“So much to see, so much to do. So what’s wrong with taking the fast lane? You’ll never know–”
“No Jackie, it’s so what’s wrong with taking the backstreet? Not the fast lane!” my big sister corrected me before a salt-water swell splashed across the bow of our panga.
With ten hours on a cramped fishing boat 50 miles from the nearest shore, there was not much else to do but talk and sing…and hopefully, catch a fish too. Learning new songs was our favorite pastime. Just me, my sisters, and cousin balancing against the waves while annoying the boat skippers with our Smash Mouth, Nicki Minaj, and Eminem renditions. All Star was one of the first songs I ever fully learned. My two older sisters, cousin and I know every line to this day. Every time I hear it, my mind returns to the Sea of Cortez.
My first trip to Mexico was when I was seven years old. From sunny Southern California we would fly two hours south to a little town called Los Barriles to spend four days on the water each year. My two older sisters, cousin and I were just a few of the many young fishermen who joined the annual “Kids Trip” through my Opah’s fishing club, The Southern California Tuna Club.
Every day for four days straight, we woke up at 5 am, forced some food into our already rolling stomachs and departed from the dock at 6 am sharp. For lunch, we ate either cold fried chicken or a ham and cheese sandwich and hoped the waves would rock us to sleep instead of rock us over the edge of the panga. If we were lucky enough to hook a fish, it would be all hands on deck.
My first fish was one of the proudest moments of my life. With the help of my dear uncle, 7-year-old me fought for almost two hours against a 140 pound yellowfin tuna. Being twice my size, the tuna could’ve swam me off the side of the boat if I let it. But I stood strong and reeled until I could see the glimmer of yellow stripes slice through the water. Catching a fish is exhilarating but also exhausting. Coming back to the beach and falling onto the sand after a long day of fighting against the rocking of the boat and the tug of the line was a feeling like no other—pure peace.
As soon as we returned from 10 straight hours of fishing, singing, and trying to keep from throwing up, my sisters, cousin and I would proudly mark down our fish on a “Kid’s Catches” score sheet before promptly jumping into the nearest body of water. We spent the rest of the evening switching between the pool and the beach, only coming up for air when hearing the dinner bell.
…
I miss our annual fishing trips to Los Barriles more than anything. I miss fishing for tuna from dawn to dusk only to come back with a ten-pound dorado and a sunburn. I miss playing king of the dock and trying to push the rest of the kids off the rusted, broken down plywood which barely held its shape against the waves. I miss my Opah and how he would never rub in his sunscreen, no matter how many times us grandkids tried to smooth out the white blotches on his face.
He was the one who taught me how to fish. When I was too young for the sweltering sun and long days at sea, I would practice in my Opah’s swimming pool — he showed me how to cast a line and reel in a pool floatie.
“Pull up, reel down. There’s nothing else to it,” Opah would repeat until my 5-year-old self foolishly felt ready for hundred-pound marlin and ten-foot waves. He made sure I had my sea legs too, taking me and his three other grandkids out on his fishing boat across the Huntington Harbor in Southern California before racing to the seals.
My Opah passed away almost a year ago. He lived 92 wonderful years. His last time “waddling” — as he called it — down to the beach in Mexico and setting sail on the Sea of Cortez was in 2019. At that point, he could barely walk and struggled to hold a reel but he wanted one more year fishing with his grandkids. I haven’t gone fishing since.
…
I graduate from college this May. Despite my best efforts, I have no post-graduate plans lined up which means that in just three short weeks, I will be moving back in with my parents — this time with no sisters to both annoy me and keep me sane, no school to keep me busy, and no Mexico trips to keep me hopeful. As I return to my childhood home, I fear that my childhood is behind me.
Before leaving California four long years ago, my parents, sisters, aunts, uncles, friends, just about everyone — or so it felt like — told me that college would be the best time of my life. But they were wrong. As many wonderful memories as my college experience has brought me, my mind still seems to drift to those kid’s trips with my Opah and the rest of the Southern California Tuna Club.
But as hard as it is to say, I am no longer a kid. My days of fishing on the Sea of Cortez feel long gone. I aged out of the “Kid’s Catches” roster years ago, and according to my Opah’s fishing buddies, the old dock I once played on has succumbed to the sea. I was too busy singing, swimming and catching fish to fully appreciate what I can now recognize as the happiest time in my life.
…
As much as I miss Mexico, I miss being on the water even more. It’s been over a year since I’ve explored the harbor on my Opah’s old fishing boat. We used to go almost every weekend during summer when I was little. Opah would rev the engine as us grandkids dangled our feet over the metal railing. We’d squirm and scream with every wave that splashed onto the bow. Then, jumping from the bow and swimming to the nearby shore to escape the SoCal sun.
If it was hot enough and us kids were lucky, our harbor cruise would turn into a pit stop at Balboa Island to Dad’s dessert shop for either chocolate dipped ice cream bars or frozen bananas. Balboa bars and boat cruises were my favorite part of summer — besides fishing in Los Barriles, of course.
After Opah’s passing, we had to take his old boat off the water. My parents could no longer afford the expensive mooring in what I always thought of as the most beautiful harbor in California. My dad called every dock master, every yacht club within hours of our home in Los Alamitos but was told that it would take months, likely even years of waiting to ensure a spot on the water. As hard as they tried, my parents were just about ready to give up on getting the boat into the water and take a trip down to the junk yard instead… until Opah intervened.
Last month, my dad received a call from the dock master of the Long Beach marina — there was a last minute opening. With the help of a few friends, my parents were able to get the boat into a new harbor the very next day. Opah’s boat now sits at a dock right in front of the Southern California Tuna Club.
It was what my mom called a “God wink” — too fortuitous to be a coincidence. I haven’t been to the Tuna Club in years but after four years away from home, I will see my Opah’s fishing boat and remember all those wonderful kid’s trips each summer. Now, I get to spend my summers jumping from the bow of the boat again, this time in a new harbour.
Opah was looking out for me, for all of us. He knew I needed something that made me feel like a kid again. He knew I would never outgrow my days on the water.
