Dear Jack:

I hope you don't mind my addressing you so informally since we just met yesterday on the deck of my charted fishing boat. As you recall, my buddy Tom and I killed you, five of your friends, and two Spanish Mackerel. Perhaps you would prefer Mr. Pacific Crevalle Jack or even your Latin name, Caranx caninus. Caranx Corlett has a nice ring to it, but I digress.

We were hunting sailfish off the western Mexican coast, Marlin in particular, but with no success. On the water by 7:30 a.m., I had my first beer of the day at 9:55. Drinking before noon does not make one an alcoholic, it makes one a pirate. Or at least a fisherman. Three hours of trolling in our 29-foot boat with the Bimini and no head was relaxing even without a single strike as long as I stayed out of the sun. The mountains, mist, seashore, islands, and whales are spectacular here. A boat with no bathroom? Good thing Lynn Anne, my wife, decided to sleep in instead of joining us as she'd planned.

David, our Captain, shouted to Ernesto, our first mate. He had spotted two sailfish lounging on top the waves. Their sails looked like unopened waterlogged umbrellas. Ernesto took the controls while David grabbed a live bait fish, fluidly hooked it, and standing on the bow of the boat barefoot, cast it perfectly between the pair. When the bait struck the water, they disappeared, not to be seen again.

Sail fishing was not to be apparently, so our crew changed our rigs. Trolling the same water, we landed the mackerel. Jack, when you struck, I thought there may have been some kind of mistake. Perhaps we had snagged a submerged Volkswagen bug. I would reel in, and you would pull it all back out. Reel, retreat, repeat. The stout deep sea fishing poles with the fancy line rollers were arced and the Shimano reels whined. You fought gallantly my friend, even after Ernesto's gaff pierced your skull and pulled you from the water to our deck where you flopped a bit. Later, he would hold your tail while slitting your throat while you bled into the transom, making your flesh more palatable for our evening meal that Eddie's, the local restaurant, will prepare.

After the catching started, Ernesto and David became animated, singing Mexican songs, nearly dancing about the boat, and even calling the clichéd "Here, fishy, fishy…." The only foolishness Tom and I heard previously was over the CB radio and was of course in Spanish. Catching tastes like victory.

While I haven't eaten poultry, pork, or beef for forty years or so, hunting you and the sailfish seemed quite natural and engaging. Despite the gore on board, I am quite comfortable with my position at the top of the food chain. Perhaps in our next lives, you'll gaff and eat me.

The waiter at Eddies forgot to present the wine before uncorking it, so Tom, our wives, and I got the Chilean chardonnay instead of the California that I had ordered. Fortunately, it was delicious and we aren't that fussy. In fact, it was better than my first choice, which we drank after. Eddie charged us 140 pesos, about $7.20, per person to prepare you and the mackerel on a platter with a side of rice and vegetables. At the end of our meal, we all got a complimentary shot of tequila, except Lynn Anne, who took the Baileys instead. We took taxis everywhere in Puerto Vallarta, so we didn't drink and drive.

I wish I could say you were delicious, but no, even in death you remained dark and somewhat rugged even without being overcooked. While your appearance on a platter is similar, you're no tuna. Not even a mackerel. You and the Macs fed four adults and were at least an appetizer for five adjacent tables, all grateful for tasting fish that was swimming 3 hours earlier. Some only saw your picture on my phone, but one table insisted on seeing your picture and hearing this story. A bite or two of you and the mackerel, with the barbeque sauce that was my favorite, are in the hotel minibar refrigerator this morning. I'm probably not going to take you on again at least until I start drinking. Maybe this afternoon.

Muchas gracias, my friend, no matter which of us holds the pole next time.