Ran across it today and thought it might be fun to see if we still have a few people with imagination and a willingness to share an addition to the story. You never know what direction the story may take.
The Never Ending Pier Story…
Posted by Ken Jones on February 21, 2003 (7:39 am)
It was just barely 6 a.m., and still dark, when Ron pulled into the parking space adjacent to "Rockcod Lane" at the foot of the Newport Pier. "Not too many cars, so maybe I can still get that spot on the corner." That was his main thought as he unpacked his gear and set up his fishing cart prior to heading out onto the pier.
Of course he also deposited the requisite number of quarters into the parking meter. "No reason to start the day off with a ticket." But the day already seemed to have lasted an eternity. Although only a few miles from home, the ride to the pier had been far from uneventful. Pea-soup fog and slow, slow going (in fact he had even stuck his head out his window a couple of times just to check the street). What should have been a twenty-minute ride had turned into a 45-minute, sometimes scary ride. "The fishing better be good."
He looked at the 24-hour donut shop across the street, thought about his weight for a second, and then headed up the ramp leading to the pier...
Posted by pig on February 21, 2003 (9:32am)
Weight was a problem for him, at least as an adult, he thought, as he glanced towards the lower part of his shirt. Finding long enough shirts had always been a problem for him, at least as an adult. He reminisced about his younger years and how he never gave a second thought about the long walks to his secret fishing spots.
As he arrived at the end of the pier, he thought about the warm summer days spent at the pier as a kid, and how he caught bonito with the 3-oz diamond jigs. He remembered the particular songs that played on fellow fishermen's radios. Not fancy radios, most fishermen weren't particular about keeping up with the Jones'. His mind wandered in and out of past memories as he set his Tuna King rod against the weathered steel rail. He thought to himself how his Tuna King fishing rod, with all its numerous scratches and bent guides, was his old friend. He had fished with that old rod many times and had caught many fish with it.
He remembered the weathered looking dory fishermen who sold their daily catch at the beginning of the pier. Particularly, he remembered the one-armed man who was always there. He hadn't seen him that day and wondered if the old man still sold fish. He hoped so, the old man was a nice old man and often spoke of fishing trips of past years. He was very interesting to listen to.
Remembering the old man kind of took his mind off of the expanded stomach he cultivated over the years. "Heh" he thought to himself...I have two arms to fish with, I should not complain.
Posted by Songslinger on February 21, 2003 (10:58am)
There was a slight movement in the shadowy mist ahead and two rough looking characters emerged from the fog. One carried a large shovelnose, still twitching, and dripping blood on the cement in little ladybug sized beads. The other was consigned the gear as though through punishment.
After appraising Ron wordlessly, giving him the look up and down, pausing maybe a moment longer than necessary on his midsection, they nodded as brother fishermen.
"Nice fish," he told them, breaking the silence. "What bait?"
For a moment they seemed startled by the sound. No doubt they'd fished since dusk and were ending an all-nighter, tired, grouchy.
"'Chovies" the fishless one replied in a whisper.
"Any other action?" Ron couldn't help himself. He was chatty kind of guy and even though he sensed their reluctance, he kept rambling. "Maybe some of those bad boys are still around, he went on, pointing to the fish. "Maybe "I'll head up and see what's doing."
They gaped at him. The man with the fish said, "Don't go up there, man."
"Why not?"
But they were already walking away
Ron's final journey..
Posted by lingcod on February 22, 2003 (4:05 am)
Brushing aside their comments as gibberish, Ron headed into the thick mist that soon became blinding fog, having no idea what awaits him in this ominous weather. "No matter", he said, "Ain't no stupid fog is going to stop me from fishing!" Ron is deeply religious and believes that the God is always with him.
Suddenly, the planks underneath started to crackle and with a loud "whooomp!" it gave way, sending Ron & his Shimano tackle into the darkness of the Pacific Ocean. Wishing that he hadn't skipped the swim lessons back in grade school, Ron slowly sank with his grip ever so tightly around his tackle. He let out a faint yelp before he heard from a distant chant, "row row row your boat gently down the stream, merrily merrily life is like a dream."
Just as the water is dangerously rising up to his arm, of all things, Big Rich & RedFish showed up in their little rowboat and asked him if he needed help. They were fishing at China Camp in SF Bay when a 700-lb sturgeon towed them out to sea. "Yup, we fought it for two days & 3 nights before the sturgeon finally broke off moments earlier" exclaimed Redfish, "Caramba mi amigo! Mucho diversión! Lo amo bebé!"
Ron was very grateful that the two offered to help but declined. "No thanks, God will help me."
So with that, BigRich & Redfish furiously paddled northward, back to the place where it all happened-where fish dreams were made of, and disappeared into the darkness of the thick ocean mist.
Time is fast running out for Ron. The water is up to his lips and just as he was gasping for his last gulp of air, a one-eyed one-handed pirate by the name of Capt Jones-Ken-Hook came by with his boat "Pier Emperor". He was looking for the fabled white whale.
"Err-hiccup, I will save you if help me find Moby-hiccup. I spent my life up and down the California Piers trying catch him, but to no avail." he said. "Now I have a boat! Muwaahahaaaaha!! Hiccup."
With his last breath, Ron once again declined and insisted that God will save him. So Capt Hook continued on his endless journey up & down the coast while Ron slowly sank down into the abyss of the Pacific Ocean with his hands clamoring tight onto his fishing gears.
Ron woke up in heaven, standing before the lord himself. Ron asked, "Oh God, why didn't you save me?"
God replied, "Damn it son, I gave you two chances and you declined both times! You idiot!"
Posted by Ken Jones February 23, 2003 (10:12 am)
But while gods can be demanding and even petulant at times, they can also be forgiving and respectful of the deeds of those who have passed over the Styx (or into Davy Jones’ locker as the case may be).
Such was the fate of Ron for although he had forsaken the help he was offered, his faith (however interpreted) had been sincere and his karma positive. So yes, he would return to life. But what form would he take, life as a more noble creature or one further down the evolutionary track of life? After thought, God decreed that Ron would remain a pier fisherman with all the attendant blame and abuse that was associated with the term. But he would also retain the sense of purpose and responsibility that he had always followed in his pier pursuits with his peers.
Soon after he was back on the surface of the pier but the fog had lifted and the carnage was revealed for all to see. The entire end of the pier was gone: nothing but shredded and twisted pilings supporting a few splintered remnants from the wood of the surface planks. The restaurant had disappeared without a trace. What had happened? What could cause such devastation to the century-old pier?
Dazed onlookers gaped at the wreckage while Newport’s finest tried to control the crowd. And then he saw the two anglers who had given the earlier warning. But as he tuned toward them they also saw him and they began a hurried retreat to the shoreward end of the pier. Ron yelled for them to wait up but…
STOP!
Subject: The Never Ending Pier Story…Chapter 2
Posted by fishfinder on July 27, 2004 (9:56pm)
…they had already disappeared into the ever growing throng of people arriving to examine the twisted wreckage of the pier. Ron thought that he would never find the answers that he was searching for, but then he looked down and caught a glimpse of the sticky droplets of life force on the ground. Suddenly all was not lost as he began to follow the blood trail left by the slowly draining shovelnose. This was no easy task because the blood spatters were intermittent and the droves of people that had already begun to mill about were obscuring the path with their shoes on the wet concrete…
Posted by das limpet on July 27, 2004 (10:17pm)
What made it more difficult to follow was that they had turned southward along the beach and were walking over the sand. It was difficult finding the droplets hidden among the mini-dunes of the wavy sand. But he strode on hurriedly so that he would not lose their trail in the coming darkness of night. Finally he reached the Newport Jetties where the trail stopped at a large crater in the sand, just at the base of the jetties. He inspected it further and discovered it was the entrance to an underground passage of some sort. “Strange,” he thought to himself. In all his years of fishing the pier and jetties, he had never recalled seeing such an ominous hole in the ground.
Should he turn back, report what he had discovered to the police officers who had come to inspect the scene, and resume his fishing? No the two men could be long gone by then, and the truth of what happened to the pier may never be revealed. He dove into the hole in search of answers.
“But following a pair of large men into a dark passageway was probably not a good idea”, he reasoned. And with that thought he hurried back out of the hole. “Coward, you call yourself a man!” his macho ego taunted him, and again he reluctantly went back in. In and out of the hole he went several times, with his ego and alter ego battling for control of his fate, until he fell to his knees and passed out in exhaustion.
But his repetitive actions had had their effect on the dark cave. A low rumble emanated from with the cave, and as he lay there unconscious, the ground trembled beneath him. A gushing wave of salty water rushed out of the passageway and threatened to drown him. Gasping for air he came to, and realizing what was happening, he picked up his rod and tackle box and tried to make a hasty exit. But it was too late. Tons of sand began to pour on him and the cave opening collapsed in on itself. He was trapped.
Fumbling through his tackle box in the darkness, Ron finally found his night-fishing glow stick, but only after getting stuck a couple of times by randomly placed treble-hooks that he had never bothered to store properly. “Never thought this would ever come in handy,” he said to himself out loud. He shook the glow-stick a couple of times until it was bright enough to light the passageway. “There must be a way out of here,” he assured himself. Digging upwards through the sand seemed like a good way to get a coronary, especially in his condition. Or worse it may cause the cave to collapse further, burying him alive. Sensing he had no other options, Ron inched his way deeper into the cave, hoping that he would be able to find an escape before the glow in his stick waned.
Posted by das limpet on July 28, 2004 (2:27pm)
He trudged forward, cautiously at first, but as the glow began to dim around him his pace quickened until it became a panicky stumble in the near darkness. Until finally, his glow stick gave out. No amount of shaking would reinvigorate his useless tool. Afraid to continue onwards in the dark for fear of falling into some unseen pit, he sat down and began to whimper.
It is unknown how long he stayed in that state until suddenly he thought he heard a man’s voice. He stopped his whimpering and sat quietly, straining his ears in effort to catch the sound again, a sound, any sound in the darkness.
Again, he caught the faint sound of voices ahead. Or was it behind. He couldn’t remember which way was which anymore. Were the two men coming back this way again? What if they caught him there! There would be no escape from whatever torture they would subject him to for being so nosy. Should he run? Which way? Either direction could lead him right into their clutches. Paralyzed with fear, he could only sit there in silence, hoping that the voices would not find him. And so he sat. But the voices seemed to be getting louder and closer, enough so that he could hear what they were saying.
“I swore I thought I heard the sounds of some girly-man whimpering.” Said a husky male voice with a thick accent loudly.
“Shhhh shut uppp! Dang, where could those two have gone to?” whispered the other. But this voice belonged to a woman!
“We have to get that shovelnose back.,” she continued. The male voice replied with a comment in German, which Ron could not decipher.
Ron jumped up in hopes that these may be his rescuers. “Surely no one who speaks German could be an evil man,” he thought.
With that he cried out for help. After a while he could see one end of the tunnel slowly begin to light up. Then he saw two figures coming towards him carrying a torch. Were his eyes deceiving him? The woman looked like Lucy, except she was wearing something that looked like a Xena outfit. The man looked like John Mykannen, but he had long flowing blonde hair and was only wearing what appeared to be a loin cloth. Together they came up to Ron, who could only gape at them, uncertain of how to react.
“I told you I thought I could sense a girly-man nearby. This must be him. What are you doing here girly-man?” John Mykannen asked.
“Uhhh,” said the baffled Ron.
“Come on now, speak up” said John.
“Give the guy a chance,” said Lucy firmly as she came up to Ron and put a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “Don’t worry buddy, we won’t bite ya. Whatc’ha doing down here?”
Ron mustered up is senses and replied. “I followed two guys down here, who were carrying some gear and a shovelnose. I thought they might know something about what happened to the pier. But the entrance caved in and I got trapped.”
Lucy and John looked at each other as if communicating only by thought. Then Lucy turned to Ron. “We’ll get you out of here Ron, but first we need to find those two carrying the shovelnose. Will you help us find them?”
“Uh, okay,” said Ron.
With that, the three headed further into the passageway. While the three walked onward, Ron could not help but ask, “Aren’t you Lucy, the CGI woman, and aren’t you John Mykannen?” Lucy did not respond, but quickened her pace to get ahead of the pack.
“That is Lucy the Aqua-Vampire Slayer,” John told Ron. “She has amazingly bountiful bosoms, does she not?”
“And I am John the Virile,” John continued. “I am one of Lucy’s loyal sidekicks. Together we battle the evil hordes of undead subterranean half-demon, half-fish, seven-gilled Troglodytes.”
“I learned that word on pierfishing.com.” whispered John.
“I’m just Ron,” said Ron.
“Ah! Ron the Just!” John exclaimed. “Lucy and I are honored to make your acquaintance!”
Finally, they arrived at what looked like a subterranean cavern filled with water. In the center of the water was a rock platform. Ron noticed then that John was carrying a very heavy looking fishing rod. John too noticed that Ron was carrying a pole. Ah I see you are admiring my weapon. I call it the ‘But Hammererer”. Here puny human, grab a hold of it and feel its might. John place the Hammererer in Ron’s hands but the rod was too heavy for him and Ron fell over from the weight of it.
John laughed heartily. “Ha! You should go fishing more often girly-man and practice fighting some Stan-sized rays and build your arms up into Stan-sized arms. Or better yet, come fishing with me and I will show you how to catch some John-sized ‘buts.” John said.
With that Lucy peaked over at John’s rear end. She said nothing, but could not help but subconsciously raise her one of her eyebrows.
“Hey John, your shoes are untied,” stated Lucy.
John bent over to take a close look at his shoes. He stood that way for several minutes pondering them, while Lucy stood there admiring the view, and Ron fiddled with his rod. Finally, John straightened himself back up, scratching his head and replied, “Upon closer inspection, these are sandals.”
“Oh enough chat, let’s go kick some fish-demon ass!” Lucy commanded.
Just as she said that, two figures climbed out of the water onto the center platform. They placed the shovelnose onto an altar which began to glow eerily. Within moments, a large Aqua-Demon arose from the depths of the abyss to claim it victim. But before it could do so, Lucy let out her war cry “Yee-yee-yee-yee-yee!” and leapt across the water onto the platform, where she began to wage battle. With two quick swings of her potent arms, she swatted the two demon-servants off the platform and immediately grappled with the Aqua-Demon.
John took his rod and attached a spider sinker to his 500-lb test braid line and used it as a grappling hook to swing across, leaving Ron standing there wondering what to do.
While Lucy and John battled the Aqua-Demon, Ron searched through his tackle box for his own spider sinker which he attached to his line. He began twirling it around his head. Just then one of the troglodytes leapt out of the water towards Ron, snarling! Before Ron could react, the spider sinker struck his attacker in the side of the head, impaling him. The demon-servant landed atop of Ron dead, which knocked Ron backwards onto the rock cave floor, and when he hit his head he fell unconscious.
Ron awoke to Lucy and John standing over him. Lucy bent down to cradle Ron in her arms, while gently stroking his hair. “Arise Just Ron - He who hath smoted the demon-servant of the Aqua-Demon Lord Hali-Tosis. We are victorious today!” said Lucy.
Ron smiled weakly, while enjoying Lucy’s warm-bosomed embrace.
“Oh, I have to get back home to my wife!” Ron realized.
Upon hearing this Lucy, only frowned. “We will help you find your way out then,” she sadly sighed. And out of the caverns they journeyed.
Upon, returning to the pier, John the Virile, handed Ron the shovelnose, which remarkably was still alive. “For your help, honorable Ron,” smile John.
“Thank you so much, but I really have to get back home now.” Said Ron as he hastily put the shark into his gunny sack, “Good-bye and good luck in your quest to destroy all fish…err demon…things.
They bade him farewell and Ron turned to head towards home. “Oh! Wait, I have to ask. Do you know what happened to the pier?” asked Ron turning back around. But the two had vanished.
John sighed. As he walked away, the shovelnose began wiggling around in the sack, and he pulled it out to look at it. “Well Mr. Shovelnose. I guess you’ve seen quite a day too. You wouldn’t happen to know what happened to the end of the pier do you”. The shovelnose stared at him blankly for a moment, then continued its struggle to get free. Admiring it’s will to live, Ron carried it to the water, gently lowered the shark into the water and held it afloat until, with a quick snap of its tail, it zipped away into the darkness. Feeling content even though he never got any fishing done, Ron headed back home.
Arriving back home, Ron was met by his wife, standing in the front doorway with her arms folded. Before she could say a word, or demand to know what he had been up to for the last 24 hours, Ron whisked her up, off her feet and exclaimed “I am Ron the Just and… VIRILE! You will come with me and be my love slave, puny woman!”
Ron’s wife only shrieked in delight as she was carried up the stairs…
Posted by Ken Jones on July 29, 2004 ( 6:34 am)
Ron lay in his bed wide awake. It was 3:13 in the morning but he was troubled by the events of the previous day. Had they really happened? Had it been a dream? More disturbing were the once forgotten images of a trip he had taken to Baja with a church group in the '60s.
In a small shop in Ensenada, a withered old man had asked if he wanted to see the face of a Saint? "A Saint?" Turned out to be the coriaceous remains of a shovelnose that had been cut and dried to resemble a human face. It was a strange sight and elicited howls of laughter when he showed it to his friends. But the old man had sworn that it had religious powers.
Were shovelnose somehow religious? Were the strange events of the previous day in some way connected to religious or supernatural powers?
Posted by gyozadud on July 29, 2004 ( 9:13 am)
Religion had nothing to do with shovelnoses. In his dream, the scene at the shop became clear — total recall. He remembered grabbing one and taking his knife, he slashed viciously through the carcass. But instead of rubbery flesh, he hit metal alloy and snapped the blade cleanly off his Kabar. The shovelnose then sprang to life and jumped inside of him, fusing painfully through his sternum. With a fright, he woke up and reached for his chest, which ached. It was only a dream he thought briefly, somewhat relieved. But that didn't last long before he felt the urge to vomit. And there on the couch, he hunched over the coffee table, staring at a copy of Pier Fishing in California 2nd Edition in horror as a shovelnose emerged from this throat, drowning the book and table in grotesque, dark green slime. He blacked out.
Posted by Songslinger on July 29, 2004 (1:48 pm)
Meanwhile…It rained all day in Ensenada. Luis sat behind the window in his deserted cafe and nursed a Cerveza. The streets were nearly empty. Through the rain soaked glass they took on an unsteady, artistic quality. It was as if Luis was inside an Impressionist's painting, looking out upon the real world.
He turned, glanced at the swinging door to the kitchen, considered calling his wife, changed his mind. Instead he concentrated on the anomalous collection of fishing gear and skeletons piled on a center table. Ron's things. He never came back for them. So odd to see them now, so abrupt and intrusive, a release of memories that he'd managed to let lapse into time's expiration. Saints and skeletons, guitarfish and guitar players, wild, wild nights soaking up Tequila and the mocking smiles of Ron's young wife Marilyn and her sister Julia.
Don't go up there, man.
STOP!
Subject: The Never Ending Pier Story…Chapter 3
Posted by Ken Jones on November 8, 2004 (7:56 pm)
There is a beach south of Ensenada, down past Punta Banda, that is left free by the natives. On that beach nothing lives, no sand fleas, worms, ghost shrimp or vegetation. The sand is pearl white and the azure surf never enters the grounds. No boat has survived the hidden reef that lurks offshore and no human has set foot on that ghostly sand. Even the cliffs up above give no evidence of the ethereal nature of that place. The only sign of life is found in the water itself where, every spring, the shovelnose gather in vast assemblage. It is a bit of Heaven—or Hell?
Once, back in the ‘60s, a brash young gringo from the north had sought to enter the grounds. His vision was to walk, camp and fish the length of Baja. His name was Ron…
Posted by will_fish on November 8, 2004 (10:51pm)
Ron had seen some strange things in his time, but nothing as strange as the green welts, now forming on the finger, deeply scratched by the enormous rock crab he had caught (and eaten) earlier that day.
His head was warm in an odd way and he had an unquenched thirst since the Heineken he had washed the rock down with. His palms were sweaty and his body was consumed with an uncontrollable itch. He knew something was wrong but....
Posted by hdeb on November 9, 2004 (1:25 am)
he continued his journey south. He had been stopping in small villages, asking about the fishing, curious about the local methods and customs surrounding the pursuit of fish. As he moved further south, he heard rumors of a place that was forbidden, where nothing lived, where no one could go. He didn't think much about the stories, he dismissed them as tales told to scare tourists away from favorite fishing grounds. His days had been filled with fishing, and talk of fishing. At night, camped within the sound of surf, he dreamed of fish. That night, he rubbed some aloe vera he picked along the roadside on the green welts, took some aspirin, and tried to put the bad feeling he had out of his mind. Sleep came hard, though, and he tossed and turned, his dreams strangely oppressive. He spent the night fighting nightmare fish, losing them in strange ways, hampered by odd looking, unfamiliar tackle. He finally fell into a deep sleep, from which he awoke drenched in sweat, one last dream startling him awake.
Feeling somewhat recovered from his illness of the day before, Ron went to the nearest village to get supplies, and, of course, question the locals about the nearby fishing. They were strangely reticent, and told him that there was no good fishing nearby, that he should maybe take a bus to a place much further south, where the fishing was said to be excellent. He remembered the rumors of the forbidden place, and though somewhat shaken by the events of the day before, and his strange dreams, he still dismissed the stories as just a way to chase him away from their secret fishing places.
He started on his way south, but was feeling tired, the restless night wearing on him. When he came upon spots that looked "fishy", he would cast his line into the water, but he would feel strangely distracted, and give up after a try or two.
When night fell, he was still walking, restless, and unwilling to stop. He found himself traveling along a wide beach, soft waves scalloping white sand along the shore. Unnaturally bright stars illuminated the sky, lighting his way. Periodically, in likely looking places, he would cast his lure into the surf, looking for the holes where his quarry might lurk. Finally, he was rewarded with a bump on his line. Waiting one beat, two beats, he slowly reeled a bit of his line in. Feeling the answering pressure, he set his hook, hard, and knew the battle was on. His reel sang as the fish started to run, echoing the atavistic thrill that sang in his heart as he felt the fish fight for its life. The fish fought hard, and he fought back, instinctively answering every move the fish made. A surge of adrenaline made him suddenly feel invincible as he tirelessly ran down the beach, following the fish, which was now running south, parallel to the shore. He knew that he would be the victor, that the fish, fighting so valiantly, would be his.
Suddenly, the sky turned black, the light of the stars sucked into the night. In the darkness, the ocean fluoresced, ripples and splashes limned in ghostly green light. He noticed a sound, steady under the noise of the surf, like the pattering of rain pelting the surface of the sea. Squinting toward the water, still trying to bring the fish to shore, he thought he could see, shining in the bright water, whole schools of fish swimming in the same direction as his fish, jumping from the water, splashing and boiling, as if being pursued by a host of unseen predators. He realized, without knowing how, that he was near the forbidden place.
The fish on his line, tired now, was slowly being brought to shore, giving in to the inevitability of being caught. Facing the sea, reeling hard, he thought he could see the fish, illuminated by the ghostly light, coming toward him through the water, followed by an odd looming darkness. It was suddenly quiet, the boiling sound had stopped, the fish no longer being chased, no sound of surf hitting the sand. A foreboding gripped him, as he noticed the darkness behind his fish growing. As his fish came closer to the shore, he noticed it was now swimming toward him, trying to escape the dark shape. He caught just a glimpse of the silhouette of a giant shovel shaped head, as his fish was enveloped by the huge darkness.
He screamed at the dark shovelnose, screamed as hard as he could, and the giant fish rose out of the sea, and spoke to him. It said "Beware," in a calm watery voice, took him by the arm in its strong jaws, and dragged him into the sea...
Posted by will_fish on November 9, 2004 (11:52 am)
As the fierce beast pulled him into the dark, churning water, fear overcame him. I don't want to die here, alone, and in the dark, he thought. He fought his fear until he once again gained the clarity and composure he had come to recognize inside of himself.
No longer in the grips of fear, his lightning fast instincts assessed the situation and while still locked in the jaws of this fierce leviathan he was not yet defeated.
His clarity afforded no assistance and the beast attempted to pull his head beneath the crashing salty waves. He thought to himself, God,if you get me out of this, I swear I'll never fish again. Even then, He knew it wasn't true.
He gasped and coughed to clear his throat as he fought for a clear breath of air to take in and hold, but the splashing saltwater choked him to exhaustion and he could now only see glimpses of the beach through the splashing waves before his head was pulled under.
Suddenly, the dark waters were alive with light. As the monster dragged him deeper and away from the shore, little bubbles of light were left in their wake. I'm still alive, he thought. How can this be?
With his fear of death fully quelled, he reveled in the wonder of his adventure. The bubbles of light, now much larger, were providing him air to breathe as they rushed past him.
His thoughts now changed from how to Why. Why is this happening to me?
In an instant his monster host stopped. With the bubbles still brushing against his nose allowing him breath, he saw an illuminated white sandy bottom teaming with all manner of sea life.
It was like a beautiful tropical fish tank, each plant and rock in perfect place. And the fish, the fish were beautiful. The colors on their fins and scales awed him with child like peace. He felt as though he'd never actually seen a fish before. It reminded him of that time in college when he dropped a hit of... Well that's another story, lets get back to this one, shall we?
Cuttlefish? is that what they were? he thought. As they swam past his face, little rainbows of translucent light rippled down their fins like runway lights. They looked intelligently into his eyes and he wanted to stroke them to let them know he was no threat.
He reached out his hand to do so, but felt a soft thud against it. The monster fish was gone. He was alone. Trying to make sense of it he reached to his left and found a transparent barrier which ended at the length of his wrist, his hand receiving a slight jolt of pain as it struck its confine. In an instant, he knew where he was.
I'm on display, He thought. The fish swam past him in little groups. Like families on an outing. He wondered what force kept them together in these little groups. Were they talking? do fish talk? They glided past him with intense stares, watching his every move. Occasionally, one of the larger ones would swim straight at him only to turn away at the last second as if taunting him.
He then noticed other groups of fish feeding in the sand all around them. Feeding fiercely on chunks of meat. The meat was being flailed about just outside his tank. Red strings, like tendons floated in front of him. Bits of meat, bits of bone, the tip of a finger.
He screamed in horror as he awoke to the sound of the peaceful lapping shore. Drenched and covered in sand, he lay in the shape of a chalked body as he noticed the sun was just coming up....
Posted by fishingrod on November 9, 2004 (5:57pm)
After wasting a few hours slipping in and out of consciousness, Ron lazily rolled himself to an upright position, trying to get his bearings.
"How did I get here?" he thought to himself.
He slowly stood up with the awkward balance of a drunken sailor on roller skates and began to wipe the sand from his face.
"How long have I been laying here?" he wondered.
He felt the tenderness on the back of his sunburned neck. His lips were severely chapped and his throat was in desperate need of water. He tilted his head towards the sky and shielded his eyes with his right hand. He looked as close to the sun as his tired eyes would allow him. By the sun's position, Ron realized that it must be around just after noon.
He struggled to force himself to walk the few steps to the water's edge and captured the incoming water with cupped hands and began to quickly rinse his face. His thirst was so great that he was tempted to gulp the abundance of water that surround his feet as it met him at the edge of the shore. However, reality kicked in and he looked for other means to quench his thirst. Satisfied that the ocean's water had done all that it possibly could to restore what was left of his youthful vibrance, he focused his eyes towards the area where the sand and the cliffs meet. Tucked away behind a severely weathered boulder was his backpack. He frantically searched the pack for any signs of salvation. In triumph, he came across a bottle of local beer. "It's better than nothing," he proclaimed as he gulped the life-saving elixir in what seemed like mere seconds.
Satisfied for the time being, Ron sought refuge from the sun by leaning against the base of the cliff. He could feel that the sand beneath his feet was cooler than the sand just a few yards away. He looked through his backpack again hoping for another beer yet he found none. He did however find the aspirin bottle he purchased the day before in the village.
"I could use a couple of these," he rationalized as he hastily opened the bottle. After all, he felt as if he had been run over by a thousand trucks. At this time his memory slowly began to return. He recalled the magnificent fight in the moonlight. It was him against a mysterious sea creature that did not easily relent. He recalled the fierce battle, wet to his chest and he tried to dig his feet into the wet sand beneath his feet. Then nothing. His next clear memory was waking up on the beach. He looked to his right and saw his rod and reel sitting atop of a pile of freshly washed-up kelp. Even at a few yards away he could tell that his line had snapped during the fight and that the fish had apparently won this round.
"Next time.." he chuckled to himself. Searching through his aspirin bottle, he noticed that among the traditional white tablets were a few orange ones. Could these pills have caused him to black out and more importantly to lose the fish he fought so hard for? He tossed out the orange pills and vowed to never buy anything from a Mexican pharmacy ever again.
After retrieving his gear and having felt his strength return, he set off southward along the narrow stretch of beach. After about 20 minutes of walking, he looked ahead and could see three small figures approaching him. By their movements and speed he realized that they were running towards him. Three local boys came up to him and began yelling frantically in Spanish.
"Senor! Senor! Tiburon!"
"Tiburon?" he replied.
"Si, si... Ven con nosotros!"
By this time, the afternoon sun began to heat up the white sand as it were charcoal on a grill, his thirst returned even stronger than before and the pains of hunger were starting to overwhelm him. However, something in their eyes compelled Ron to follow these boys. He began to follow them along the beach, continuing southward.
As they walked, Ron's mind focused enough to wonder... "So they found a shark, big deal. Sharks are common in this area, why would they want me to follow them?" He was soon about to find the answer. After an hour of walking he came upon a crowd of local villagers. They were on the sand, no more than 15 feet from the water. They surrounded something that lay on the sand yet Ron was unable to make out what it was. As he made his way through the crowd to take a better look, he let out a gasp in horror and simultaneous excitement at what he saw. There in the sand lay a...
There lay...
Posted by dompfa ben on November 11, 2004 (12:28pm)
...a woman, perhaps the most perfect woman Ron had ever seen. Though she was unconscious, there was an aura about her, an iridescence. Ron detected a subtle heat emanating from this woman, or was it a burning welling up within him?
Raven tresses fell from her head in wide curls, intermingling with the sand beneath her head. Her eyes were closed, long eyelashes resting quietly on high cheekbones and a delicate nose. Soft lips parted slightly, and for the first time, Ron noticed the rising and falling of this woman's chest beneath a sheer cotton blouse, rendered transparent by the ocean.
She was breathing. She was alive. She was beautiful.
Ron shook himself from her spell, and knelt down next to the woman.
"Eh, get una manta! ...de la cama!" Ron barked to the nearest boy in broken Spanish. The boy sprinted off towards an unseen trail in the underbrush. The other boys appeared nervous, unable to take their eyes from the woman.
Ron leaned over the woman, placing his ear close to her mouth to listen to her breathing. But there was no sound, only warmth on his cheek. Strangely, Ron watched as her chest rose and fell in a labored way. She was breathing...but why couldn't he hear it?
Ron pulled back the woman's hair from her neck so that he might check the woman's pulse. It was then that he noticed five lateral cuts on the side of the woman's neck. A thin tendril of blood ran from one of the cuts. Ron quickly checked the other side of her neck, not wanting to press his fingers into an open wound. Strangely, there were similar cuts there, too.
"She needs a doctor," Ron announced to no one.
Placing his left hand on the top of the woman's head, and his right hand under her chin, Ron attempted to open the woman's airway. With two fingers, he pulled down on her chin, opening her mouth to see if there was any obstruction.
Instantly, Ron reared back in horror. Behind those soft lips were several rows of pointed, serrated teeth.
He remembered the words of the young boy who had beckoned him to this place: "Tiburon."
Ron carefully opened one of her eyelids with his thumb. A black crescent surrounded by gold stared lifelessly skyward. Ron's eyes moved back to her neck. He noted the subtle movement of the lateral cuts on her neck, corresponding with the rise and fall of her chest.
These were not cuts. They were gills.
A strange mixture of fear and duty overcame him. Ron grabbed the woman by the wrists and stood.
"Ayudame!" he exclaimed to the boys, dragging the woman towards the breakers. "Help me get her back into the water!"
STOP!
The Never Ending Pier Story…
Chapter 4 —Ken Jones
Some say you can never go back, but Luis chuckled at that idea as he swallowed his forth Hussong Cerveza. Hussong’s had been a watering hole for over a hundred years and both Papa and his Papa’s Papa had drunk many a drink at the long bar. His visits had dwindled but once in a while, when the gods were playing with his head, he returned. He wasn’t sure why, but it seemed to offer a place of peace even while the crowd was large and loud. Today was one of those days when he needed such a place because the vision was fresh and it scared him to think.
The men of his family had always been fishermen and daily would traverse the harbor channels out to Bahía Todos Santos or to Punta Banda where the big fish played. Luis too had played the game when young and loved the challenge offered by the sea and the loco fish, the crazy fish that would bite one day and sulk the next. He had helped his father by age six and had his own boat at age fifteen. He quickly became one of the fleet’s best fishermen and with his skill was able to help both his family and himself. Money was easy as were the doe-eyed young girls who saw him as a possible catch of their own. He was young, brash (some said reckless), had many friends, and life was good. At least good until he met the one-eyed fish.
His life had changed after that. He said he was tired of trusting loco fish to provide for the family. He had a different idea. He would open a small bar and café. Hussong’s was always busy and patrons often were turned away when it was full. He would open his own spot just a few doors down the street and perhaps he too would eventually be known throughout the land. His mom was thrilled; she said her boy had always reached for the stars. She helped run the café when it first opened but he and the family soon discovered that the stars are not so easily reached. Maybe he didn’t need to worry about the whims of those crazy, loco fish, but he did have to worry about the whims of loco gringos. Still, he and his family survived the change and he never returned to the sea.
Rubbing his head, Luis remembered that day, the day that had changed his life. He had never told the story of the one-eyed fish but it was still there in the darkness of his soul. He had married one of those pretty young girls, Maria, and sometimes at night he would awaken covered in sweat while speaking gibberish. Maria would worry and ask if she could help but how could he tell her of that eye and the story, both sad and repugnant, that he had heard? All he could do was shrug and try to go back to sleep. Once, on a night when friends had given purpose for an extended bout of drinks, the moon had appeared in his window. It was full and beautiful and he wanted to grab Maria. But then, as he watched entranced, clouds passed over that distant globe and bedarkened and outlined a giant eye. Luis had cried out and for once wanted to tell the story but even then he held back. No, lovely Maria did not deserve to hear of the fish and the story that haunted him.
But he could not forget that day even though it was many years ago.
Even in the sea around Ensenada the fish can, at times, seem to disappear. It is rare since the waters provide both cold and warm-water species but such is life and such was the circumstance one late November week. A chubasco far to the south had turned the water dark and ugly and the fish refused to cooperate with bait or lure. Prayers were said but even the gods seemed to be gone. Much of the fleet stayed ashore to wait for a change but Luis knew there were fish to be found and that he could find them. His panga had a limited range but he was not afraid to beach his boat on deserted beaches, nor to continue south like the big boats. He told his friends he might be gone for a few days and set out to find the fish.
The first day saw only a few fish and so he did indeed spend the night on a deserted beach. Results were the same the second day and although discouraged he felt he would give it one more day. Spying what looked like an idyllic beach just a short distance away he headed inshore. That’s when the trouble began. Offshore from the beach was a patch of roughened water and as soon as he entered the area malignant, Jonah-like waves seemed to attack his boat from every angle. Water, spume and scabrous kelp rained onto the boat. Whirlpools emerged and then disappeared. It didn’t make sense but he needed all his skill to stay afloat. He assumed there was a hidden reef but he had never experienced such force and such illogical patterns. To him the sea was predictable but here was what almost seemed an unnatural force with a mind of its own and it seemed determined to prevent his entry into the calmer inshore waters of the bay. He struggled to keep the boat afloat but was turned back time after time. Finally, exhausted, and perplexed, he gave up the fight realizing correctly that to continue his exertions might mean a loss of both his boat and his life.
That’s when he saw a ray of light and the one-eyed fish, a huge mola-mola that seemed to float upon the surface of the water a short distance from the boat. Such fish were commonly seen but this one was a giant, a good seven or eight feet in diameter, and with a huge eye staring up at Luis. Molas eat jellyfish and were not a fish Luis would catch for food but he was intrigued by the fish and the calm water that surrounded it. As he drew near the fish he heard it speak—and call his name. Was he crazy? Fish cannot speak! But the fish seemed to be calling Luis closer and, as if by a hypnotic trance, Luis followed the words.
He stopped the boat alongside the mola-mola and looked down at the face and the eye of the fish. The huge eye seemed to stare at Luis and then the fish spoke — if that is the word — do not go there! Impossible you say but somehow Luis heard and understood the words given off by the giant fish. And the fear and confusion it created made him stop and listen to a story he would never forget — but also would never entirely remember. The tale of savage slaughter, thousands of innocent lives lost, of a beach covered thick with the tattered remains of mutilated corpses, of a genocide, the garadiabolo, and a curse. It was a tale so sad that he was nearly sick but it was also a threat and warning. And, it was the means of salvation, direction for him to leave that spot. Do not go there said the fish and it was gone, seeming to disappear in an instant in the murky and satanic-like waters that seemed to surround his boat.
Was the fish friend or foe? Luis wasn’t sure but he understood enough to know that his days were limited on the water and so he headed home. His thirst for fish was gone and he knew he could never tell what had happened. If he did they would not believe him, they would say it was the delusions from the sun and the hazy reflections of the water. But he knew the story was true and he was ashamed.
Yes Luis chuckled, people would call him loco if he said that a fish talked, that it had given him a story that changed his life. So be it! But he still had his café, a happy woman, and his cerveza. And, not to forget, Hussong’s had excellent tequila. Today would be a good day to test the worm.
But though his thoughts soon slurred, he remembered the gringo Ron, his story of the witch-shark, the forbidden beach, and the giant eye that still stared at him on sleepless nights. He wondered…
Next... Who will continue the story?
The Never Ending Pier Story…
Posted by Ken Jones on February 21, 2003 (7:39 am)
It was just barely 6 a.m., and still dark, when Ron pulled into the parking space adjacent to "Rockcod Lane" at the foot of the Newport Pier. "Not too many cars, so maybe I can still get that spot on the corner." That was his main thought as he unpacked his gear and set up his fishing cart prior to heading out onto the pier.
Of course he also deposited the requisite number of quarters into the parking meter. "No reason to start the day off with a ticket." But the day already seemed to have lasted an eternity. Although only a few miles from home, the ride to the pier had been far from uneventful. Pea-soup fog and slow, slow going (in fact he had even stuck his head out his window a couple of times just to check the street). What should have been a twenty-minute ride had turned into a 45-minute, sometimes scary ride. "The fishing better be good."
He looked at the 24-hour donut shop across the street, thought about his weight for a second, and then headed up the ramp leading to the pier...
Posted by pig on February 21, 2003 (9:32am)
Weight was a problem for him, at least as an adult, he thought, as he glanced towards the lower part of his shirt. Finding long enough shirts had always been a problem for him, at least as an adult. He reminisced about his younger years and how he never gave a second thought about the long walks to his secret fishing spots.
As he arrived at the end of the pier, he thought about the warm summer days spent at the pier as a kid, and how he caught bonito with the 3-oz diamond jigs. He remembered the particular songs that played on fellow fishermen's radios. Not fancy radios, most fishermen weren't particular about keeping up with the Jones'. His mind wandered in and out of past memories as he set his Tuna King rod against the weathered steel rail. He thought to himself how his Tuna King fishing rod, with all its numerous scratches and bent guides, was his old friend. He had fished with that old rod many times and had caught many fish with it.
He remembered the weathered looking dory fishermen who sold their daily catch at the beginning of the pier. Particularly, he remembered the one-armed man who was always there. He hadn't seen him that day and wondered if the old man still sold fish. He hoped so, the old man was a nice old man and often spoke of fishing trips of past years. He was very interesting to listen to.
Remembering the old man kind of took his mind off of the expanded stomach he cultivated over the years. "Heh" he thought to himself...I have two arms to fish with, I should not complain.
Posted by Songslinger on February 21, 2003 (10:58am)
There was a slight movement in the shadowy mist ahead and two rough looking characters emerged from the fog. One carried a large shovelnose, still twitching, and dripping blood on the cement in little ladybug sized beads. The other was consigned the gear as though through punishment.
After appraising Ron wordlessly, giving him the look up and down, pausing maybe a moment longer than necessary on his midsection, they nodded as brother fishermen.
"Nice fish," he told them, breaking the silence. "What bait?"
For a moment they seemed startled by the sound. No doubt they'd fished since dusk and were ending an all-nighter, tired, grouchy.
"'Chovies" the fishless one replied in a whisper.
"Any other action?" Ron couldn't help himself. He was chatty kind of guy and even though he sensed their reluctance, he kept rambling. "Maybe some of those bad boys are still around, he went on, pointing to the fish. "Maybe "I'll head up and see what's doing."
They gaped at him. The man with the fish said, "Don't go up there, man."
"Why not?"
But they were already walking away
Ron's final journey..
Posted by lingcod on February 22, 2003 (4:05 am)
Brushing aside their comments as gibberish, Ron headed into the thick mist that soon became blinding fog, having no idea what awaits him in this ominous weather. "No matter", he said, "Ain't no stupid fog is going to stop me from fishing!" Ron is deeply religious and believes that the God is always with him.
Suddenly, the planks underneath started to crackle and with a loud "whooomp!" it gave way, sending Ron & his Shimano tackle into the darkness of the Pacific Ocean. Wishing that he hadn't skipped the swim lessons back in grade school, Ron slowly sank with his grip ever so tightly around his tackle. He let out a faint yelp before he heard from a distant chant, "row row row your boat gently down the stream, merrily merrily life is like a dream."
Just as the water is dangerously rising up to his arm, of all things, Big Rich & RedFish showed up in their little rowboat and asked him if he needed help. They were fishing at China Camp in SF Bay when a 700-lb sturgeon towed them out to sea. "Yup, we fought it for two days & 3 nights before the sturgeon finally broke off moments earlier" exclaimed Redfish, "Caramba mi amigo! Mucho diversión! Lo amo bebé!"
Ron was very grateful that the two offered to help but declined. "No thanks, God will help me."
So with that, BigRich & Redfish furiously paddled northward, back to the place where it all happened-where fish dreams were made of, and disappeared into the darkness of the thick ocean mist.
Time is fast running out for Ron. The water is up to his lips and just as he was gasping for his last gulp of air, a one-eyed one-handed pirate by the name of Capt Jones-Ken-Hook came by with his boat "Pier Emperor". He was looking for the fabled white whale.
"Err-hiccup, I will save you if help me find Moby-hiccup. I spent my life up and down the California Piers trying catch him, but to no avail." he said. "Now I have a boat! Muwaahahaaaaha!! Hiccup."
With his last breath, Ron once again declined and insisted that God will save him. So Capt Hook continued on his endless journey up & down the coast while Ron slowly sank down into the abyss of the Pacific Ocean with his hands clamoring tight onto his fishing gears.
Ron woke up in heaven, standing before the lord himself. Ron asked, "Oh God, why didn't you save me?"
God replied, "Damn it son, I gave you two chances and you declined both times! You idiot!"
Posted by Ken Jones February 23, 2003 (10:12 am)
But while gods can be demanding and even petulant at times, they can also be forgiving and respectful of the deeds of those who have passed over the Styx (or into Davy Jones’ locker as the case may be).
Such was the fate of Ron for although he had forsaken the help he was offered, his faith (however interpreted) had been sincere and his karma positive. So yes, he would return to life. But what form would he take, life as a more noble creature or one further down the evolutionary track of life? After thought, God decreed that Ron would remain a pier fisherman with all the attendant blame and abuse that was associated with the term. But he would also retain the sense of purpose and responsibility that he had always followed in his pier pursuits with his peers.
Soon after he was back on the surface of the pier but the fog had lifted and the carnage was revealed for all to see. The entire end of the pier was gone: nothing but shredded and twisted pilings supporting a few splintered remnants from the wood of the surface planks. The restaurant had disappeared without a trace. What had happened? What could cause such devastation to the century-old pier?
Dazed onlookers gaped at the wreckage while Newport’s finest tried to control the crowd. And then he saw the two anglers who had given the earlier warning. But as he tuned toward them they also saw him and they began a hurried retreat to the shoreward end of the pier. Ron yelled for them to wait up but…
STOP!
Subject: The Never Ending Pier Story…Chapter 2
Posted by fishfinder on July 27, 2004 (9:56pm)
…they had already disappeared into the ever growing throng of people arriving to examine the twisted wreckage of the pier. Ron thought that he would never find the answers that he was searching for, but then he looked down and caught a glimpse of the sticky droplets of life force on the ground. Suddenly all was not lost as he began to follow the blood trail left by the slowly draining shovelnose. This was no easy task because the blood spatters were intermittent and the droves of people that had already begun to mill about were obscuring the path with their shoes on the wet concrete…
Posted by das limpet on July 27, 2004 (10:17pm)
What made it more difficult to follow was that they had turned southward along the beach and were walking over the sand. It was difficult finding the droplets hidden among the mini-dunes of the wavy sand. But he strode on hurriedly so that he would not lose their trail in the coming darkness of night. Finally he reached the Newport Jetties where the trail stopped at a large crater in the sand, just at the base of the jetties. He inspected it further and discovered it was the entrance to an underground passage of some sort. “Strange,” he thought to himself. In all his years of fishing the pier and jetties, he had never recalled seeing such an ominous hole in the ground.
Should he turn back, report what he had discovered to the police officers who had come to inspect the scene, and resume his fishing? No the two men could be long gone by then, and the truth of what happened to the pier may never be revealed. He dove into the hole in search of answers.
“But following a pair of large men into a dark passageway was probably not a good idea”, he reasoned. And with that thought he hurried back out of the hole. “Coward, you call yourself a man!” his macho ego taunted him, and again he reluctantly went back in. In and out of the hole he went several times, with his ego and alter ego battling for control of his fate, until he fell to his knees and passed out in exhaustion.
But his repetitive actions had had their effect on the dark cave. A low rumble emanated from with the cave, and as he lay there unconscious, the ground trembled beneath him. A gushing wave of salty water rushed out of the passageway and threatened to drown him. Gasping for air he came to, and realizing what was happening, he picked up his rod and tackle box and tried to make a hasty exit. But it was too late. Tons of sand began to pour on him and the cave opening collapsed in on itself. He was trapped.
Fumbling through his tackle box in the darkness, Ron finally found his night-fishing glow stick, but only after getting stuck a couple of times by randomly placed treble-hooks that he had never bothered to store properly. “Never thought this would ever come in handy,” he said to himself out loud. He shook the glow-stick a couple of times until it was bright enough to light the passageway. “There must be a way out of here,” he assured himself. Digging upwards through the sand seemed like a good way to get a coronary, especially in his condition. Or worse it may cause the cave to collapse further, burying him alive. Sensing he had no other options, Ron inched his way deeper into the cave, hoping that he would be able to find an escape before the glow in his stick waned.
Posted by das limpet on July 28, 2004 (2:27pm)
He trudged forward, cautiously at first, but as the glow began to dim around him his pace quickened until it became a panicky stumble in the near darkness. Until finally, his glow stick gave out. No amount of shaking would reinvigorate his useless tool. Afraid to continue onwards in the dark for fear of falling into some unseen pit, he sat down and began to whimper.
It is unknown how long he stayed in that state until suddenly he thought he heard a man’s voice. He stopped his whimpering and sat quietly, straining his ears in effort to catch the sound again, a sound, any sound in the darkness.
Again, he caught the faint sound of voices ahead. Or was it behind. He couldn’t remember which way was which anymore. Were the two men coming back this way again? What if they caught him there! There would be no escape from whatever torture they would subject him to for being so nosy. Should he run? Which way? Either direction could lead him right into their clutches. Paralyzed with fear, he could only sit there in silence, hoping that the voices would not find him. And so he sat. But the voices seemed to be getting louder and closer, enough so that he could hear what they were saying.
“I swore I thought I heard the sounds of some girly-man whimpering.” Said a husky male voice with a thick accent loudly.
“Shhhh shut uppp! Dang, where could those two have gone to?” whispered the other. But this voice belonged to a woman!
“We have to get that shovelnose back.,” she continued. The male voice replied with a comment in German, which Ron could not decipher.
Ron jumped up in hopes that these may be his rescuers. “Surely no one who speaks German could be an evil man,” he thought.
With that he cried out for help. After a while he could see one end of the tunnel slowly begin to light up. Then he saw two figures coming towards him carrying a torch. Were his eyes deceiving him? The woman looked like Lucy, except she was wearing something that looked like a Xena outfit. The man looked like John Mykannen, but he had long flowing blonde hair and was only wearing what appeared to be a loin cloth. Together they came up to Ron, who could only gape at them, uncertain of how to react.
“I told you I thought I could sense a girly-man nearby. This must be him. What are you doing here girly-man?” John Mykannen asked.
“Uhhh,” said the baffled Ron.
“Come on now, speak up” said John.
“Give the guy a chance,” said Lucy firmly as she came up to Ron and put a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “Don’t worry buddy, we won’t bite ya. Whatc’ha doing down here?”
Ron mustered up is senses and replied. “I followed two guys down here, who were carrying some gear and a shovelnose. I thought they might know something about what happened to the pier. But the entrance caved in and I got trapped.”
Lucy and John looked at each other as if communicating only by thought. Then Lucy turned to Ron. “We’ll get you out of here Ron, but first we need to find those two carrying the shovelnose. Will you help us find them?”
“Uh, okay,” said Ron.
With that, the three headed further into the passageway. While the three walked onward, Ron could not help but ask, “Aren’t you Lucy, the CGI woman, and aren’t you John Mykannen?” Lucy did not respond, but quickened her pace to get ahead of the pack.
“That is Lucy the Aqua-Vampire Slayer,” John told Ron. “She has amazingly bountiful bosoms, does she not?”
“And I am John the Virile,” John continued. “I am one of Lucy’s loyal sidekicks. Together we battle the evil hordes of undead subterranean half-demon, half-fish, seven-gilled Troglodytes.”
“I learned that word on pierfishing.com.” whispered John.
“I’m just Ron,” said Ron.
“Ah! Ron the Just!” John exclaimed. “Lucy and I are honored to make your acquaintance!”
Finally, they arrived at what looked like a subterranean cavern filled with water. In the center of the water was a rock platform. Ron noticed then that John was carrying a very heavy looking fishing rod. John too noticed that Ron was carrying a pole. Ah I see you are admiring my weapon. I call it the ‘But Hammererer”. Here puny human, grab a hold of it and feel its might. John place the Hammererer in Ron’s hands but the rod was too heavy for him and Ron fell over from the weight of it.
John laughed heartily. “Ha! You should go fishing more often girly-man and practice fighting some Stan-sized rays and build your arms up into Stan-sized arms. Or better yet, come fishing with me and I will show you how to catch some John-sized ‘buts.” John said.
With that Lucy peaked over at John’s rear end. She said nothing, but could not help but subconsciously raise her one of her eyebrows.
“Hey John, your shoes are untied,” stated Lucy.
John bent over to take a close look at his shoes. He stood that way for several minutes pondering them, while Lucy stood there admiring the view, and Ron fiddled with his rod. Finally, John straightened himself back up, scratching his head and replied, “Upon closer inspection, these are sandals.”
“Oh enough chat, let’s go kick some fish-demon ass!” Lucy commanded.
Just as she said that, two figures climbed out of the water onto the center platform. They placed the shovelnose onto an altar which began to glow eerily. Within moments, a large Aqua-Demon arose from the depths of the abyss to claim it victim. But before it could do so, Lucy let out her war cry “Yee-yee-yee-yee-yee!” and leapt across the water onto the platform, where she began to wage battle. With two quick swings of her potent arms, she swatted the two demon-servants off the platform and immediately grappled with the Aqua-Demon.
John took his rod and attached a spider sinker to his 500-lb test braid line and used it as a grappling hook to swing across, leaving Ron standing there wondering what to do.
While Lucy and John battled the Aqua-Demon, Ron searched through his tackle box for his own spider sinker which he attached to his line. He began twirling it around his head. Just then one of the troglodytes leapt out of the water towards Ron, snarling! Before Ron could react, the spider sinker struck his attacker in the side of the head, impaling him. The demon-servant landed atop of Ron dead, which knocked Ron backwards onto the rock cave floor, and when he hit his head he fell unconscious.
Ron awoke to Lucy and John standing over him. Lucy bent down to cradle Ron in her arms, while gently stroking his hair. “Arise Just Ron - He who hath smoted the demon-servant of the Aqua-Demon Lord Hali-Tosis. We are victorious today!” said Lucy.
Ron smiled weakly, while enjoying Lucy’s warm-bosomed embrace.
“Oh, I have to get back home to my wife!” Ron realized.
Upon hearing this Lucy, only frowned. “We will help you find your way out then,” she sadly sighed. And out of the caverns they journeyed.
Upon, returning to the pier, John the Virile, handed Ron the shovelnose, which remarkably was still alive. “For your help, honorable Ron,” smile John.
“Thank you so much, but I really have to get back home now.” Said Ron as he hastily put the shark into his gunny sack, “Good-bye and good luck in your quest to destroy all fish…err demon…things.
They bade him farewell and Ron turned to head towards home. “Oh! Wait, I have to ask. Do you know what happened to the pier?” asked Ron turning back around. But the two had vanished.
John sighed. As he walked away, the shovelnose began wiggling around in the sack, and he pulled it out to look at it. “Well Mr. Shovelnose. I guess you’ve seen quite a day too. You wouldn’t happen to know what happened to the end of the pier do you”. The shovelnose stared at him blankly for a moment, then continued its struggle to get free. Admiring it’s will to live, Ron carried it to the water, gently lowered the shark into the water and held it afloat until, with a quick snap of its tail, it zipped away into the darkness. Feeling content even though he never got any fishing done, Ron headed back home.
Arriving back home, Ron was met by his wife, standing in the front doorway with her arms folded. Before she could say a word, or demand to know what he had been up to for the last 24 hours, Ron whisked her up, off her feet and exclaimed “I am Ron the Just and… VIRILE! You will come with me and be my love slave, puny woman!”
Ron’s wife only shrieked in delight as she was carried up the stairs…
Posted by Ken Jones on July 29, 2004 ( 6:34 am)
Ron lay in his bed wide awake. It was 3:13 in the morning but he was troubled by the events of the previous day. Had they really happened? Had it been a dream? More disturbing were the once forgotten images of a trip he had taken to Baja with a church group in the '60s.
In a small shop in Ensenada, a withered old man had asked if he wanted to see the face of a Saint? "A Saint?" Turned out to be the coriaceous remains of a shovelnose that had been cut and dried to resemble a human face. It was a strange sight and elicited howls of laughter when he showed it to his friends. But the old man had sworn that it had religious powers.
Were shovelnose somehow religious? Were the strange events of the previous day in some way connected to religious or supernatural powers?
Posted by gyozadud on July 29, 2004 ( 9:13 am)
Religion had nothing to do with shovelnoses. In his dream, the scene at the shop became clear — total recall. He remembered grabbing one and taking his knife, he slashed viciously through the carcass. But instead of rubbery flesh, he hit metal alloy and snapped the blade cleanly off his Kabar. The shovelnose then sprang to life and jumped inside of him, fusing painfully through his sternum. With a fright, he woke up and reached for his chest, which ached. It was only a dream he thought briefly, somewhat relieved. But that didn't last long before he felt the urge to vomit. And there on the couch, he hunched over the coffee table, staring at a copy of Pier Fishing in California 2nd Edition in horror as a shovelnose emerged from this throat, drowning the book and table in grotesque, dark green slime. He blacked out.
Posted by Songslinger on July 29, 2004 (1:48 pm)
Meanwhile…It rained all day in Ensenada. Luis sat behind the window in his deserted cafe and nursed a Cerveza. The streets were nearly empty. Through the rain soaked glass they took on an unsteady, artistic quality. It was as if Luis was inside an Impressionist's painting, looking out upon the real world.
He turned, glanced at the swinging door to the kitchen, considered calling his wife, changed his mind. Instead he concentrated on the anomalous collection of fishing gear and skeletons piled on a center table. Ron's things. He never came back for them. So odd to see them now, so abrupt and intrusive, a release of memories that he'd managed to let lapse into time's expiration. Saints and skeletons, guitarfish and guitar players, wild, wild nights soaking up Tequila and the mocking smiles of Ron's young wife Marilyn and her sister Julia.
Don't go up there, man.
STOP!
Subject: The Never Ending Pier Story…Chapter 3
Posted by Ken Jones on November 8, 2004 (7:56 pm)
There is a beach south of Ensenada, down past Punta Banda, that is left free by the natives. On that beach nothing lives, no sand fleas, worms, ghost shrimp or vegetation. The sand is pearl white and the azure surf never enters the grounds. No boat has survived the hidden reef that lurks offshore and no human has set foot on that ghostly sand. Even the cliffs up above give no evidence of the ethereal nature of that place. The only sign of life is found in the water itself where, every spring, the shovelnose gather in vast assemblage. It is a bit of Heaven—or Hell?
Once, back in the ‘60s, a brash young gringo from the north had sought to enter the grounds. His vision was to walk, camp and fish the length of Baja. His name was Ron…
Posted by will_fish on November 8, 2004 (10:51pm)
Ron had seen some strange things in his time, but nothing as strange as the green welts, now forming on the finger, deeply scratched by the enormous rock crab he had caught (and eaten) earlier that day.
His head was warm in an odd way and he had an unquenched thirst since the Heineken he had washed the rock down with. His palms were sweaty and his body was consumed with an uncontrollable itch. He knew something was wrong but....
Posted by hdeb on November 9, 2004 (1:25 am)
he continued his journey south. He had been stopping in small villages, asking about the fishing, curious about the local methods and customs surrounding the pursuit of fish. As he moved further south, he heard rumors of a place that was forbidden, where nothing lived, where no one could go. He didn't think much about the stories, he dismissed them as tales told to scare tourists away from favorite fishing grounds. His days had been filled with fishing, and talk of fishing. At night, camped within the sound of surf, he dreamed of fish. That night, he rubbed some aloe vera he picked along the roadside on the green welts, took some aspirin, and tried to put the bad feeling he had out of his mind. Sleep came hard, though, and he tossed and turned, his dreams strangely oppressive. He spent the night fighting nightmare fish, losing them in strange ways, hampered by odd looking, unfamiliar tackle. He finally fell into a deep sleep, from which he awoke drenched in sweat, one last dream startling him awake.
Feeling somewhat recovered from his illness of the day before, Ron went to the nearest village to get supplies, and, of course, question the locals about the nearby fishing. They were strangely reticent, and told him that there was no good fishing nearby, that he should maybe take a bus to a place much further south, where the fishing was said to be excellent. He remembered the rumors of the forbidden place, and though somewhat shaken by the events of the day before, and his strange dreams, he still dismissed the stories as just a way to chase him away from their secret fishing places.
He started on his way south, but was feeling tired, the restless night wearing on him. When he came upon spots that looked "fishy", he would cast his line into the water, but he would feel strangely distracted, and give up after a try or two.
When night fell, he was still walking, restless, and unwilling to stop. He found himself traveling along a wide beach, soft waves scalloping white sand along the shore. Unnaturally bright stars illuminated the sky, lighting his way. Periodically, in likely looking places, he would cast his lure into the surf, looking for the holes where his quarry might lurk. Finally, he was rewarded with a bump on his line. Waiting one beat, two beats, he slowly reeled a bit of his line in. Feeling the answering pressure, he set his hook, hard, and knew the battle was on. His reel sang as the fish started to run, echoing the atavistic thrill that sang in his heart as he felt the fish fight for its life. The fish fought hard, and he fought back, instinctively answering every move the fish made. A surge of adrenaline made him suddenly feel invincible as he tirelessly ran down the beach, following the fish, which was now running south, parallel to the shore. He knew that he would be the victor, that the fish, fighting so valiantly, would be his.
Suddenly, the sky turned black, the light of the stars sucked into the night. In the darkness, the ocean fluoresced, ripples and splashes limned in ghostly green light. He noticed a sound, steady under the noise of the surf, like the pattering of rain pelting the surface of the sea. Squinting toward the water, still trying to bring the fish to shore, he thought he could see, shining in the bright water, whole schools of fish swimming in the same direction as his fish, jumping from the water, splashing and boiling, as if being pursued by a host of unseen predators. He realized, without knowing how, that he was near the forbidden place.
The fish on his line, tired now, was slowly being brought to shore, giving in to the inevitability of being caught. Facing the sea, reeling hard, he thought he could see the fish, illuminated by the ghostly light, coming toward him through the water, followed by an odd looming darkness. It was suddenly quiet, the boiling sound had stopped, the fish no longer being chased, no sound of surf hitting the sand. A foreboding gripped him, as he noticed the darkness behind his fish growing. As his fish came closer to the shore, he noticed it was now swimming toward him, trying to escape the dark shape. He caught just a glimpse of the silhouette of a giant shovel shaped head, as his fish was enveloped by the huge darkness.
He screamed at the dark shovelnose, screamed as hard as he could, and the giant fish rose out of the sea, and spoke to him. It said "Beware," in a calm watery voice, took him by the arm in its strong jaws, and dragged him into the sea...
Posted by will_fish on November 9, 2004 (11:52 am)
As the fierce beast pulled him into the dark, churning water, fear overcame him. I don't want to die here, alone, and in the dark, he thought. He fought his fear until he once again gained the clarity and composure he had come to recognize inside of himself.
No longer in the grips of fear, his lightning fast instincts assessed the situation and while still locked in the jaws of this fierce leviathan he was not yet defeated.
His clarity afforded no assistance and the beast attempted to pull his head beneath the crashing salty waves. He thought to himself, God,if you get me out of this, I swear I'll never fish again. Even then, He knew it wasn't true.
He gasped and coughed to clear his throat as he fought for a clear breath of air to take in and hold, but the splashing saltwater choked him to exhaustion and he could now only see glimpses of the beach through the splashing waves before his head was pulled under.
Suddenly, the dark waters were alive with light. As the monster dragged him deeper and away from the shore, little bubbles of light were left in their wake. I'm still alive, he thought. How can this be?
With his fear of death fully quelled, he reveled in the wonder of his adventure. The bubbles of light, now much larger, were providing him air to breathe as they rushed past him.
His thoughts now changed from how to Why. Why is this happening to me?
In an instant his monster host stopped. With the bubbles still brushing against his nose allowing him breath, he saw an illuminated white sandy bottom teaming with all manner of sea life.
It was like a beautiful tropical fish tank, each plant and rock in perfect place. And the fish, the fish were beautiful. The colors on their fins and scales awed him with child like peace. He felt as though he'd never actually seen a fish before. It reminded him of that time in college when he dropped a hit of... Well that's another story, lets get back to this one, shall we?
Cuttlefish? is that what they were? he thought. As they swam past his face, little rainbows of translucent light rippled down their fins like runway lights. They looked intelligently into his eyes and he wanted to stroke them to let them know he was no threat.
He reached out his hand to do so, but felt a soft thud against it. The monster fish was gone. He was alone. Trying to make sense of it he reached to his left and found a transparent barrier which ended at the length of his wrist, his hand receiving a slight jolt of pain as it struck its confine. In an instant, he knew where he was.
I'm on display, He thought. The fish swam past him in little groups. Like families on an outing. He wondered what force kept them together in these little groups. Were they talking? do fish talk? They glided past him with intense stares, watching his every move. Occasionally, one of the larger ones would swim straight at him only to turn away at the last second as if taunting him.
He then noticed other groups of fish feeding in the sand all around them. Feeding fiercely on chunks of meat. The meat was being flailed about just outside his tank. Red strings, like tendons floated in front of him. Bits of meat, bits of bone, the tip of a finger.
He screamed in horror as he awoke to the sound of the peaceful lapping shore. Drenched and covered in sand, he lay in the shape of a chalked body as he noticed the sun was just coming up....
Posted by fishingrod on November 9, 2004 (5:57pm)
After wasting a few hours slipping in and out of consciousness, Ron lazily rolled himself to an upright position, trying to get his bearings.
"How did I get here?" he thought to himself.
He slowly stood up with the awkward balance of a drunken sailor on roller skates and began to wipe the sand from his face.
"How long have I been laying here?" he wondered.
He felt the tenderness on the back of his sunburned neck. His lips were severely chapped and his throat was in desperate need of water. He tilted his head towards the sky and shielded his eyes with his right hand. He looked as close to the sun as his tired eyes would allow him. By the sun's position, Ron realized that it must be around just after noon.
He struggled to force himself to walk the few steps to the water's edge and captured the incoming water with cupped hands and began to quickly rinse his face. His thirst was so great that he was tempted to gulp the abundance of water that surround his feet as it met him at the edge of the shore. However, reality kicked in and he looked for other means to quench his thirst. Satisfied that the ocean's water had done all that it possibly could to restore what was left of his youthful vibrance, he focused his eyes towards the area where the sand and the cliffs meet. Tucked away behind a severely weathered boulder was his backpack. He frantically searched the pack for any signs of salvation. In triumph, he came across a bottle of local beer. "It's better than nothing," he proclaimed as he gulped the life-saving elixir in what seemed like mere seconds.
Satisfied for the time being, Ron sought refuge from the sun by leaning against the base of the cliff. He could feel that the sand beneath his feet was cooler than the sand just a few yards away. He looked through his backpack again hoping for another beer yet he found none. He did however find the aspirin bottle he purchased the day before in the village.
"I could use a couple of these," he rationalized as he hastily opened the bottle. After all, he felt as if he had been run over by a thousand trucks. At this time his memory slowly began to return. He recalled the magnificent fight in the moonlight. It was him against a mysterious sea creature that did not easily relent. He recalled the fierce battle, wet to his chest and he tried to dig his feet into the wet sand beneath his feet. Then nothing. His next clear memory was waking up on the beach. He looked to his right and saw his rod and reel sitting atop of a pile of freshly washed-up kelp. Even at a few yards away he could tell that his line had snapped during the fight and that the fish had apparently won this round.
"Next time.." he chuckled to himself. Searching through his aspirin bottle, he noticed that among the traditional white tablets were a few orange ones. Could these pills have caused him to black out and more importantly to lose the fish he fought so hard for? He tossed out the orange pills and vowed to never buy anything from a Mexican pharmacy ever again.
After retrieving his gear and having felt his strength return, he set off southward along the narrow stretch of beach. After about 20 minutes of walking, he looked ahead and could see three small figures approaching him. By their movements and speed he realized that they were running towards him. Three local boys came up to him and began yelling frantically in Spanish.
"Senor! Senor! Tiburon!"
"Tiburon?" he replied.
"Si, si... Ven con nosotros!"
By this time, the afternoon sun began to heat up the white sand as it were charcoal on a grill, his thirst returned even stronger than before and the pains of hunger were starting to overwhelm him. However, something in their eyes compelled Ron to follow these boys. He began to follow them along the beach, continuing southward.
As they walked, Ron's mind focused enough to wonder... "So they found a shark, big deal. Sharks are common in this area, why would they want me to follow them?" He was soon about to find the answer. After an hour of walking he came upon a crowd of local villagers. They were on the sand, no more than 15 feet from the water. They surrounded something that lay on the sand yet Ron was unable to make out what it was. As he made his way through the crowd to take a better look, he let out a gasp in horror and simultaneous excitement at what he saw. There in the sand lay a...
There lay...
Posted by dompfa ben on November 11, 2004 (12:28pm)
...a woman, perhaps the most perfect woman Ron had ever seen. Though she was unconscious, there was an aura about her, an iridescence. Ron detected a subtle heat emanating from this woman, or was it a burning welling up within him?
Raven tresses fell from her head in wide curls, intermingling with the sand beneath her head. Her eyes were closed, long eyelashes resting quietly on high cheekbones and a delicate nose. Soft lips parted slightly, and for the first time, Ron noticed the rising and falling of this woman's chest beneath a sheer cotton blouse, rendered transparent by the ocean.
She was breathing. She was alive. She was beautiful.
Ron shook himself from her spell, and knelt down next to the woman.
"Eh, get una manta! ...de la cama!" Ron barked to the nearest boy in broken Spanish. The boy sprinted off towards an unseen trail in the underbrush. The other boys appeared nervous, unable to take their eyes from the woman.
Ron leaned over the woman, placing his ear close to her mouth to listen to her breathing. But there was no sound, only warmth on his cheek. Strangely, Ron watched as her chest rose and fell in a labored way. She was breathing...but why couldn't he hear it?
Ron pulled back the woman's hair from her neck so that he might check the woman's pulse. It was then that he noticed five lateral cuts on the side of the woman's neck. A thin tendril of blood ran from one of the cuts. Ron quickly checked the other side of her neck, not wanting to press his fingers into an open wound. Strangely, there were similar cuts there, too.
"She needs a doctor," Ron announced to no one.
Placing his left hand on the top of the woman's head, and his right hand under her chin, Ron attempted to open the woman's airway. With two fingers, he pulled down on her chin, opening her mouth to see if there was any obstruction.
Instantly, Ron reared back in horror. Behind those soft lips were several rows of pointed, serrated teeth.
He remembered the words of the young boy who had beckoned him to this place: "Tiburon."
Ron carefully opened one of her eyelids with his thumb. A black crescent surrounded by gold stared lifelessly skyward. Ron's eyes moved back to her neck. He noted the subtle movement of the lateral cuts on her neck, corresponding with the rise and fall of her chest.
These were not cuts. They were gills.
A strange mixture of fear and duty overcame him. Ron grabbed the woman by the wrists and stood.
"Ayudame!" he exclaimed to the boys, dragging the woman towards the breakers. "Help me get her back into the water!"
STOP!
The Never Ending Pier Story…
Chapter 4 —Ken Jones
Some say you can never go back, but Luis chuckled at that idea as he swallowed his forth Hussong Cerveza. Hussong’s had been a watering hole for over a hundred years and both Papa and his Papa’s Papa had drunk many a drink at the long bar. His visits had dwindled but once in a while, when the gods were playing with his head, he returned. He wasn’t sure why, but it seemed to offer a place of peace even while the crowd was large and loud. Today was one of those days when he needed such a place because the vision was fresh and it scared him to think.
The men of his family had always been fishermen and daily would traverse the harbor channels out to Bahía Todos Santos or to Punta Banda where the big fish played. Luis too had played the game when young and loved the challenge offered by the sea and the loco fish, the crazy fish that would bite one day and sulk the next. He had helped his father by age six and had his own boat at age fifteen. He quickly became one of the fleet’s best fishermen and with his skill was able to help both his family and himself. Money was easy as were the doe-eyed young girls who saw him as a possible catch of their own. He was young, brash (some said reckless), had many friends, and life was good. At least good until he met the one-eyed fish.
His life had changed after that. He said he was tired of trusting loco fish to provide for the family. He had a different idea. He would open a small bar and café. Hussong’s was always busy and patrons often were turned away when it was full. He would open his own spot just a few doors down the street and perhaps he too would eventually be known throughout the land. His mom was thrilled; she said her boy had always reached for the stars. She helped run the café when it first opened but he and the family soon discovered that the stars are not so easily reached. Maybe he didn’t need to worry about the whims of those crazy, loco fish, but he did have to worry about the whims of loco gringos. Still, he and his family survived the change and he never returned to the sea.
Rubbing his head, Luis remembered that day, the day that had changed his life. He had never told the story of the one-eyed fish but it was still there in the darkness of his soul. He had married one of those pretty young girls, Maria, and sometimes at night he would awaken covered in sweat while speaking gibberish. Maria would worry and ask if she could help but how could he tell her of that eye and the story, both sad and repugnant, that he had heard? All he could do was shrug and try to go back to sleep. Once, on a night when friends had given purpose for an extended bout of drinks, the moon had appeared in his window. It was full and beautiful and he wanted to grab Maria. But then, as he watched entranced, clouds passed over that distant globe and bedarkened and outlined a giant eye. Luis had cried out and for once wanted to tell the story but even then he held back. No, lovely Maria did not deserve to hear of the fish and the story that haunted him.
But he could not forget that day even though it was many years ago.
Even in the sea around Ensenada the fish can, at times, seem to disappear. It is rare since the waters provide both cold and warm-water species but such is life and such was the circumstance one late November week. A chubasco far to the south had turned the water dark and ugly and the fish refused to cooperate with bait or lure. Prayers were said but even the gods seemed to be gone. Much of the fleet stayed ashore to wait for a change but Luis knew there were fish to be found and that he could find them. His panga had a limited range but he was not afraid to beach his boat on deserted beaches, nor to continue south like the big boats. He told his friends he might be gone for a few days and set out to find the fish.
The first day saw only a few fish and so he did indeed spend the night on a deserted beach. Results were the same the second day and although discouraged he felt he would give it one more day. Spying what looked like an idyllic beach just a short distance away he headed inshore. That’s when the trouble began. Offshore from the beach was a patch of roughened water and as soon as he entered the area malignant, Jonah-like waves seemed to attack his boat from every angle. Water, spume and scabrous kelp rained onto the boat. Whirlpools emerged and then disappeared. It didn’t make sense but he needed all his skill to stay afloat. He assumed there was a hidden reef but he had never experienced such force and such illogical patterns. To him the sea was predictable but here was what almost seemed an unnatural force with a mind of its own and it seemed determined to prevent his entry into the calmer inshore waters of the bay. He struggled to keep the boat afloat but was turned back time after time. Finally, exhausted, and perplexed, he gave up the fight realizing correctly that to continue his exertions might mean a loss of both his boat and his life.
That’s when he saw a ray of light and the one-eyed fish, a huge mola-mola that seemed to float upon the surface of the water a short distance from the boat. Such fish were commonly seen but this one was a giant, a good seven or eight feet in diameter, and with a huge eye staring up at Luis. Molas eat jellyfish and were not a fish Luis would catch for food but he was intrigued by the fish and the calm water that surrounded it. As he drew near the fish he heard it speak—and call his name. Was he crazy? Fish cannot speak! But the fish seemed to be calling Luis closer and, as if by a hypnotic trance, Luis followed the words.
He stopped the boat alongside the mola-mola and looked down at the face and the eye of the fish. The huge eye seemed to stare at Luis and then the fish spoke — if that is the word — do not go there! Impossible you say but somehow Luis heard and understood the words given off by the giant fish. And the fear and confusion it created made him stop and listen to a story he would never forget — but also would never entirely remember. The tale of savage slaughter, thousands of innocent lives lost, of a beach covered thick with the tattered remains of mutilated corpses, of a genocide, the garadiabolo, and a curse. It was a tale so sad that he was nearly sick but it was also a threat and warning. And, it was the means of salvation, direction for him to leave that spot. Do not go there said the fish and it was gone, seeming to disappear in an instant in the murky and satanic-like waters that seemed to surround his boat.
Was the fish friend or foe? Luis wasn’t sure but he understood enough to know that his days were limited on the water and so he headed home. His thirst for fish was gone and he knew he could never tell what had happened. If he did they would not believe him, they would say it was the delusions from the sun and the hazy reflections of the water. But he knew the story was true and he was ashamed.
Yes Luis chuckled, people would call him loco if he said that a fish talked, that it had given him a story that changed his life. So be it! But he still had his café, a happy woman, and his cerveza. And, not to forget, Hussong’s had excellent tequila. Today would be a good day to test the worm.
But though his thoughts soon slurred, he remembered the gringo Ron, his story of the witch-shark, the forbidden beach, and the giant eye that still stared at him on sleepless nights. He wondered…
Next... Who will continue the story?
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