Fishing in Vigo

On Saturday morning I met two strangers for a fishing trip. I was running a little late because I tend to overestimate the length of a minute, but my ride, Andres, waited patiently while I popped two Dramamine and mentally prepared myself to spend the entire day speaking in Spanish on a sailboat. We made polite conversation on the drive to the pier and I informed him that I would be able to bait my own hook.

Andres greeted the ship captain, Angel, with a big hug and a bottle of wine. We haphazardly grabbed handfuls of fishing equipment and made our way to the sailboat, barbed hooks and fishing line trailing behind us.

Angel represents everything that’s right with Spain. His face proudly wears the lines of a thousand days at sea, and his constant, inquisitive smile begs that you join him in the joke of the moment. He fires a stream of rapid, infinite chatter. I probably understood 50% of what he said.

Calamari, canned clams and mussels scraped directly from the dock served as bait for the day. I think Angel made a joke about diving in and grabbing the mussels from the ocean floor, but I can’t be too sure. According to the gentlemen our sailboat was aging and modest, but to me it felt pleasantly loved and lived-in. The intimate sleeping quarters beneath the deck were accented by delicately embroidered pillows and the sand of past adventures.

With the assistance of an outboard motor we left the marina and made our way into the Ria de Vigo, which is essentially a large, long bay surrounded by land on three sides. The sun warmed the back of my neck and I probably looked like I was having a manic episode because I was grinning so emphatically. Angel exchanged brief hellos (and possibly insults) with the marauders in nearby boats, nimbly moving from bow to stern to release the weathered sails.

The fishing rig and style was relatively simple, but it took me a while to get the hang of it because of the language barrier. I’m not sure why the University of Minnesota failed to include fishing terms in the Spanish curriculum, but Andres happily used his broken English to get the point across. Each line had a large sinker and three barbed hooks, one for each type of bait. We dropped the bait until it landed on the bottom, and then gently jigged the line until we felt a bite. If we didn’t land a fish within 30 seconds, Angel ordered us to reel up the lines and hastily changed our location.

After discovering a spot that consistently provided us with small, silver fish, Angel set up shop for the day. He tossed us beers and pulled out dusty wooden speakers. Roughly translated, the lyrics of the first song were: “We are in a boat, without a destination. We are in a boat, with no captain.”  

Angel thought this was hilarious and insisted that I wear his captain’s hat. Hour by hour and sock by sock, he slowly stripped to his skivvies.

We continued fishing until hunger consumed us, finally letting the sails take us across the Ria de Vigo near the shores of Cangas. Tucked away from the wind, the fishing area was turned into a comfortable bed of pillows and we enjoyed a few glasses of Portuguese port. As is the plague of bodily function, I subsequently had to pee in a bucket below the deck.

After enjoying an empanada Andres and I sunned ourselves while Angel cranked up some electronic music and performed a magic show. Coin tricks seem to be prevalent in Spain, but these ones were exceptional – if not for their smoothness, then for the showmanship they were accompanied by. Angel danced, clapped, spun in circles and sang while a few people on the neighboring beach watched in amusement.

The beautiful thing about the Spaniards is that they seem drunk long before their lips have touched the bottle. They live every moment with this intimate, ineffable zeal for life that makes me both envious and embarrassed; I spend far too much time concerning myself with the unvoiced opinions of others. Don’t get me wrong – Angel was thoroughly enjoying a few cocktails, but I have a sneaking suspicion that he’s always unabashedly himself.

Fishing is a universal language. I was able to share a blissful day with two people from entirely different walks of life, despite a communication barrier and relatively substantial age gap. Our shared passion for catching, eating and admiring the creatures of the deep made it easy to understand one another, and I loved every minute of it.

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