Last night, the entire complement of Bisbee adventurers foregathered at the home of Wayne and Maria at their invitation for an introductory dinner. All of us knew some of the others in the group, but only Wayne and Maria knew everyone. So, before spending a week cheek to jowl on airplanes, in our Magnificent Mexican Mansion, and on the Carpe Diem (our chartered 61 foot Buddy Davis marlin mauling machine), it was thought advisable for everyone to say howdy in relaxed, convivial atmosphere. This opportunity arose because Betty and Roy, who nominally live in Los Angeles, had stopped in Destin to visit Betty’s condo as part of their seemingly unending peregrinations between their second, third, fourth, etc., homes and various exotic vacation destinations.
In attendance were Wayne Lewis and Maria Falduco, me and Mary, George and Janice (“J.R.”) Hendricks, and Betty Carner and Roy Rogers. (Yes, Roy Rogers, but the retired architect cum big game hunter and blue water fisherman, not the deceased sidekick of Gabby Hayes.) It is an interesting group - verbal, witty, mannered, and seasoned with enviable experience. Wayne has lived in a tent in the Ethiopian wilds, done time in Vietnam, and twice returned from offshore in boats other than those in which he departed, one having sunk while he was fishing and one having disappeared while he was diving. Maria cooks like Julia Child, as you will read, and fishes like Zane Grey, having, for example, free gaffed a big dolphin at the boat and having dived overboard to save a rod that went into the water after it was snatched from the rod holder by a striking fish. George’s and J.R.’s businesses manufacture and install spas in private homes, destination resorts and luxury hotels all over the world, and they have travelled much of it. Betty has a colorful (not checkered, just colorful) past that has included work in the movies, such as being the double for Faye Dunaway. Roy, as stated earlier, is a retired architect and active sportsman; his next big gig after the Bisbee is a big horn sheep hunt in December, having waited years to secure the appropriate license, and for which he personally is building a rifle specific to the task. And Mary and I, well, we are simply sans pareil. Maria is the baby of the bunch at 39, the men are all in their sixties, and the other ladies are femmes d’une certain âge - attractive, fit, and game, credits to their sex every one. There are no newbies among the Bisbee Bunch.
The evening, not surprisingly Mexican themed, began with an appetizer of dorado ceviché and tortilla chips, alcohol in various manifestations for all hands, and cigars for George and me on the balcony, which means I have a wing man when smoking Cuban stogies in Cabo. There was a very pleasant woman making and dispensing margaritas, who later assisted Maria in serving dinner. For most of the evening, I thought she was someone’s sister, but, no, she was a person who serves, a serving person, actually a serving wench, if gender is taken into account. In a private home, mind you. There was no uniform, no apron or cap, and no tankards of ale, but there were flagons of wine. I hate to sound like I fell of the turnip truck yesterday, but this is pretty tall cotton for a red neck from Williston.
Before dinner, Wayne said he wanted to show us a “game film” to get us in the mood. Someone with less couth that me might have had prurient expectations, but I surmised it would be something more about our group ambitions than our individual fantasies, and, sure enough, it was a video produced by the Guy Harvey Foundation about billfishing. I believe Wayne, who is probably worried about those of us with less tournament experience than he, which is all of us, booting several hundred thousand dollars in prize money through some stupid mistake, wanted us to learn something. I learned that Guy Harvey is a Brit, that all of the really good billfishing locales are where I ain’t, and that Mary would rather go to the resort at Los Sueño with me than to a fishing village in Ghana.
Dinner was a gourmet’s delight. There was traditional tortilla soup to start, followed by grilled filet with chimichoura salsa, fried poblano peppers stuffed with cheese and roasted tomato salsa, marinated and grilled portabella mushrooms and zucchini, and guacamole in an avocado shell. I am here to tell you that these were fine vittles, but some of it was strange looking to a culinary naïf like myself. I am certain that my mother’s brothers would have eaten only the filet and refused to even taste the rest even if drunk, their idea of fine dining being steak, taters in some form, and iceberg lettuce with a few chunks of tomato and a ton of ranch dressing. You would think that folks who would eat pickled pig’s feet, hog jowls, and squirrel brains would eat just about anything, but you would be wrong.
As the dinner progressed and the wine flowed, everyone loosened up, me so much so that I was practically sliding out of my chair to take my rightful place under the table. Wayne, ever the teacher, felt the urge to stand up and instruct us on how to feed a pitch bait on an imaginary rod to a big, angry marlin trying to eat a teaser. From where I was slumped, Wayne, being what my grandma called a big feller, looked liked for all the world like a giant playing an air guitar. Somewhere not long after this demonstration of simulated piscatorial prowess, South Carolina finished off Ole Miss, I finished off the pinot noir, and we all departed to our respective home with visions of mariachi bands and amazing marlin dancing in our heads.
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