I don’t know how Jesus kept the panga in the right direction. Occasionally out of the dark cloud I could see the outline of the island which seemed so far away. My throat got sore from swallowing so much salt water which splashed over us with the wind and rain. Don’s cap blew off and sailed into the mean sky. The rain came in sheets, drenching us completely. Not only were white caps all around us, but the ocean swells were huge and powerful. The storm hit suddenly and the Sea of Cortez got violent. Jesus quickly grabbed the tiller and made for Cerralvo, about three miles away. With Jesus holding the line taut, I grabbed my knife and cut the line, releasing my huge tuna to fight another angler, another day. We looked seriously at each other, saying nothing, but our eyes spoke volumes. The last boat had just left and we knew we had to go. The storm was now almost fully upon us and we all knew a decision had to be made. For 15 minutes Jesus fought and fought, barely gaining back some of the line. The rod doubled over to where I was sure it would snap. Jesus knew time was of the essence better than either of us, and he tried to muscle the fish in. I handed the rod to the younger, stronger 29-year-old skipper, hoping he could bring the fish in before we had to leave. The storm got closer and the remaining boats were hastily beating retreats. I fought standing up, without a shoulder harness, just a leather rod butt belt for another 10 minutes. He agreed we too should leave as soon as we brought the fish on board. Several of the boats took off to escape the approaching weather. I’d been surprised by wind and a quick, choppy sea before, but never a full-blown chubasco – until this day! I’d heard of chubascos, those often-regionalized, abrupt violent hurricane-like storms that strike almost without warning, but had never experienced their fury. White caps roiling the water were moving closer to us. We all noticed the abrupt change in weather. That black cloud was coming closer, and as it did the wind picked up. I battled the fish, gaining, then losing, then gaining again for about 40 minutes. The rest of the sky was bright blue with intermittent ivory clouds. Looking about, I noticed a heavy black cloud above the horizon out over the gulf. The heavy humid air along with the physical exertion had me sweating rivulets. A few years previous, my 100-pound yellowfin tuna with my same equipment took two hours and ten minutes. Pound for pound, tuna are the fightingest fish I’ve ever caught.ĭon’s 30-pound yellowfin tuna the day before took him a half hour to bring in. Tuna don’t seem to tire like marlin or sailfish, who after a few dramatic leaps in the air seem easier to boat. It was a stand-off and we’d just have to battle it out. The big fish pulled the hard-earned line right back out. I cranked the reel, gaining a little line. Jesus even helped with the 65 horsepower outboard motor, maneuvering in the same direction as the fish. I tightened the drag a little lest I get spooled too easily, while Jesus and Don pulled in their lines. The rod doubled over and my 50-pound line began singing off the reel. The tuna hit so hard I didn’t even have to set the hook. So we drifted and waited, basking in the hot, humid July sun. A half dozen boats also carried sportsfishers like us and we’d seen several tuna hookups nearby. Most of the other pangas that day were commercial fishermen hand lining for bottom species. My fishing buddy Don Lund, the skipper Jesus and I were drifting cut squid from our 23-foot panga, occasionally pulling the lines in to maneuver to another spot. Leaving Punta Arena, we were north of Cerralvo Island at a seamount called El Bajo. ![]() It was 1998 and we were fishing out of Baja’s La Paz area. The tuna hit the bait hard, snapping me out of my reverie.
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