Sun rise, Sun set.
Early on Saturday morning, I jumped into my rental and headed for Highway One. Those of you who have travelled on it will confirm that Hwy 1 is about the most scenic road in the USA. The Golden Gate Bridge divides the highway into two. Just north of San Francisco, the narrow, winding road hugs the area where the hills meet the shoreline and every half mile or so it rises from just above sea level where you can smell the cove, the kemp and local flora to two hundred meters, where there is a clear, endless view of the shimmering sea and the salty aroma of sea breeze. The road then descends again, zigzagging to accommodate the contours of where streams exit the hills. The bridges are low and numerous and as you can imagine, this highway is an absolute paradise for the real motorbike rider.
Motorbike riders are in the hundreds over the weekend and the younger ones usually ride in bunches. Some riders get their trill by testing if their bikes have that extra oomph when they are at the crest of the hill after a long climb. Other riders gain their trill by descending, out of gear, without touching their brakes. The older riders cruise with powerful slow rev bikes, fitted with Bluetooth audio and almost all the luxuries that money can buy.
As you drive along, you will see signs with the names of the films shot there. One on my favourite stops is where Hitchcock’s horror classic, “The Birds” was filmed. Even though I have been there often, the setting never gets old. I also stop every time I see someone fishing on the rocks just 10 ft. above the sea. That is the way I learnt to fish and it essentially remains my first love.
Highway One south of San Francisco is broader, has less traffic and most motorists seem to be retirees on a joy ride and in no hurry to get anywhere. I was asked to drive to this place on a meadow where there are powerful telescopes for whale watching. The scopes, placed strategically, give all an opportunity to scan the horizon. The grounds on this site have perfectly manicured lawns and being California, there even is a steel/wooden elevator - anchored on one side to the limestone cliff - that takes you about ten stories to the beach and private cove below. Needless to say, there is a high-end restaurant on the property, one that you have to book way in advance to get a table for dinner. Two sides of the restaurant offer spectacular views of the sunset. A giant wood burning fireplace on the third side, provides the aroma for the setting.
It was the middle of summer. I know whales don’t return to Baja until later in fall, that is after they are well fed from the waters off Canada, but the company was good, so we went whale watching. After successfully not spotting whales, we walked into the dining room, sat down and started to study the lunch menu. An elderly couple approached and said, “This is a really nice wine, we would like you to have it.” I looked at the couple, then at the decanter with beads of condensation on the sides, visualized their curvy drive home, smiled, gave thanks and accepted the gift.
I began with the theatrics but at the first sip, I felt explosions in my mouth. This was, without doubt, the most sensational liquid I had ever tasted. There were bouquets of scents from my youth. There were mysterious tastes of memories that whirled through my head but which I could not pin down. Growing up in Africa in the 1960s, family friends made fresh juices and faloodas before Coca-Cola products became cheaper. The wine reignited those almost forgotten tastes and aromas, but I just could not recall of exactly what. A second sip deepened the perplexity, making it more difficult, instead of easier, to recapture what memories the bouquets were triggering. This was madding.
The liquid itself first had the consistency of mead. Then it had the consistency of honey, then it had the consistency of virgin olive oil. Knowing I was in a free fall into one of the darkest holes of the universe, I took another sip, hoping to accelerate that safari.
Well, the waiter appeared. The guy looked effeminate but happy. He saw the decanter on our table, dramatically raised both his hands to his cheeks and gave a melodramatic look of surprise. By his look, I was half expecting him to suggest that I had appropriated the decanter but instead he said, “OMG! That lovely couple gave you their wine. Do you know that it is a $600 bottle of wine?”
Well, I could gauge another $150 left in the decanter so I asked my companion if she would now like to take a $20 sip. She declined, reminding me that I often gripe that drivers weave their cars down the broad, straight as an arrow highway because alcohol has horrid effects on some. My retort was that I already was on a winding road and two glasses of wine - well within the legal limit - would probably have the effect of straightening and widening the road for me. But even after three sips, I knew what was happening. My companion would henceforth be driving and I would get to be regulated to absorbing the beauty of the scenery.
Our next destination was a fishing port where we had 3 pm seats on a deep-sea fishing vessel. When I had called a few days earlier, all the charters claimed that they were fully booked that weekend, but one said that they would take my name just in case they decided to send out a second boat. To my delight, they had called the previous day saying that they had a scout troop book half a boat and if I had no problem with that, I could get two seats.
Cub and scouts are my second tribe! Participating in their activities have given me some of my best memories. As we were boarding the vessel, I figured out that the rest of the fishermen were another group, but they seemed to be carrying an extra number of cool boxes. Then I realised I knew this group. I have seen them in different parts of the globe.
About a third of the group were beer drinkers. If they caught a fish, that would be a bonus. Another third was there to fish, beer would always be welcomed. The third third were there in the pursuit and accumulation of fish. Nothing else mattered.
Monterey Bay is about 25 miles across and I had no idea into what part we were going. As most of you know, John Denver had crashed his light aircraft into the waters of the bay and died. Even so, all I could hum on the vessel was the lyric from "Annie's Song" that goes, "You fill up my senses..... like a sleepy blue ocean."
The cost of seats on the boat, rental equipment, bait, a California fishing license, a last-minute light wind jacket, etc. can add to a lot but I knew that I would forget the costs if I had a memorable trip. We set out from the harbour under clear skies and a gentle five knot wind. These were excellent conditions and everybody was excited.
The first catch, not to my surprise, was by my companion. I was still baiting my line when she pulled in a nice tuna. My first bite had an uninteresting pull and I caught what everyone else aboard was catching. The second fish I hooked, was smarter than me and disappeared. Twice bitten, once shy, I cast my line further out. Lo and behold, I pulled in a fish which had bitten two baits and got hooked twice. The person behind the other line aggressively demanded the fish and I gave her the whole fish cheerfully.
Out of the er, blue, the wind suddenly kicked up and all those without sea legs disappeared into the cabin. Now the one thing all Goans have in common is that we have sea legs. We go to sea without a second thought. A little rocking of a boat is not going to upset us. A lot of rocking is not going to upset most of us either. Heck, some of us even crossed the Indian Ocean during the monsoons. I looked at my companion and she looked like she had not even noticed the swells.
Then the waves really started to show their power and pitched the boat. The scout next to me, barely a teenager, began to throw up. He was brave enough not to go into the cabin but continued to fish. So, I befriended him and showed him how to properly bait a hook. Within an hour, he was about the most successful scout on board. He was approaching his tenth fish limit when the scout next to him gave me the look of, "Help!"
On that scout’s third fish, he tells me that they are going to have a campfire and fry their fish that very night. I now know where my fish will end but more importantly, I could teach the young scouts how to fish.
The wind begins to wane and the captain turns the boat around and announces that it was the time to use the cut octopus as bait, adding that sunset was the prime time to catch lingcod. I bait my hook and in fifteen minutes have a nice strike.
I know this bite. It grabbed the bait and went back to its refuge a yard away. I have caught rock cods in E. Africa. I have caught gobro in front of the women's prison in Aguada. The trick to bringing in a rock cod is to tug your rod back twice, coaxing the fish out. If it does not move, the boat eventually gets pulled towards the fish and instead of the fishing line being at a 45-degree angle, the angle gets closer to zero degrees. Before that happens, the line will rub on the rock above the fish and cut.
I knew that our boat was not in gear, but I also knew that it was shifting in the water. After a minute of double tugging, the fish comes out into the open and then it is a nice fight. Everyone seems to be watching me! When the fish is at the surface, the deckhand identifies the 3 ft. plus fish as a lingcod. I had never seen a lingcod till that moment, but this makes me happy as I remember that the lingcod fishing trips are double the cost of the trip I am on. I later find out the flesh of a lingcod has a prized blue/green hue to it.
The deckhand asked me if I want to keep the fish. If so, he would gaff and mortally wound the fish while lifting it onto the boat. If not, all I had to do was attempt to lift the fish with the rod into the boat. Lingcod flesh is soft. The hook would tear away and the fish would escape. The scouts did not want a large fish, so that lingcod is probably swimming free at the very same spot at this moment.
On the west coast, at sunset, everything on land viewed from the sea appears to be bathed in a golden tinge. Windows on buildings reflect a golden light. The permanently tanned surfboarders are all in the water hoping to catch that last big wave. Sea lions dash around playfully near every pier and the sounds of elephant seals can almost guide you back to port.
We were closing in on the harbour entrance when I noticed that the non-scouts group were gathered at the stern. Some started to say a few words and it was clear that this was a solemn moment for them. After everyone had spoken, one in their group emptied an urn of ashes into the sea.
That is the way life is.
There are stages of dawn, high noon and dusk. The characters you chance to meet on the journey make all the difference.
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