Like many of my fellow Afro-Americans, I have a complex relationship with water. Good water: Soaking in a hot bath while drinking Harlequin Orange Liqueur and streaming a sexy foreign thriller. Bad water: Me, six feet tall, “cain’t” swim, standing in four feet of water, getting splashed in the face by my 11-year-old, who, despite my threats, has internalized that I won’t actually whoop him. Worse water: Being WAY out in the ocean knowing full well that standing in four feet of water was already pushing it. Yet, in the interest of maintaining friendships and trying new things at the big age of 44.75, I went on a deep sea fishing trip in Ensenada, Mexico.
Gigante Jesus spotted off the highway near Rosarito. “Come through. I live in that mansion under His eye.”
There were like 12 of us in the Airbnb. I called dibs on the anime room with the romantic velour bedding.
First stop in Ensenada…street meat!
We had to be on the boat at 6 a.m. Yep, it was as cold as it looks.
Not our boat, but I bet there’s a hostessaboard who blows a whistle while forcing tequila down your throat.
Game face! Took Dramamine and was ready to empty the f**k out that ocean.
Not so fast…caught 10 fish and then got cold and queasy. Nine hours on the water? N***@ I’m a land mammal!
Deckhand filleting what soon became ceviche!
We were nearing the end of the two-hour trek back to land when barracudas started jumping aboard.
The main nightlife district in Ensenada.
Car peeled out to conceal johns soliciting streetwalkers. Clutch.
Me with the ol’ San Diego crew. Accidentally had a drink with ice, but did not suffer Montezuma’s Revenge.
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