Mary greets me at the gate, wrestling with bungees and leather straps to release it while balancing her two-year-old son on one hip. She ushers me into the sandy lot with a wide, sun-warmed smile. The yard is scattered with cacti and aloe, arranged in a way that feels both wild and intentional, their prickly forms softened by the golden light of the Baja sun. An outfitter tent storing a Polaris Ranger sits next to the house. A variety of inviting seating areas, some shaded and others basking in the open sun, mingle with the scattered remains of childhood: little trucks and toys left in the wake of play.

I step out of the car and let my dogs spill from the backseat. They waste no time joining her two in joyous play through the dust. Mary smiles, her pink lip gloss catching the light as she pulls me into a hug. As she sets down her son, Sebastián, he reaches for me, wrapping his little arms around my legs before darting off to balance on a wooden beam discarded from a past project.

“I have to Sebastián-proof everything,” Mary watches him fondly as he chatters away to himself in a fluent mix of Spanish and English. He is tall and sturdy for his age, eager to help his mother with anything and everything.

Mary gives me a tour of the property and house. “It’s very rustic,” she had warned me several times in the months leading up to my visit. Having spent the past few years living in a van, I hadn’t thought much of her disclaimer. But as we move through the space—the modest bathroom, the weathered walls, the basic cement-counter kitchen, I realize she hadn’t exaggerated. The home is indeed rustic, but it is also undeniably inviting. Woven rugs and scattered cushions soften the hard edges. Ocean-inspired artwork punctuates the walls and plants spill over clay pots, breathing life into the space.

After a few minutes of small talk, we head over to check out the newest addition to her fly-fishing outfitter, The Fish Ranch: a second-hand Polaris Ranger. It will be used to take guests out beach fishing with guides, offering an alternative to the traditional panga boat. In the days to come, I’ll get to experience the adrenaline rush of cruising the beach in a 4×4, scanning the shallows for the telltale flick of a roosterfish’s comb slicing through the water in a feeding frenzy, casting two and three-aught flies into the surf in hopes of a strike.

For now, though, the Polaris needs cleaning. Sebastián helps with great enthusiasm, though the process is frequently interrupted by impromptu wrestling matches and urgent potty-training breaks. Neighbors drop by, as do the neighborhood dogs.

Before long, we’re gathered around the grill, cooking fresh huachinango (red snapper) and vegetables from the local stand. It is the first of many fish-laden meals I’ll share at Mary’s home—always with a few extra chairs pulled up.

Sebastián is still asleep when a neighbor sneaks in to watch him and Mary and I set off for the nearby port the next morning. We make a few quick stops—first at her fishing shop for flies and extra rods, then at a roadside stand for burritos and empanadas, both conveniently along the way.

Just beyond her quiet town, at a small marina, we meet Oscar, a captain she frequently works with. Her friends Christine and Inés had driven in that morning from the Pacific side of the peninsula. Neither of them has fished before, but Mary is eager to show them what it’s all about.

The sun already shines bright as we push off from the shore, the water deepening into ever-changing shades of turquoise blue. Oscar ensures we are all seated and sturdy before starting the motor.

As we leave the port, Mary points out various landmarks to Christine, Inés, and me, her voice alive with a deep, abiding love for this place. Before long, we slow alongside a smaller fishing boat with three men—sardine fishermen. After a quick exchange of pesos, they fill our live well with sardines, their silver scales flashing.

Shortly after, we arrive at our first fishing spot. We prepare our fly rods, casting toward small rooster fish near shore. Oscar tosses sardines at our flies—a trick used by the local captains and guides to entice the fish to bite. Our lines slice through the water, tracing arcs against the sky, and soon enough, we begin hooking fish.

Suddenly in my periphery, a longer, leaner shape darts into view. “¡Jurel!” Oscar shouts, pointing to a yellowtail. My heart quickens, and I cast my EP minnow, landing it just past the shadow and stripping fast.

The yellowtail strikes in a flash, hitting harder than anything I have ever hooked before, though it will forever be etched in my memory in slow motion. I fight the fish for over thirty minutes before it ultimately breaks off by darting under some rocks and cutting my line. I feel defeated, yes, but also breathless with exhilaration.

For Mary, Baja has never been just about the fish: it’s about a lifelong connection to the water. She grew up between Southern California and Oregon, spending her childhood surfing, diving, and sailing, never imagining that fishing would become her main focus.

She first came to Baja Sur while working on a boat bound for Florida, its route weaving through the Sea of Cortez and the Panama Canal, with a planned stop in the La Paz marina. The crew was scheduled to arrive in the middle of the night, but with the marina’s tricky entryway, they opted to wait for sunrise in La Ventana Bay—the very bay we now fish.

Mary had the night shift, circling the bay under the still Baja sky. Something shifted in her that night, “I remember feeling this crazy calm.” Then life carried her to New York City, where she worked on the 45th floor in finance. When the pandemic hit, she packed up her life and came south. She has never left.

Transitioning from a structured finance job in Manhattan to life in rural Baja might seem like a drastic shift, but for Mary, it felt like a return to something long imagined. “I’d been dreaming about it for years,” she admits. Even during her busiest days in the Financial District, she’d steal moments to study satellite images of Baja on Google Earth, zooming in on shorelines for potential fishing spots and the hotdog stands she craved a meal from. “It’s funny to look back and think about this bay I did laps around 20 years ago, long before I ever thought I’d end up living here.”

By midday, Christine and Inés, who started the day as curious onlookers, are casting with enthusiasm, already planning their next fishing trip. Mary’s energy is infectious, removing all intimidation from the sport for these first timers. Between casts, we pause to watch whales breach in the distance, dolphins weaving through the swells, sea lions bobbing in the current, and birds flying overhead.

We talk about fishing, of course, but also about life—love, heartbreak, the unexpected turns that have brought us here. Mary shares about her beginner days fly fishing in New York, how a past relationship had introduced her to the sport. “When that relationship ended, I worried I would lose fishing and the community, too.” But she didn’t. She kept fishing, and soon enough, brought a fly rod to Baja, determined to make it her own.

“I remember that first fishing trip—I brought six flies. Six. That’s all I could afford.” She laughs, but that first trip to Baja marked the beginning of something far greater. And now, some of those very people who taught her to fish in New York come here to fish with her at The Fish Ranch.

As the day draws to a close, Oscar teaches me how to clean the fish, walking me through the fillets and cuts, and the traditional dishes they can be used for. We all go home with yellowtail in hand. Oscar explains that they no longer kill or eat roosterfish and some other species. They’ve become prized catch-and-release fish, fostering tourism and helping sustain the fishery. “Fly fishing has exploded here in the last decade,” Mary says. “And that’s actually great for sustainability because it places value on the fish while they’re alive, not just as something to take.”

***

Gloria’s time in Baja continues with The Fish Ranch: Part Two.