Fishing has been slow for the past couple weeks; El Norte pushed the huge schools of baitfish offshore and the roosters and jacks followed, shutting down the action in the surf.
As he was walking back to town he tought of the man.
He was a regular looking fellow, by Southern Baja standards, that is.
Hundreds, thousands of Gringos wintered there and the man would have blended just fine if it wasn’t for that patina that stuck on him like verderame on seagoing brass.
He saw him first, just a glimpse, sitting at the bar of Sanchez Cantina, in the twirling crowd of salsa dancers - nationals sporting their good clothes and tourists dressed in shorts and sandals freshly bought for this vacation.
He would have passed for one of the long time Baja expats for the weathered look that comes from living under the desert sun and its reflection off the waves.
The salty Tommy shirt, the fryied hem of his Pelagic shorts and the scuffed deck shoes , just another baby boomer that flew South looking for marlin and fresh pussy.
