Deep Sea Fishing

I have begun soliciting my friends for one or two (and in this case, even three) word subjects for potential blog posts. I think this serves multiple purposes, but primarily it keeps some spontaneity in the blog. I'd hate to devote all the space to lingo bombs, sick climbing sends and gnar shredding. Plus, if the post sucks, I have a scapegoat.
When someone said, "Deep Sea Fishing," my mind immediately went to Mexico and the good Doctor, Darrel Gorman. Perfect!

Darrel is not normally a name I associate with white guys. (Always good to start off public blogging with racism.) There are, in this great blanched soup of American men, several Darrels, and maybe even a D'rel, though I've never met one. I have, however, met a specific Darrel. I present to you the father of my friend Will.
'Dr. D,' as we affectionately nicknamed him while covertly drinking in his basement during high school, was quite the guy. He had (and presumably still does, though I haven't been drunk in his basement for several years) a remarkable manner of speaking that involved dramatic pauses, a string of "ummmms" and "ahhhhhhhs" that took hours to intellectually navigate, and a driving style that shuttled passengers in a series of forward jerks known as bopping.
That he was a doctor, licensed to practice medicine in the honorable state of Colorado, gave him transcendent credibility. Despite the timid, herky-jerky speech, here was a man who had graduated from high school at 15, college at 17, and was a veritable Doogie Howser.

The Gorman family took their their son Will, me, and 2 other high school miscreants to Mexico for spring break of our Junior year of high school....and here's where the rubber meets the road. Actually, this is where the tequila hits the gullet after a feed bag of all you can eat taquitos, and Will projectile vomits all over a bar called "El Toro Bravo." I blame no one but Will himself, eyes watering with green sadness as the bartender politely asked if he needed the bucket while pushing it under his chin.
But AFTER the Toro incident, and AFTER some thief stole my Pawtucket Red Sox hat, and AFTER one of the other friends on the trip realized a high school boy's dream by sleeping with a 30 year old (woman, no less!) on the beach, we went fishing.
The boat left the port under gray skies and a breeze. The fishermen laughed and gave us soda on our way to the Gulf of Cortez, famed marlin waters but certainly subject to the Pacific's force. The boat began to buck with waves that were close to 10 feet. No "Perfect Storm," but on a 40 foot fishing boat, plenty big enough! The roiling continued, and after about 30 minutes of what felt like riding the mechanical bull back at "El Toro Bravo," we all began to wonder if Will, or all of us for that matter, would be debating a decision regarding a bucket.
Eventually, Dr. D was overcome. He, like his son, refused the perfectly good bile receptacle, deciding instead to sully the side of our vessel. Again. And again. And comically again. He got to the point that there was nothing left to give. Poseidon would have to be fully appeased. With the 30 year old incident, our ship was fresh out of swell quelling virgins to sacrifice. What was the boat of deep sea fishermen to do? Hold strong. Let the Doctor do the talking.
We eventually made it back to the port, content in the knowledge that if we were going to do any yuking, it would be from man made poison, and not due to Nature's rage.