Unhooked... September 2018
The divorce was an interesting cocktail of emotions—bitter in parts, soothing in others. Relief and grief sat together, like old rivals forced to share a table. On one hand, I was glad the endless arguments had ceased. On the other, I felt the ache of a closing chapter, the kind where you don’t just lose a partner but a friend. My ex had been my confidant before she was anything else. We had shared a devotion to our careers, our lives running parallel tracks until they derailed.
But the sharpest sting was losing Bailey, the dog we had raised together. Bailey was hers, really—she had come into the relationship with her—but eight years had made her ours. It wasn’t until that first night alone, lying in the too-quiet air of my new apartment, that I realized how much I’d miss the soft rhythm of Bailey’s snores. That sound had been a lullaby for years, a gentle reminder that some things in life were simple and good.
I had just moved into a swanky loft in downtown Houston, the kind of place I had always dreamed of living in but never thought I’d afford. In truth, I couldn’t. The lease was short—just enough time to figure out my next steps. The building, a relic from the city’s past, was called Hogg Palace.
Once a showroom and parking garage for the William C. Hogg car dealership, its design steeped in the 1920s. Towering windows framed geometric facades, and inside, terrazzo floors whispered of an era when style was as essential as substance. It was named after one of Houston’s prominent families, whose influence shaped the city’s early 20th-century skyline. As I unpacked, I wondered if this building’s walls had absorbed the echoes of the Great Depression or the optimism of post-war Houston. It felt like the perfect place to start over—a space with history, resilience, and charm.
Sanctuaire de Hogg © Patrick Lee Hubbard 2018
The buzz of my phone pulled me from my thoughts. The screen lit up: Dad.
“Hello, Pops,” I answered, trying to sound cheerful.
“How you doing, old man?” he chirped back. I always chuckled at this—he was the old one, after all.
“Not bad. Just getting settled in.”
“How are you feeling these days?” he asked, his voice softening. Dad had been keeping tabs on me since the divorce, checking in without prying too much.
“As good as I can be. I miss the dog…” My voice trailed off.
“I can imagine,” he said. He knew the pain of separation all too well—divorce had been a chapter in his life too. We were brothers in that sorrow now.
Sensing I didn’t want to linger on the topic, he shifted gears. “I’ve been thinking about a trip.”
Dad was an avid fisherman, his garage an Aladdin’s cave of rods, reels, and lures. I often thought he’d make a fantastic guide, leading eager anglers to secret spots where the fish practically jumped into your boat.
“I’ve been eyeing that trip to Cabo,” he continued. “Found a great guide, and I’m looking at dates.”
Truthfully, I didn’t feel like going. I was drowning in responsibilities—finishing my photography degree at the University of Houston while navigating the emotional wreckage of my marriage. It felt like a miracle that my grades were still intact.
Before I could decline, Dad pressed on. “I want you to come. Get your mind off things. I know how this stuff can weigh on you.”
He was right. A trip might do me good. And Dad had a way of making even the gloomiest days lighter. He could coax a smile out of me when no one else could.
“Before you say no,” he added, “I already paid for it. Just need to nail down some dates.”
“Who else is going?” I asked, half-curious, half-reluctant.
“Josh should be able to join,” he replied.
“Oh no, not that guy…” I teased. Josh, my brother, was a walking comedy show—a big-hearted joker who never missed a chance to roast someone, especially me.
“Yeah, he’s coming. Surprised he can still get that big head through security. TSA’s gonna need a bigger scanner!” Dad laughed, his own joke cracking through my resistance.
“It’s my treat,” he said firmly. “You’re not saying no.”
And just like that, I was in. Sometimes, you need someone else to steer the boat when you’re too tired to hold the oars.
A ride through Cabo © Patrick Lee Hubbard 2018
Cabo San Lucas, at the southern tip of the Baja Peninsula, was legendary among anglers. Its fame wasn’t unwarranted—it was the Marlin Capital of the World. Every October, the city hosted the Bisbee’s Black & Blue, one of the richest fishing tournaments globally, where anglers chased marlin, sailfish, and dorado for millions in prize money. These waters, where the Pacific meets the Sea of Cortez, were a paradise for deep-sea fishing. I wasn’t a hardcore angler like my dad and Josh, but even I could appreciate the allure of this place, where the sea brimmed with giants.
Still, I came with reservations. Mexico had left a bad taste in my mouth after a disastrous trip to Cancun years ago. But Cabo felt different. While it too had its share of tourists, it exuded a raw charm, its rugged coastline dotted with desert landscapes that plunged into crystalline waters. The town seemed to attract two kinds of visitors: the well-heeled trophy hunters and sunburned college kids, tequila in hand. Yet even in its commercial bustle, there was an authenticity I hadn’t expected.
Morning Buzz © Patrick Lee Hubbard 2018
On the second morning, we headed to the marina. It was still dark just before dawn, and the air hummed with the sound of diesel engines warming up. We met our guide, a wiry older man with leathery skin who had clearly spent a lifetime on the ocean. The boat was a beauty—gleaming white, its rear deck dominated by a sturdy fighting chair designed for epic battles with the ocean’s fiercest creatures. Just behind it was a cozy cabin with a small lounge area.
Dad was practically vibrating with excitement. This trip had been a long-held dream of his, and seeing it unfold brought a gleam to his eye. Our conversations were light, full of the usual family banter: playful jabs and speculation about the day’s potential catch.
“Think we’ll land something big?” Josh asked grinning.
“Don’t jinx it,” Dad quipped, though his grin betrayed his excitement.
For as long as I could remember, fishing had been our family’s ritual, particularly in the Gulf of Mexico. Our quarry was often yellowfin tuna, a prize known not only for its culinary appeal but for its raw power. “The second-fastest fish in the ocean,” Dad would remind us. With speeds reaching over 50 miles per hour, these torpedo-shaped titans could fight for hours, demanding every ounce of strength—and patience—from the angler.
“Remember last time?” I said. “Took all three of us to reel that one in.”
“Yeah, I remember,” he replied, shaking his head. My forearms ached just thinking about it. The deckhands on those trips always impressed me with their quiet strength. Watching them handle the rods with practiced ease, I often thought they’d destroy any opponent in an arm-wrestling match.
Dad’s respect for fishing bordered on reverence. It wasn’t just about the thrill of the fight; it was about sustenance and tradition. He always insisted we catch only what we needed, releasing anything beyond our quota.
What made Cabo special, though, was the proximity of the deep waters. Back in the Gulf, we’d spend hours motoring out to the edge of the continental shelf, where the true giants lurked. Here, the deep water was close—just a short ride, and you were in the thick of it.
Sea of Cortez © Patrick Lee Hubbard 2018
As the boat cruised toward the open sea, Dad turned to us, his grin broad and eager. “Are you ready?”
“Let’s do this,” Josh replied, his enthusiasm spilling over. Fishing was his arena, and he was annoyingly good at it. It didn’t matter if it was a family trip or a tournament—he always caught the biggest or most fish.
I smiled but felt detached. The truth was, this wasn’t really my passion. Fishing had always been their thing. What I loved most was the time spent with them, the shared jokes, and the stories swapped while waiting for a bite. Still, I couldn’t deny the appeal of fresh fish, which always tasted better when you’d fought for it.
“Yeah, but I’m sitting this one out,” I said, grabbing my camera bag. “I’ll do my own kind of fishing… for the perfect shot.”
Dad didn’t protest. He was just glad I was there. And honestly, it wasn’t a bad deal for him either. He loved my photography and would relish having a record of the trip, every moment captured through my lens.
The horizon stretched before us, a dazzling expanse of blue, promising adventure. As the boat picked up speed, I felt a flicker of anticipation. Maybe I wasn’t here for the catch, but perhaps there was something else waiting for me out there—a story, a moment, a frame.
Dolphin Guides © Patrick Lee Hubbard 2018
The morning stretched lazily as we trolled through the open water, lines trailing behind the boat like thin silver threads stitching the sea. The sun climbed higher, warming the deck, but luck seemed elusive. I passed the time with my camera, capturing the shifting blues of the water and the interplay of light on the waves. Eventually, even the sea’s endless beauty began to feel repetitive. Setting my camera aside, I retreated to the cabin.
The gentle sway of the boat and the rhythmic hum of the engine had always had a lulling effect on me. Lying on the small bench, I let the sounds envelop me—the creak of the boat, the soft slap of waves against the hull. My eyelids grew heavy, and I welcomed the approach of sleep, a rare reprieve from the tangled thoughts of my everyday life.
Then came the shout.
“Fish on!!!”
Josh’s voice rang out, cutting through the hum of the engine. Adrenaline jolted me upright. I grabbed my camera and bolted to the deck.
The scene was alive with motion. One of the deckhands gripped the rod, the line taut and quivering under the strain of the unseen fish below. Dad was already strapping himself into the fighting chair, his face a mixture of determination and joy. This was what he had come for, the moment he had dreamed of.
The air crackled with excitement as Dad began the delicate dance of battling the fish. The rod bent in a graceful arc, trembling with the power of the creature at the other end. Fishing for giants wasn’t just brute force; it was a game of balance, a push-and-pull rhythm of reeling in and letting the fish run, a constant negotiation between man and nature.
The Dance © Patrick Lee Hubbard 2018
The captain, perched in the wheelhouse, watched intently. He adjusted the boat’s position, angling the stern toward the fish to relieve the tension on the line. Below us, the sea churned, hiding the prize that had ignited this flurry of action.
I focused my camera, capturing the struggle as it unfolded: Dad grunting with effort, his hands steady on the rod, the glint of sunlight on the taut line, and the collective anticipation on all our faces.
Breach © Patrick Lee Hubbard 2018
“Look!” one of the deckhands shouted, pointing toward the water.
A sleek body broke the surface, its metallic sheen glistening in the sunlight. The fish arced out of the water, its powerful form dancing across the waves in a display of raw strength and grace. The sight stole my breath—it was a marlin, a true oceanic titan, its dorsal fin cutting the water like a blade.
Dad held on as long as he could, but the fish was relentless. When his arms began to tremble with fatigue, Josh took over. My brother was in his element, his grin wide as he engaged in the same back-and-forth struggle. He reeled, the line spooling in inch by inch, and let it run again as the fish fought for its freedom. The battle stretched on, every pull of the rod and run of the line an exercise in patience and endurance.
Finally, the fish began to tire. Its movements slowed, and Josh reeled it closer to the boat. The deckhands moved quickly, securing the line and guiding the marlin to the side. It was magnificent, over six feet long (nearly two meters), its body shimmering in hues of silver and blue.
“Do you want to keep him?” the deckhand asked, glancing at Dad.
Dad didn’t hesitate. “No. Send him back.”
The send off © Patrick Lee Hubbard 2018
The marlin was a trophy by any standard, the kind of catch many anglers would dream of mounting on a wall. But for Dad, the experience was enough. We measured the fish, recorded its size, and snapped a few photos. Then, with care, the deckhands unhooked it and guided it back into the water.
For a moment, the marlin lingered, its powerful body hovering just beneath the surface. Then, with a flick of its tail, it disappeared into the deep, a living testament to the strength of the sea.
As we settled back on the boat, Dad and Josh leaned against the rail, their faces glowing with satisfaction. They traded stories of the fight, each recounting their part in the battle with a mix of humor and pride. I joined them, sharing the photos I had taken—a visual record of their triumph.
The ride back was quiet, the kind of silence that feels full rather than empty. As the shoreline came into view, I found myself lost in thought. This trip wasn’t just about fishing—it was about them, about us. In a time when my life felt adrift, they were my anchor.
Dad had been right. I needed this. The simplicity of the moment, the bond we shared, the reminder that some things remain steady no matter how turbulent life becomes—this was why I’d come.
When my dad says, “Let’s go fishing,” I always say yes.
Our Moment © Patrick Lee Hubbard 2018
