto Plata. Fishing is a strange phenomenon. When our mini-bus dropped the Londoners off at their hotel, the husband said, "See you, guys. Great day, eh wot? Take care, now," as if we'd become great buddies. These were just about the first words he'd spoken all day.
