Deep Sea Poker, part 2
Good thing I had my wetsuit on, as I’m certain my bladder let loose on more than one occasion! But I was still pretty wet so it was hard to tell.
The ride back to shore was short but it felt like an eternity, courtesy of maniac Miguel’s overly macho seamanship. After mooring the boat, we headed to a quaint little Mexican eatery just a stone’s throw from the marina. Breakfast was still being served and we tore into the meal with gusto. Huevos rancheros, green corn tamales, chilaquiles with jalapeño sauce, chorizo and egg burritos, fresh tortillas, pot after pot of strong black coffee, and enough refried beans to make it back to the fishing grounds without having to rely on diesel fuel. Don’t ever tell me I’m not doing my part to conserve the Earth’s natural resources.
By the time we finished eating, we had spent enough to get an entire family of illegals across the border, ringing up nearly a $100 tab — an almost unheard of sum for a breakfast in the Baja, even for five voraciously hungry adult males. Walking out, we probably looked like gringo Weebils to the locals. The last one out the door, I heard an old man with a weathered face at a table in the corner start to say something in Spanish, but I let loose with a raucous belch at the same moment and he curtailed his commentary, choosing to furrow his brow and frown mightily instead. Buenos Dias!
“Ready to give it another try?” Darryl posed, anxious to get back out on the water. He lived for spearfi shing and, if Kevin Costner’s apocalyptic Waterworld vision ever came to fruition, I’d recruit Darryl for my boat in an instant.
“My mom used to scream at me if I went swimming right after I ate,” I replied, my stomach now pushing maximum density.
“Did you always listen to everything your mom told you?” he quickly fired back.
“Nope, not at all. But I sure do like it when YOUR mom tells me what to do.”
Wham! Darryl’s younger brother, Jason, sucker-punched me in the shoulder. “What was that about my mom?” he said, his fist cocked, ready to deliver another strike.
I stepped behind Miguel, momentarily shielding myself. I screamed some insults regarding Miguel’s mother’s sexual proclivities and bolted across the street, nearly getting clipped by a vintage pickup truck in the process.
“Serves you right!” Jason yelled, way too full to chase me.
Twenty minutes later we were braving the torrid sea yet again, much to my dismay. Now I never get seasick. And to my knowledge, neither do Darryl, Jason, or Scott. But we were all blowing chunks on that day, chumming the sea — and occasionally the cockpit of the Amberjack — with our partially digested morning meal. Only Miguel didn’t get sick, but he was getting sick and tired of the four of us turning the floor of his uncle’s pristine fi shing boat into the gooey aftermath of a gastronomic piñata party.
Miguel finally decided to forget the whole thing and whipped the boat around, heading back towards shore. Although none of us would have wussed out and said so, to a man we were all glad that he did. I wanted to tell him it wasa solid decision, just so he didn’t feel like he had rained on the parade; however I was much too busy puking my guts out.
Two hours later, the five of us were standing on the edge of the La Concha resort hotel’s pool, strapping on our diving weight belts. A bevy of boat drinks surrounded us. Fortunately, the creamy tropical libations were beginning to soothe our stomachs, although we probably could have done without the alcohol. Only Scott was still somewhat uncomfortable; he was convinced he’d torn some rib cartilage during a particularly violent stint of reverse peristalsis.
“Dude, this is no good,” Darryl said to no one in particular, putting words to a situation we all were in agreement about. “No way is this gonna work. No way.”
Of course, he was right. But we had come down there for a reason. There was no turning back now.
“Screw it,” Scott said with a wince.”Let's just get it over with." He sucked in a huge breath and jumped into the pool, dropping all the way to the bottom — a whopping, Marianas Trench-like five goddamn feet!
Pathetic.
The poker chips were already there, as was the diver’s slate for any necessary non-hand signal communication. I held the playing cards. It had been decided that I would deal the first round.
“Might as well,” I agreed and joined him at the bottom, immediately followed by Darryl, Jason, and Miguel.
Blinds would begin at 25 and 50 and we would each start with 1,000 chips. Rounds were ten minutes per, the time kept on my demo Mares Nemo dive watch, although everyone had a dive watch on which they could monitor the time. By now, a small crowd had gathered at the edge of the pool, consisting of a handful of hotel guests, the property’s scuba dive instructor, the waitress, and the bartender. While they didn’t actually come out and say it, you could read it on their faces — they all thought each and every one us were a few tacos short of a combo plate. Looking at it objectively, I’d have to agree.
After a pseudo-shuffle of the cards, getting used to their feel in the aquatic environment, I dealt two per player — standard Texas Hold’em — although I actually just handed them out as the cards didn’t exactly fl y like they do in a casino.
Now I can usually hold my breath between two and a half to three minutes — two minutes without any effort. Those times are in the open ocean; in a swimming pool devoid of currents, with much less to concentrate on or worry about, I should be able to go much longer. Ditto for my co-conspirators, with the exception of Darryl. He can do four minutes on a regular basis. In a pool, hell, he might just be able to take a nap down there!
So we were all holding our breath, calm, cool, relaxed, and the tourney began. The action folded around to Jason in the small blind and he shoved all his chips forward. Miguel, in the big blind, revealed a three and a face card — a queen, I think — and mucked. Jason showed pocket eights and stacked the three chips; I collected the cards, pseudo-shuffled and dealt again. No one needed to refresh his air supply yet.
This time I had A-Q under the gun, so I raised three times the big blind to 150. Everyone folded. As I began to shuffle, Scott blasted off the bottom to the surface, gulped down a breath and was back before I started to deal. Darryl started laughing underwater. Cracking up actually, bubbles pouring out his mouth and nostrils as if he were an aquarium filtration system. Soon, all of us were laughing and we jettisoned to the surface. Wait, that’s a lie — we simply stood up.
“The only thing dumber than playing this out in here is my brother-in-law,” Darryl said. “And he’s dumber than an ice cube in a microwave.”
Jason concurred. “Put it this way — if he didn’t have money, we would have disappeared him during his bachelor party.”
“So I guess we’re not doing this," I said.
“Go ahead if you want to,” Scott replied as he climbed out of the pool. “We’ll watch. I’m sure you’ll beat yourself sooner or later.”
Unappreciative of his humor, I grabbed Scott by the back of his weight belt and yanked him backwards into the pool. That started a raucous free-for-all, during which Miguel got a split lip and a bloody nose — karmic payback for what he did to us during the boat ride from hell.
We wound up playing poker poolside for the remainder of the afternoon and well into the evening, drinking Pacifi co and some local brand of tequila until we were all pretty wasted. Even though it was only a semi-serious, low stakes five-handed game, I was running pretty good, catching all kinds of cards. At one point, I had nearly all the chips in play yet somehow I wound up losing $90. Go fi gure! We eventually stabilized just enough to break out the sashimi from our successful Day 1 hunt and fi nish every ounce in the cooler. Man, it seemed like all we did was eat and drink that day, which is pretty much exactly what took place.
Of course, my return trip to the States ended just like I figured it would. Approximately a dozen people ahead of me moved through Customs as if they were foreign dignitaries with diplomatic immunity. Me, yeah right — my bags got searched so diligently it was as if Customs had been told I was carrying contraband. Obviously, they didn’t fi nd anything — there was nothing to find — and they sure seemed disappointed when they came up empty.
Sadly, the world’s fi rst freedive poker tournament is still not in the books. The honor is there for the taking. Someone needs to step up and grab it — please — before I do something stupid and plan another half-assed trip south of the border, this time with more people and a week’s worth of satellite-verifi ed weather forecasts. Either that or I’m going to take a midnight dip in the Dolphin Habitat at the Mirage and play with myself. Uh, wait a sec’… That didn’t sound quite right!
