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Yesterday the four of us, George, Berman, Krego, and me, went deep sea fishing in the Sea of Cortez for the entire day. The day was beautiful, but somewhat marred because none of us caught a blue or striped marlin, which was the objective of the trip in the first place--or at least that was the objective of the others. I was mainly interested in relaxation, sun, and an occasional cerveza. Turned out that I caught a sailfish, and we also pulled in over thirty yellow tail tuna, which the captain sold to nearby seafood restaurants--save one. That one we took to the hotel chef to prepare for our dinner. When we left the boat, the captain insisted I get my picture taken with the sailfish. I did. What with our charter fee, and the sale of the sailfish and yellow tail, the captain had a very profitable day. Glad we helped. Dinner was peaceful enough. Krego had finally stopped bitching at Berman about his prize marlin being spoiled. See, what happened was Berman hooked a shark that devoured part of an enormous blue marlin before Krego could land it. Anyway, during dinner we started talking and drinking with six other folks from the States who sat at an adjoining table, and the rest of the night became downright entertaining. For the second day in a row, I got "over served" on tequila. I declined to go fishing the next morning to recuperate on the sand. My day began with a four-mile run about eight o'clock--the oxygen/carbon dioxide exchange always helpful in the hangover recovery process--after which I showered, pulled on some board shorts, and had an enormous breakfast complete with a little "hair of the dog". That morning it was sangrita (not sangria). Sangrita is a Bloody Mary style eye-opener. A tall glass contains a mixture of tomato, orange, and lime juices with black pepper and hot pepper sauce blended in. Alongside is a jigger of tequila with a few extra lime wedges just in case you want a little extra tartness. The idea is to enjoy all the flavors by taking alternate sips of tequila and the mixture. Delicious! The Mexicans have figured out (in drink and dining) that spice and tartness hitting the tongue simultaneously causes a wonderful explosion of flavors. I need to throw in a little side note here: Only rank amateurs, like typical stateside twenty-and-thirty-somethings, are ignorant enough to "slam" good booze. That's an indication they don't really like the taste of it, and either want to get drunk and/or impress their peers. I have never understood getting drunk on purpose. What does that prove other than you're stupid? Those of us who enjoy good liquor for smoothness and taste, savor it, and are rarely dim-witted enough to become over-served. Turned out I had been unwise two days in a row. Guess I liked the stuff too much. After breakfast, I grabbed a few towels, a cabana on the sand, and indulged in a long swim. When I came out of the water (feeling refreshed) I spied an old handball buddy from my athletic club in Newport Beach. I shouted out his name (which is indentical to that of a famous football player), dried off, and joined him at an outdoor bar where he intended to have breakfast. We chatted for a while, decided we'd have lunch together, shook hands, and I returned to my cabana while he enjoyed his meal. I laid back and enjoyed the sun for maybe ten minutes when a shadow passed over me and remained. I opened my eyes and looked into the eager faces of a young couple, both tanned and very fit. She was stunning. He looked rich. They both wore a distastful amount of jewelry with their swimwear. Definitely, yuppies of the noveau riche variety. "Sir, may we trouble you for a minute?" said the male. "My lady and I are vacationing here from San Francisco, and we're big Dallas Cowboys fans!" He finished with a burst of enthusiasm. She jumped up-and-down (and a beautiful take-home-visual it was) and clapped her hands. I squinted at them questioningly. "Um, okay...good for you. What does that have to do with me?" Then I remembered my Newport Beach friend's name. They must have heard me call it out and misunderstood. Say! This could be fun! "We weren't eavesdropping," said the female, "but we sat at the next table and overheard your conversation with that guy over there." She pointed at Scott. "We also heard you call his name." "Scott?" My friend had the exact same name as number 32 on-your-program. The two of them actually attended the same university, but at different times. My buddy was a bit older. "Yeah!" said the male. "Aren't they supposed to be in training camp this week?" Right then I defintely decided to have some fun with them--and Scott. I looked around furtively; gave them a conspirative glance. "Right. See, he isn't supposed to be here, so don't say anything--you know, like mention it to reporters, okay?" They nodded. "He's in enough hot water with the organization as it is. Supposed to be at a funeral for a relative (wink), but wanted to get a little R and R before the grind of the season. Can you blame him? I mean, the guy kills himself for the team; leaves pieces of himself on the field." They were all ears and empathy. "You're having lunch with him at the bar; same place?" asked the male. I nodded. "Would you introduce us?" asked the female. She had this pleading I'll-do-anything look. My inner fantasies going wild, but being the trooper that I am, I shook them off. "Would he give us an autograph; maybe let us get a picture with him?" pleaded the male. "Geez, I don't know..." I pretended to have dilemma, a huge an inner struggle going on. "What if it gets out--his cover gets blown?" "It won't! Honest it won't!" She looked so hopeful. Benevolent smile, "Sure, of course. I'll be glad to introduce you. But--you've got to be discreet. Keep it to youself. Promise?" They nodded eagerly. "He can't be recognized or seen giving autographs and pictures. Might land him in big trouble." Their heads were still bobbing up-and-down in eager anticipation. As they walked away, I heard the female say to her companion, "That picture they used for Scott on TV last year was wrong..." I chuckled myself into a nice nap. About one o'clock, Scott and I sat down at the bar for a beer and to order a burger. The couple was at a nearby table about halfway through their lunch. They kept glancing our way, waiting to pounce. I signaled them to stay put until I called for them. I took a swig and began. "You know, the damndest thing happened to me this morning on the beach. This young, yuppie couple came up to me asking for my autograph. Said they were on a romantic getaway, and to commemorate the occasion were trying to collect an autograph from everyone in the hotel. Is that weird or what?" The way Scott looked at me--with a little half smile--I think he was on to my lie. "Anyway, they're at a table to my left--don't look!--looking our way. Probably going to ask for your's." Scott looked their way and smiled. "No problem. It's a strange world." He chuckled. The couple took Scott's glance as their signal, bounded over, and started gushing all over him. Finally, the female said, "May we take a picture with you, and get your autograph? And would you put your number with your signature?" Scott made eye contact with me and grinned widely. He "got it", since some of our athletic club buddies (me included) had done it to him before. "Sure! Love to! Who shall I make it out to?" When they left, Scott and I exchanged glances, and he said, "They may be a couple, but I don't think they're married. No wedding ring. Plus she gave me this glance, y'know? Also pulled my hand up around her so I got a handful. Really nice, by the way." "Gonna find out?" "Probably. My name sake might get lucky--again!" Scott laughed and I knew he had dishonorable intentions. "You owe me one," I said and went back to my cabana for a siesta. I'd done enough for one day. Copyright by Gene Myers author of AFTER HOURS: ADVENTURES OF AN INTERNATIONAL BUSINESSMAN. Webite: www.strategicpublishinggroup.com/title/AfterHours.html Available at www.amazon.com and www.barnesandnoble.com and www.borders.com NEW from Gene Myers: SONGS FROM LATTYS GROVE, PublishAmerica (August 2010)
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