I grew up in a family that loved to fish. My grandfather and great uncle used to row from Auckland's North Shore out to the halfway point between O'Neills Beach and Rangitoto Island in the Hauraki Gulf. There, they would catch snapper, row back into shore, upturn their dinghy onto the bank, fill their wooden wheel barrow with fish and gear, walk up O'Neills Ave, cross Hurstmere Road and deliver their catch to my grandmother.
As a kid I fished the Bay of Islands for kahawai and snapper from a small tin boat and off the rocks, but I had never fished for anything bigger than a kingfish and had certainly never "sport", or, heaven forbid, "game" fished.
Back in 2008 the mahimahi had started striking as soon as we got out into the deep of the wide open Pacific, the captain handing Matt the rod to reel in the first catch. I had watched with mounting apprehension as Dodge struggled to land the fish - I figured that his biceps are about four times the girth of mine, and if he was making it look so hard, how would I even keep the rod in my hands...?
After Matt (eventually) landed his shimmering yellow dorado, the next fish struck and the captain handed me the rod. With robotic precision I lodged the end of the rod firmly against my thigh, put my head down and relentlessly wound line all the way in with one fluid motion. The captain and his young assistant were pissing their pants at "la senorita" - the android fishing machine - casting looks between me and Matt and shaking their heads in amusement.
This time, we had no idea what sort of fish were running - there hadn't been any yellow-fin tuna caught for 12 months and the mahimahi were scarce too. We were up just before seven. Rodolfo was waiting downstairs and drove us in his pick-up to Playa Principal, where the milky sea lapped against a quiet shore. It was a beautiful morning.
The stillness in the morning as the satin sea turned from grey to pink to blue is difficult to adequately describe. Everything was slightly surreal, moving slowly, with weight. As we ploughed out to sea, passing Zicatela, the Mexican flag above the military base billowed against the broad dawn sky while waves crested and sprayed as they crashed into the beach.
Mantarays lept on the horizon, bobbing turtles slipped beneath the surface as we approached and pairs of dolphins raced through the silken sea. When the first fish struck all three lines screamed at once. I backed off, worried again that the rod might jump out of my hands and disappear into the deep.
Rodolfo was ecstatic - we were pulling up the first yellow-fin tuna he'd seen in a year. With thoughts of sashimi I happily accepted the next whirring line and hauled in my first tuna.
We returned to shore a few hours later with dieciocho tuna. Plenty for Rodolfo and his crew, all the staff at Flor de Maria and for us.
The haul was processed immediately in a shaded area on the beach by a mother and daughter team.
Behind the fish filleting area, thick slabs of tuna and pans of prawns sizzled over hot coals.
We were instructed to take our fish to a local restaurant where they would cook us some of our tuna for lunch. When the overcooked fillets arrived at our table, it was clear that the so-called "Pescadoro" restaurant knew nothing about cooking fish. As Paul from Hotel Flor de Maria put it, "Why did they have to kill it? It was already dead".
That night, Paul prepared sashimi for us back at the hotel. The horror of lunch was redressed - fresh tuna, raw and thinly sliced, served simply with accouterments of wasabi and teriyaki sauce.
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