500 Grains of Baja Adventure

Fast-sinking lines, big flies, ocean-going kayaks and an endless array of species— it must be Baja, Mexico.

Somewhere deep in the skipjack’s first sounding, I experienced the sensation of fractals shifting, gravity coming unhinged. Inside me, days of clams and ceviche, sashimi and wasabi, conch and fish-head soup suddenly stirred, welling up toward the surface as the tuna hit warp speed, plunging for some depth at which no fish affixed to a fly rod belongs. Okay, so maybe there was some tequila in the mix, too. But I swear…I swear…intemperance aside, I’ve struggled faithfully throughout my life to fly fish with grace, to become what I call a Real Guy—not some fool on a kayak, his gorge rising, attempting to stop inverting dimensions with a12-weight-rod bent in the configuration of a fully drawn longbow.

Then, by way of things going from bad to worse, I noticed my vaunted Swedish reel—its handle a blur, relieved of most of its backing, the machined alloy arbor spinning all but naked. I recalled, at this moment, the words of another recent skipjack victim, the stuff of angling legends: “This one’s going to leave a scar.” To which I reply with my own brand of despair: “All my line?” I groan, palming the reel to the breaking point. Too late. I’m spooled.

When faced with this sort of failure in fishing, as well as in the rest of my life, my immediate reaction is often to ask, “Who can I blame?” In this case, I’m free of doubt.

For years, Gary Bulla urged me to join him and an expanding cadre of angling rancheros for one of the week-long kayak trips he hosts to islands off La Paz in the Sea of Cortez, on Mexico’s Baja Peninsula. The appeal of these trips is simple—the opportunity to encounter an untold variety of inshore and bluewater game fish while skirting wilderness shorelines from the tranquility of the seat of one’s pants.

Bulla has done as much as anyone to develop and simplify this spirited kayaking pursuit. Trips consist of inclusive arrangements that rival any sort of package the do-it-yourselfer might try to create. Boat transports, kayaks, camping equipment and experienced cooks and captains eliminate logistics down to the essentials of the game: Show up with your gear and fish. After 15 years probing the southern reaches of the Sea of Cortez, Bulla has pin-pointed kayak fly-fishing locations that cover the vagaries of weather, seasons and the experience and aims of his guests, from the inshore reefs surrounding Isla Espíritu Santo to the bluewater depths around Isla Cerralvo and the impressive mangrove lagoon at the south end of Isla San Francisco.

Primitive tent camps are pitched just above the tide line on narrow beaches lapped by gentle, transparent seas. Offshore, the bare bones of desert islands rise abruptly from the plain of blue water. Anglers take meals and siestas in the shade of a simple tarp, beside which stands the screened kitchen and its steady supply of hearty camp fare, refreshments and bold cocktails come nightfall.

I might as well also mention, right here, that these trips carry with them the heady glow of the host himself, an unrestrained bon vivant of the first order. Next time I fish with him, I intend to deliver a t-shirt that reads Gary Bulla: Fun Magnet.   

FOR INFORMATION ON KAYAK FLY-FISHING IN BAJA, GO TO WWW.GARYBULLA.COM

Still, someone could have warned me. This is anything but playful sport or the feckless jollies of the light-tackle enthusiast. That fricking fish took all my line! It was at this point in my battle with the skipjack, however, that I discovered one of kayak fishing’s odd little secrets: faced with the prospects of attempting to subdue a projectile-mimicking pelagic fish, you can—like whalers of yore and Hollywood shark hunters and old men at sea—tether your line and hold on tight, using the floating device now affixed to the fish (in this case, you) as an instrument of drag to wear down your prey. It’s not a particularly sophisticated system. By holding tight, and riding this thing out, you may eventually see, seize and claim for posterity the fish in question.
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