2000fish's Blog – Steve Wozniak's hunt for fish species

Dateline: April 15, 2013 – Republic of San Marino

Microbes. Never liked ’em. And while Lisa Molnar and I might disagree about art, I think we can agree that stomach flu is bad.

As you know from the previous post, Stefan, Enrico, and I were fishing in Lodi, Italy. By late morning on Sunday, we had caught pretty much everything we wanted to, so we decided to  begin a bizarre errand I had requested from Enrico. We jumped into the cars, and at a fast but sub-Guido speed, headed south toward the seaside resort of Riccione. The scenery was a lovely mix of mountain and seaside landscapes. I said to Stefan “If your daughter drew this, it would look like Cleveland.” He replied “No it wouldn’t.”

Typical countryside on our way from Lodi to Riccione. There’s a reason people visit Italy so much, and shockingly, it’s not always for the fishing.

A Lisa Molnar landscape she presented to me. See, it does look like Cleveland.

Those of you familiar with geography may have wondered why we drove three hours south when would have to head north again the next day. But again, those of you familiar with obscure geography will also know that Riccione is quite close to the Republic of  San Marino, and that San Marino is, in fact, a tiny little sovereign country (24 square miles) in the middle of Italy. With the kind efforts and research of Enrico, it had been discovered that San Marino did in fact have a small lake, and that this small lake indeed held fish. As my need to add species and countries knows few bounds and no shame, I figured that since we were more or less in the area, we would have to stop by. This was easier said than done, but Enrico had managed to contact the San Marino fishing association and arrange for me to visit their club lake. Our plan was to spend a pleasant day in this hilly principality as a guest of their fishing club – get a few fish, each lunch with them, and play tourist in the castles that dot the hillsides.

On the drive down, Stefan checked in with his wife Susi. She mentioned that both kids were a bit out of sorts and had upset stomachs. Nothing to panic about – yet. Little did we know that ill-willed microbes were well on their way to giving the Molnar’s mop quite a workout.

That’s Susi Molnar on the right. I would use this photo for a Christmas card, except that this isn’t my wife or kids. Heck, except for me, it looks like one of those photos that comes with the frame.

The smallest of the Molnars, Jule, has taken over one of his tackle bags.

We pulled in to Riccione in the late afternoon. A beautiful seaside resort town, in just a month or two it would be crawling with vacationers, but for now, we had it pretty much to ourselves. It felt odd to be there with it so empty, like being on the beach boardwalk on a school day. Needless to say, we headed for the water as soon as we dropped off our luggage. Enrico took us to a beautiful breakwater, and we cast small jigs on a clear, brisk spring afternoon.

Looking south from Riccione, toward Punta Whateva.

I immediately caught the largest black goby I have ever seen. (I’ve gotten smaller ones in Spain, Turkey, and Morocco.) This event is of no particular importance to anyone except me and a few scientists.

The megabeast of black gobies. Other black gobies fear this particular one.

I also caught a new species, but not without some drama. The beast in question was a lesser weever, one of the nasty-poisonous weever family common in the Mediterranean. (See http://2000fish.com/2012/12/23/piscatorial-potluck/) Because I read fish books in the bathroom, I realized that this was a weever and handled it with a towel. At the same time, Stefan also caught one. Stefan does not read fish books in the bathroom and was handling the beast quite carelessly, pretty much daring it to sting him, which would probably damage his art critic skills even further. Luckily, we were able to calmly advise him of the danger before anything went horribly wrong. (This consisted of me and Enrico both yelling “Drop the fish! DROP THE FISH!!” DROP THE FIIIIIISH!!! in a very calm way.)

Steve and Stefan with a lesser weever. The black spines on the top side pack a powerful sting, a fact Stefan nearly found out the hard way.

Stefan checked in with Susi again. The kids had both gone into full-on, evacuate-the-digestive-system mode. Even worse, Susi was not feeling well. They have one bathroom downstairs and one upstairs – do the math. Stefan began to look worried.

We enjoyed a Mediterranean sunset and then dutifully trudged into one of the local seafood places for what would not be a quick meal. Our host, Enrico, was fantastic – we had the best food, great views, and great fishing. We of course stuffed ourselves on numerous fish and pasta courses, while Stefan kept checking in on Susi. By about 11:00, it became clear that everyone back home wasn’t retaining food. Stefan considered driving through the night to go home, but on no rest, this was not particularly safe. I felt bad for Stefan but worse for Susi. Stomach flu. It’s a bummer, especially when you are the mother of two young children who have gone completely Linda Blair, and your husband is 600 miles away.

Stefan decided to stick out the evening, but he wanted to leave first thing so that he too could enjoy the stomach bug. We decided that the San Marino project was likely not going to work, but Enrico suggested that we could do an abbreviated visit if we got up very early – just catch a fish and hit the road. Stefan agreed, with a miraculous faith that for once, something could be done quickly in Italy.

We all slept a lot better than the Molnar girls that evening. Dawn came quickly, and we were in the cars and heading for the border bright and early. The scenery was lovely.

One of the small towns we passed through. If if a town has only one building here, it will be a church, as opposed to Ireland, where it will be a pub.

We came over a ridgeline and got our first view of San Marino itself. I had been here one other time, on a 2002 business trip, but for reasons related to schedule and an especially difficult employee, I didn’t have time to go fishing.

A view of San Marino. If you look carefully, there are three castles on the ridgeline.

Enrico knew the area well, so we navigated the unmarked country roads with ease, and we soon saw signs for San Marino. Just a few feet over the border, there was the clubhouse.

We arrive at the Italy/San Marino border. The clubhouse and lake are behind the cars.

We set up to fish the San Marino fishing club lake. Lovely scenery, and your basic stocked carp pond. I couldn’t have asked for more.

We didn’t stay long, but Stefan and I both managed to catch a couple of the resident carp, and thus, through the kindness of Enrico and the local fishing club, San Marino became the 78th country where I have caught a fish. Stefan suggested that we have Lisa do a commemorative painting.

The San Marino fish – a rather well-worn carp.

Stefan’s carp. Another one with a bit of mileage.

Steve poses with Graziano Muraccini, the president of the San Marino fishing club. Serious as he may look, Graziano was a warm and generous guy who took a morning off to help me add a country to my list.

Enrico and I toast the San Marino fish with the traditional shot of Grappa, an Italian aperitif which is also handy for removing stains. From concrete.

As promised, we jumped right into the car and hit the road for Germany. Stefan had lost probably an hour of drive time, and he was clearly concerned for his family. Let’s just say we got home more quickly than we got down to Italy.

Even if we had decided to skip San Marino, his priorities were in the right place, and even I wouldn’t have been put out. Some things – very few, but some – are even more important than fishing, and a little girl having her Dad there, so she can barf on him, is one of these things. But the true hero of this post is Susi, Stefan’s lovely and patient wife, who was ill and home alone with two sick kids until Monday afternoon. For this alone, Marta has promised to take her out for a spa day in San Francisco when she visits here.

Steve

PS – They are all fine now, of course, but Stefan did get the same bug and barfed even more than he did rock cod fishing. (See http://2000fish.com/2011/09/21/my-guitar-solo/) Oh, and to honor Lisa for her painting of me, I submit the piece below, which I feels captures the je ne sais quoi of our little artist. Hopefully, she will be inspired by this and will make my ears less pointy next time.

“Still Life With Stomach Flu” Steve Wozniak 2013

Dateline: April 14, 2013 – Lodi, Italy

Uncle Beef? What kind of a kid calls me “Uncle Beef?” If this had happened in the USA, I might have been strangely pleased, but because it happened in Germany, I could only write the whole thing off to difficulty in pronouncing the foreign word “Steve.” But still, Uncle Beef?

The offending toddler is actually known to the 1000fish readership, as she is none other than Lisa Molnar, the adorable if artistically underwhelming eldest daughter of 1000fish regular Stefan Molnar.

Lisa Molnar. Beautiful child, mediocre artist. See below.

Stefan, you may recall, is the inventor of the “Five gram rule.” See http://2000fish.com/2012/05/06/the-five-gram-rule/. I got to spend an evening with Stefan’s family on an April business trip to Germany – the food is always spectacular – and it was during this dinner that young Lisa presented her artistic impression of me.

I don’t have pointy ears. And I don’t have dark hair. This looks like Spock’s ne’er-do-well younger brother, but try explaining that to a 4 year-old.

Still, I had to at least act grateful, even if I don’t think she captured my true essence in her art, because I was borrowing her father for three days to go fishing in Italy. The target was another inadvisably rare salmonid – the marble trout. Our host would be an old friend – Enrico Ghedini, the Italian sportswriter and all-around good guy who I met in Slovenia two years ago. (See http://2000fish.com/2011/07/09/guidos-fungus/)

People wiser than me always talk about life as a journey rather than a destination. I have no idea what this means, but the journey from Germany to Italy, which took us straight south through Switzerland, was gorgeous. During the week I was locked up in the office, something wonderful had happened – spring. The rotten weather was gone. Things were sprouting, and my nose was running constantly. I like to call this “the Sudafed season.” As we passed through the Alps, I even faintly recognized a few spots – my father lived in Milan in the 1970s and we vacationed up in Switzerland. These trips were the first time I had ever been out of the country, and they started a passion for travel that has seen me darken the doors of over 80 countries.

Some lake in the Alps.

Some Alps and a lake.

My alpine dream house. If you look closely, you can see a little girl in pigtails interrupting a football broadcast.

Stefan and I left Walldorf around 10:30 in the morning, and while we did not drive at Guidoesque speeds, we avoided major traffic and were past Milan around 6. Most of our conversation consisted of me saying “Your daughter is a bad artist.” and Stefan responding “No she isn’t.” We got off the main road and started the always-indefinite process of navigating through the Italian countryside, where much of the signage is still awaiting repairs from Vandalism. I capitalized that on purpose – many of their signs were stolen by the original Vandals and haven’t been repaired since, resulting in 1500 years of lost tourists.

Electronics were no help on the back roads – there is something difficult about trying to get an American GPS that has been programmed in German to read names in Italian. Fortune would have it that one of these country lanes had a small canal running along it. So there we were, near our destination, with an hour or so to kill, and there was water nearby. Needless to say, we were late for dinner.

And it was actually a new species! The Italian bleak – like an English bleak, but it takes dives in soccer.

The area was dotted with various ruins. In the background, the tall smokestack was our navigational guide the entire weekend.

Enrico wasn’t too upset at us for being late. When he called us, he said “You’re fishing in the canal, aren’t you!” It was marvelous to see an old friend. A well-known Italian outdoor writer, he had invited me to fish in Italy repeatedly, and we never seemed to hit the right season. Well, this was the right season, and Enrico had arranged two days of access to a fish and game reserve, in Lodi just south of Milan. My father used to take country drives in this area, invariably resulting in speeding tickets and my sister getting loudly carsick.

Enrico hosted us for dinner and we talked fishing nonstop. And oh, what a dinner, in a tiny restaurant tucked away in a farmhouse, not even marked on the outside, where we were treated like family and drank chianti and grappa until the late hours.

Morning came more quickly than we planned, and we headed over to the reserve. It was the kind of place I have steamy late-night dreams about. A large working farm that hosts bird hunting, it is also criss-crossed with canals that are positively jammed with fish.

On our first stop, I could see the trout as we pulled up. I raced out before the car came to a full stop, began casting, and immediately hooked up. It was a solid rainbow, around four pounds.

The rainbows were spectacular, but I was focused on a marmorets – the marble trout.

Stefan and Enrico ply one of the creeks.

Stefan got a beautiful rainbow, then another. He was absolutely thrilled with the fishing – he loves throwing lures and there were big, hungry fish everywhere. We saw a few marble trout, but these were more wary and did not bite.

After an hour, we moved to a canal that held only marmorets. They were everywhere. They would even half-heartedly follow a lure now and then. But they weren’t biting. Enrico had warned me that marble trout were skittish, but would I need to rely on another huchen-type miracle to catch a fish? I kept at it and had one decent strike, but as the sun got higher in the sky, I realized I might have to wait until evening. Stefan and Enrico went to another canal to try for some other species, and left me and an Italian guide, Carlo, to fendi for ourselves.

Moments later, I saw an impossibly large shadow in the water on the far bank, a shadow roughly the size and shape of Michael Phelps. I only saw it for a few seconds before it eased back into the milky water. Turning to the guide, I frantically pointed and gestured to show a big fish. “Carpa.” he said. This was no carp. I was at a loss for a response, because I do not know the Italian words for shark or submarine. Heck, I don’t know the Italian word for ravioli. So I had to wait until we found Enrico.

Enrico and Stefan showed back up about an hour later. Stefan had caught an American bass, something he had failed to do in America. I told him “If your daughter drew a picture of that fish, it would look like E.T.” He replied “No it wouldn’t.”

Stefan failed to catch a bass in some of the best water we have in California, and then he catches one in Italy. Oddly enough, they are not native in either place.

I couldn’t wait to talk to Enrico. “There are submarine-sized animals prowling this canal.” I told him. He smiled. “Ahhhhh, the sturgeon.” he said. “Sturgeon, you say?” I responded as I whipped together the heaviest leader and largest hook I could find. The guide had some paste bait, and I quickly rolled up a grape-sized ball onto the hook and cast.

Moments later, the rod tip twitched. I fed the fish some line, then set the hook as it came tight. It was a solid fish, but not the monster I expected. As it came into view, everything became clear. It was a marble trout – which somehow had decided to eat the bait rather than the beautiful lures I had been throwing all morning. So I had my marble – a beautiful fish and one of the more exotic trout – and even if it was on homemade power bait, I was pleased.

I should have brought it home. Marta always wanted Italian marble in the kitchen.

We then took what I thought would be a brief break for lunch. I only made this mistake the first day. The Italians know how to cook, they just don’t know when to stop serving food. I was still digesting the feast from the previous evening, and what I thought would be a simple meal turned out to be multi-course ritual that took some three hours, and while this was not exactly prime fishing time, it was still fishing time. “Oh, wait, now they bring the pasta, oh, wait, now they bring the pheasant, and the wild boar, and more pasta, and the pre-dessert, the main dessert, another pheasant we found hiding in the sideboard, and the fruit.” The food was wonderful, but as much as I love to eat, I have gone on Power Bars and Red Bull for days on end when the fishing is hot. Sure, you may think it’s sacrilege to visit Italy without experiencing the cuisine, but I must point out that I knew Paris had Wels catfish before I knew it had an art museum.

I had been aching to get back to the sturgeon, and as soon as we were excused, I raced, or waddled, back to “submarine creek.”

There were big animals in this tiny creek. Big animals.

The bait was down no longer than 15 seconds when my line shot off to the left. I let the fish go for a moment and then set the hook – the result was complete chaos, like a malfunction on the Disney log ride. The sturgeon jumped clean out of the water, drenching us, and took off at high speed down the canal with me in hot pursuit. After about 15 high-spirited minutes, the beast came to the net and I had landed an unexpected trophy.

Sure, it’s 6000 miles from its native range, but so was I.

I then walked over to a side stream for one of my favorite activities – light-tackle micro-fish hunting. Armed with a tub of maggots and some pre-snelled #28 hooks, I began prowling the edges of a stream confluence, and soon I had a regular little school at my feet eating the baits. In under two hours, I caught north of a hundred fish and added a new species.

The microfish spot.

The Italian Roach. New species. Counts the same as a marlin in my book, and costs a lot less to catch.

For the late afternoon, I was back on the marble trout and sturgeon. There are both white and Adriatic sturgeon in the creeks, so I was hoping for an Adriatic to add to the species count. But even though I got four more sturgeon, they were all the white variety that we have back in California. Still, getting a bunch of 60 pound fish in a stream on pike tackle is nothing to complain about.

I had forgotten how beautiful Italy is in the spring, and indeed I forgot again by the time the next photo was taken.

Yes, I caught five sturgeon in a day. I am unlikely to repeat this – ever. Even my best day, in combination with Spellman, was three – which means I caught three.

Just as the sun set, we had another session on big rainbows – Stefan landed one over 7 pounds.

Damn these guys are tall.

Sunset over the fields. It was a lovely evening, made even more lovely by the fact I had added three species in 24 hours.

Ignoring our already-full stomachs, we headed out to eat. Dinner was predictably impressive – I think I gained 12 pounds, and I slept with satisfied dreams of finally getting the elusive marble trout.

We rose early on the second day, then slept in a bit and rose at a less early time. Heading over to the reserve, we fished for a couple of hours. The highlight of the morning was Stefan landing his first sturgeon, and he too got a marble trout.

Stefan’s first sturgeon. Another fish that lives in California that he didn’t catch there.

Stefan adds a marble trout to his list. And he got his on a lure rather than some sort of undignified paste.

As noon approached, we realized that we had caught pretty much everything we were going to at the preserve. It was time for a change of scenery, and for us to complete a secret mission that would take us six hours out of the way. But at this very moment, about 600 miles to the north, some ill-willed microbes were hatching a secret mission of their own that would potentially derail our entire plan.

Steve

Dateline: April 5, 2013 – Gibraltar

Seems it never rains in Southern California, so by the laws of nature, it therefore has to rain somewhere else. That somewhere else is apparently … Gibraltar. Who knew these two issues were oddly connected? Free lunch at Taco Bell for the first person to email me with the answer.

(Pause to submit responses.)

As you undoubtedly knew, the guy who wrote that song, Albert Hammond, is Gibraltrian – one of the several amazing facts I learned during the three days in early April I went fishing there. And yes, the flight to Europe was on a 747, albeit eastbound. If you are too young to remember this song, please see http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XqMEEvmfyQU to be unbewildered.

We should probably get the “is Gibraltar a country” argument out of the way. I’m going to count it. I generally go by the Traveler’s Century Club list, http://travelerscenturyclub.org/countries-and-territories/alphabetical-list, and besides, the place prints its own money and has its own passports. Sure, the British will say it’s British, the Spanish will say it’s Spanish, the Gibraltrians will say it’s Gibraltrian, and the Germans will say it’s inconvenient.

(The Royal Navy held Gibraltar and controlled the entrance to the Mediterranean for the duration of WWII. This was despite constant attacks by the Germans, less frequent raids by the Italians, and yes, you can look this up – a single incursion by the French.)

This trip was born out of bad weather, and it still suffered because of it. My original intention had been to visit Marc Inoue and go fish in Montenegro, but there was something about three feet of snow that made him rethink the whole idea.

Mark rethinks the whole idea. See http://2000fish.com/2012/05/20/serbing-our-time/.

So there I was, with three days to fish in Europe, and the weather was not cooperating. I realized I had to look south for relatively decent conditions. Perhaps Spain again? Portugal? Or … Gibraltar! Once I looked into this tiny peninsula at the mouth of the Mediterranean, the IGFA scored for me. There is an IGFA fishing club in Gibraltar. I emailed Michael Hernandez, the club contact. He responded right away and connected me with Lee Torres, who specializes in big tuna but knows the bottom fishing very well – and like that, I was set for a few days of fishing. The forecast did not look too inviting, but at least there wasn’t snow, and I knew the area had to have loads of interesting species.

I flew through snowy Frankfurt, on to Malaga, Spain, where it actually looked nice. Lee picked me up at the airport. When I first met him, I thought he must have been the guide’s son. Maybe it’s just me getting older, but he looked about 17, and I was stunned to find out he is a 32 year-old father of two. (Should we call  him “Kid Rock?”) Lee is passionate about three things – his family, fishing, and music, and the next few days were spent in constant discussion about fishing everywhere he could think of, all to a Coldplay soundtrack.

The drive from Malaga to Gibraltar takes about an hour, and the scenery is lovely Spanish coastline the whole way. The Rock comes into dramatic view coming around a corner – one of these places I recognized from TV and books immediately and thought “Wow. I’m here. And I have a strange urge to buy insurance.”

The Rock, from near the Spanish border. This would be the last time I would see the sun for three days.

I checked into the Hotel Caleta.  The room was comfortable, there was a nice restaurant, and most importantly, I was directly above the water, albeit five stories up. If any of you wonder if I fished off the balcony, you must be new readers – welcome!

I could drop a line straight off my balcony into the water.

This is not the first time I fished out of a window – see http://2000fish.com/2011/03/25/fishburger-in-paradise/. I reeled up several besugos, once to the bewildered giggles of the guests a few floors below me. I thus added Gibraltar to the list – country 76 – without leaving my room.

The room-service sand bream.

I have met a lot of guides who worked hard for a living, and Lee is right up there at the top. The prime method of catching big fish in Gibraltar is live squid, and getting live squid means middle of the night ventures in the harbor. Unknown to me, Lee was up at three in the morning jigging up a few precious cephalopods, then meeting me at 6:30 to spend a full day on the water.

Because Gibraltar has 28,000 inhabitants but only 14 legal parking places, none of which are near the marina, Lee picked me up on a scooter. I was not prepared for this, as I am a large person and was carrying gear. Lee sorted it all out and we made the very quick ride over to the harbor. Once we launched, the water was positively nasty until we got to the east side of the rock, which was protected from the wind and relatively calm.

Coming around the south point of the peninsula into the calm water.

Looking north as we come around to the east side of Gibraltar. “The Rock” is the second pinnacle, in the distance, and the white building lower right is my hotel. Every time I look at this photo, I wonder if I have enough coverage for my home and car.

Lee at the helm. Reach him at leetorresgib@gmail.com if you are in the area.

We dropped down a couple of large baits, and while we were waiting for action on these, I fished some smaller rigs and caught the first of what would end up over 100 fish before dark. While it poured most of the day, Lee’s stereo is waterproof and we had great music the whole time.

The Mediterranean fairy basslet, my first catch of the day and a new species.

The first fish was a winner – new species. The next 99 were not new species, but let’s face it, it’s still fun to catch a bunch of fish. Because I am species-obsessed, we spent most of the afternoon chasing micro-critters in the harbor. I was initially thrilled, as I thought the blennies I pulled up had to be new, but Dr. Carvalho broke it to me, as gently as he could, that these were the same species of blenny I had caught on the “Rio de Disastro” trip. (See http://2000fish.com/2012/01/23/rio-de-disastro/.) Still, I was thrilled with the new country and one new addition to the list, and I had two more days to rack up a big score. We had dinner at Burger King – a treat in any country – and I went back to catching besugos from my balcony.

The next day dawned so gray it wasn’t clear it had dawned at all. Oh, it was vile out there, but we were still able to plough through to our protected spot. My first cast produced another new species, although I didn’t know it at the time. I caught what I was certain was a cusk – a bottomfish common on both sides of the North Atlantic. Indeed, I almost didn’t photograph it, but I thought it was strange enough to catch one so far south that I took one shot. Good thing I did, as this creature turned out to be a greater forkbeard.

The greater forkbeard, which looks a whole lot like a cusk to my untrained eye.

This is a cusk. See if you can spot the differences more quickly than I did!

The rest of day two was filled with solid fish – Gibraltar indeed has some great inshore possibilities. The highlight was a solid pink dentex, the same species I passed up seeing a wonder of the ancient world to catch. (See http://2000fish.com/2011/01/01/venus-visits-the-temple-of-diana-mars-goes-fishing/, and yes, Marta is still annoyed at me.)

A pink dentex – if I had known I would catch this here, I wouldn’t have skipped Ephesus.

I also got another forkbeard, and the seabreams, all in nice sizes up to 2 pounds, were excellent sport on light tackle. Lee worked his tail off, moving spots constantly and fishing from dawn until dusk.

Assorted seabreams. Great fun to catch, and they get a lot bigger than this. Jaime Hamamoto has never caught one, and this pleases me.

A bonus monster horse mackerel.

We had one brief break in the rain, but my hair was ruined by then, so I refused to pose for this photo.

On the scooter ride back to my hotel, as I shamelessly clung to Lee for dear life, I was stunned to see a troupe of monkeys by the side of the road. Then I remembered, faintly but insistently, that I had read about there being a population of monkeys on Gibraltar. I was quietly pleased I had retained something from elementary school, apart from the fact that elephantiasis can affect testicles. (Without question, the most popular library book in my elementary school was a text on tropical diseases.)

We stopped to look at the monkeys, and I took some photos. Lee warned me not to leave anything laying around, as the little beasts are quite clever and would likely borrow it and sell it on eBay.

Hint – I’m the one in the red hat.

Being a small monkey is a good life.

My Mom never picked fleas off of me. Maybe that’s why I have issues.

Day three was more solid bottom fishing. The weather was still not nice, but it had gotten a touch less foul. We had constant action – seabreams, serranos, besugos, wrasses, and also a variety of eels. Eels are cool.

This is a conger eel. Marta has caught a much larger one than I have. She made me include this tidbit or it was the couch for me. Is that extortion?

A Mediterranean moray. One of these once caused a boot print on my forehead. Long story. (Aren’t they all?)

Lee and I celebrated the trip with dinner at a local seafood place – the forkbeard was excellent – and we both finally got a full night of sleep, me less so because I cast from my balcony again until well past midnight, trying to scrape up at least one more species. Alas, it was not to be.

The next morning, Lee was kind enough to give me a lift back to Malaga so I could catch my flight. Of course, the minute I put the fishing rods away, the weather turned beautiful. (So if it stopped raining in Gibraltar, does that mean it started raining in Southern California? Naaaah. Couldn’t be.)

Of course it would look like this the minute I put the rods away.

Lee got me early, in a car this time. He was kind enough to give me an insider’s tour of the area – all the way to the top of the rock, where I was accosted by monkeys but also had a crystal-clear view of three countries.

Lee feeds my breakfast to the monkeys.

The same monkey stares me down. He had just used me as a springboard to jump from a van onto our car, which scared the heck out of me but amused the other tourists.

Bottom left – Gibraltar. Upper left – Morocco. Upper right – Spain. Center – guy who should have untucked his shirt.

Gibraltar is so small that the main road crosses the airport’s only runway. When planes land, they have to close the road.

We both smiled at the ironic change in weather, and the drive to Malaga was one long postcard. Sure, it was a long way to go for two species, but I had gotten to see a famous and beautiful place, made a new friend, and been jumped on by a monkey. Besides, I had most of April ahead of me, and with trips planned to Italy, Miami, and the Dominican Republic, surely there would be dozens of new species in store. Surely.

Steve

Dateline: January 24, 2013 – Barcelona, Spain

He was a sailor. I am a fisherman. But we made it work, even though the best fishing of the day happened well after we returned to the dock.         

After the trip to Slovenia – the one that came eight minutes from disaster – I returned to Germany for a few days in the office. After that, I flew to Barcelona for three more days of meetings. Of course, I always try to fish everywhere I go, but I found special motivation while checking a photo album before I left home.  

I had gone back and looked for photos from my last trip to Spain – a rather debauched Macromedia distributor conference in June of 1999. I made a terrible discovery, and I don’t mean the picture of our finance guy being sick on his loafers. Although I went fishing in ’99, and although I definitely did catch a fish and add Spain to the list, a photo of this beast was nowhere to be found. This was back in my film camera days, and despite hours of poring over negatives, I couldn’t find photographic proof that I had angled in the land of tapas and Julio Iglecias. This was a wrong that needed to be righted.

Sunset over the Barcelona skyline. According to a local source, the church on the left is not a church at all, but rather, is the Montjuic Exhibition Center. No wonder they looked at me funny when I lit candles in the lobby.

Normally, Barcelona has mild weather, even in January, but Europe was in the grip of a nasty cold spell and even Spain was downright chilly. Not Slovenia-type frigid, thank goodness, but colder than it should have been. Further north, places like Paris and Frankfurt were snowed in, and many of my co-workers never made it to Barcelona.

The view from my hotel room, and yes, I immediately went out and fished the two piers on the left.

It was a beautiful town, even if I had to wear a sweater and jacket to walk around at night.

Some monument which is a tribute to someone who did something at some stage in the past.

(It’s actually a monument to Christopher Columbus, who may have “discovered” the Americas. Of course, the idea that someone “discovered” the place must have come as news to the people who already lived here, but regardless, Columbus had a much better marketing effort than the Norwegians. This discussion led to hilarity when a very tired Marta briefly mixed up Leif Ericson with Leif Garrett. She claims this was an attempt at humor – we’ll let you decide.)

In each place I visit, I hope to have some sort of unique cultural experience. Being a Hemingway fan, I had wanted to see a bullfight in Barcelona. This was not out of any primordial blood lust, but merely in the hope that the bull would win. Guys in tights and red capes make me mad too. (No, not you, Martini. See http://2000fish.com/2012/10/27/elvis-has-left-the-river/ for an explanation.)

Unfortunately for my itinerary, this ancient tradition was eliminated a couple of years ago after a lengthy campaign led by animal rights activists and the bulls. (Of course, the bulls could have just refused to play – it worked for Derek Rose.) And so, instead of death in the afternoon, I was left with fishing in the afternoon, the most exciting part of which, as it turns out, involved … gobies.

Setting up the trip was harder than I thought it would be. All the normal sources – IGFA, Marc Inoue, standing naked near the harbormaster’s office – had not panned out. There were certainly charter boats in the area, but these guys all seemed to operate under the idea that I only wanted to troll for big game that isn’t there in January and that I am filthy rich and would not worry about paying 2000 Euros to go fishing for something that isn’t there in January. I went to my last – but often best – resource for emergency fishing charters: the hotel concierge.

When properly motivated, hotel concierges can find almost anything, and Paulo at the Hotel Arts was magnificent. Quickly grasping my bizarre requirements, he searched frantically for a boat that could just go out and ply the local rock piles for whatever might be biting. The next day, he waved me over to the concierge desk in the lobby. He told me “I think I have found you a boat. But I need your honest opinion – this guy is an excellent sailor, but not a fisherman. Do you know enough about fishing where you can tell him where to go and what to do? He is a very nice guy and would love to help you.”

I said “You had me at ‘boat.'”

So he put us in touch. The skipper’s name was Francesc Gutierrez, and he responded to my email immediately. I could tell even online that he was very friendly and interested in going out with a fisherman – and he was also very honest that this was not his normal assignment. We organized for him to bring some bait, and I told him I would do the rest. While my co-workers were out on the town that night, I was holed up in my room peering at Google Earth for likely spots off of Barcelona.

Morning came, and the weather, while cold, was clear and crisp. We putted out into the chilly dawn, perhaps the third time in my life I had been on a sailboat. It was breezy, but the mountains protected us from the worst of it and the conditions were fishable all day – a fast drift, but doable.

The breakwater at dawn.

We motored about 5 miles to the east and I set up. I asked him for the bait, and shame on me for not being specific. He brought – one squid. I realized I would have to make it count, so I cut fairly small strips and hoped I would catch something I could use for more bait.

Francesc navigates us out into the Mediterranean.

It didn’t take long to correct the great Spanish fish photo issue. As we drifted some sand/rock patches in about 100 feet of water, I started getting bites and soon caught an axillary bream, known locally as a “besugo,” and a red porgy.

A red porgy, or “pargo” in local parlance. These are found on both sides of the Atlantic, which annoys me, because I would prefer that there were different species to catch. Francesc took this particular one to his mother for her dinner – pargo is apparently one of her favorite meals.

I had to keep resetting my line with the fast drift, but I still was able to pull up a nice variety of Mediterranean species – nothing new, but it was great to be on the water. Francesc gave it a very full day for me – he just seemed to love being out there, and he seemed astonished that there were fish to catch in places he had sailed over so many times.

A horse mackerel – another ubiquitous critter which makes excellent cut bait. This species once saved a trip for me in Istanbul – see http://2000fish.com/2010/12/29/istavrit-not-constantinople-a-k-a-the-trojan-horse-mackerel/

A “pout” or “bib.” I seem to catch exactly one of these in every European country where I fish.

The Spanish flag snapper. (It doesn’t live here, but I thought I’d throw it in to see if you’re paying attention. See http://2000fish.com/2010/04/21/the-countdown-to-1000-slinging-fish-in-singapore/)

Francesc spoke great English, and we carried on a pleasant conversation the entire day. His main business is running sailing excursions, especially in the warmer weather, where he takes small groups out for sightseeing and lunches in some of the charming smaller towns outside of Barcelona.

Late in the afternoon, we motored back toward the harbor, getting a lovely view of sunny – if chilly – Barcelona.

Francesc at the helm, all smiles all day, and very happy to play fishing guide for a few hours. If you’re in Barcelona, you have to look this guy up – info@vell-mari.com – or +34 620 911 426.

Returning to Olympic Harbor.

I was faintly bothered that I had not gotten a new species, but I still had one idea left to try. The moment we docked, I grabbed my trusty #3 sabikis and some leftover squid, and began hunting the pilings. Although I had no red cape handy, I knew that the success of my trip depended on facing down one of the most savage of harbor creatures – the goby.

This part of the world has quite a few goby species that haunt protected areas. I had caught several of them, but several more awaited me. I went to that special, focused place in my head, and went mano-a-finno with the pier creatures. The first few I got were red-lipped gobies, a species I had caught in Monaco, but the fourth catch was a winner – the slender goby, new species # 1180.

A slender goby. Fifteen more ounces and it would have been a world record.

The drama was not finished. After going through a few black gobies and another redlip, I caught the creature below. It turned out to be a yellowhead goby, species #1181, and I can’t consider the day anything but a huge success. Ole!

The yellowhead goby.  Thanks to Dr. Alfredo Carvalho for quick identifications!

After about an hour of goby hunting, I packed up and said my goodbyes with Francesc. He was no more a fisherman than I am a sailor, but as a team, we created a memorable afternoon. Marta is eager to visit Barcelona, so a return trip is likely, and I am certain we will go out for a tour with Francesc. (But only if I can troll. And I can only hope she doesn’t mix up General Franco with the DeFranco Family.)

No bulls were harmed in the making of this blog.

Steve

Steve and Francesc, as Steve heads for the hotel and a huge plate of paella.