Catch up on Gloria’s first few days in Baja in The Fish Ranch: Part One.

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The next morning, we load up in the new Polaris. This time, with another captain Jorge, joined by his brother Alejandro and Mary’s friend Kelley. We drive out onto the sandy beach. Mary sits in the seat in front of me, her hair blowing in the wind.

Until now, most Polaris beach trips have been led by foreign guides, but Mary is determined to change that. “I want to be in the business of creating jobs, not taking them away,” she says. “All of our captains are local fishermen from this community. I rent my fly shop from a local family. Anytime I can incorporate local employees, I do.” Jorge is training to become a beach guide—one of the first local fly fishing guides for shore-based fishing. And he is a total natural, we’ll come to learn in the following hours.

Mary’s commitment to the community extends beyond just guiding. She collaborates with Mexican artists for branding, hosts fly-tying demos and casting clinics for folks nearby, and even organizes an annual first-aid training for the captains. “There aren’t many barriers to entry in this industry, but you won’t get anywhere without the support of your captains and your community,” she explains. “From day one, our guiding values have been community and conservation. Anytime I have a dilemma, I go back to those principles to find clarity.” 

At the beach, small roosters feed on schools of baitfish, their combs slicing through the surface of the water as we cast our fly rods into the waves, targeting the feeding species. Mary’s long, effortless casts mesmerize me as she sprints up and down the shore, tracking the feeding fish wherever they go. Kelley is accompanied by her tiny chihuahua mix, Mimi, who loves fishing more than any of us. The dog barks at the water, urging us to catch a fish, and we all try our hardest to oblige. Jorge and Alejandro fish too, alternating between conventional and fly fishing techniques.

After an exhilarating sprint chasing a feeding frenzy up the shoreline, Mary hooks into a rooster. She fights the fish, bringing it closer to shore, thankful to be on the Sea of Cortez side of the peninsula, where the break is much calmer than the Pacific side. Finally, she grabs the tail and the five of us celebrate with high-fives and huge smiles. I snap a couple of photos, and we release the fish back to the sea.

Kelley, a newer angler who caught the fishing bug during one of The Fish Ranch’s first Women’s Weeks, couldn’t stop raving about the special trip dedicated to female anglers. “It’s more than just a fishing trip—it’s a space where women can push themselves, support each other, and celebrate the sport without inhibition,” Mary said. Many of the women who joined were beginners. “It creates this space where women feel comfortable showing up without knowing everything. It’s almost like a gateway into fly fishing,” she said. Even the most experienced anglers on the trip were eager to share their knowledge, fostering a dynamic of mentorship, learning and encouragement.

One of her favorite Women’s Week memories involved a massive dorado. The group had started learning gyotaku, Japanese fish printing, led by a local artist from La Paz. One woman, still relatively new to fly fishing, landed a huge dorado for the project. “It took two people to carry it into the house,” Mary laughed. “The artist was like, ‘Oh my God, I’m so glad I brought extra sheets.’” Now, framed prints of that fish hang in participant’s homes across the group. “I don’t know what the moral of that story is, except that it was hilarious—and awesome. Seeing women just jump in, go for it, and own their place in this sport is the best part.”

By the time we return to Mary’s home, exhaustion from the day’s running, fishing, and sun has settled deep into our bones. As soon as Mary steps onto the porch, Sebastián and a few other children, who had spent the day with his nanny Lupita, greet us excitedly. Mary scoops up her son, and he wraps his arms around her neck, chattering away. I watch in awe as she seamlessly transforms from badass fly angler to loving, nurturing mom. 

Mary had told me earlier how this business was born. It wasn’t from a strategic five-year plan, but from the stillness and surrender that came with pregnancy and uncertainty.

“I had thought about starting a fishing business down here for years,” she said. “I’d been coming to Baja to fish for six years already when I ended up staying during COVID. I quit my corporate job and started a small consulting business with one or two clients while building the fishing business as a passion project. But then I got pregnant.”

It was a difficult pregnancy—Mary was on bedrest for six weeks, in the hospital multiple times. “I couldn’t keep up with my corporate clients. The fishing business became the only thing I could do—from my hospital bed, no less. I was setting up wholesale vendors for the online store, building the website, writing all the policies… It might not have been the most solid business plan, but it was what I could hold onto.”

“As a single mom, I just haven’t given up. Even when it’s been brutal, when the numbers don’t add up, when I’m getting shit from people. I can’t give up. And I know I made the right decision. This business lets me be with my son—to set my own hours, to take a day off when he’s sick, to put him to bed at night, to be near him, even when he is with his nanny. He knows I’m here. And that’s priceless.”

We rinse the rods and reels with fresh water, and before long, I find myself in the kitchen with a handful of kids, chopping tomatoes, cucumbers, limes, and ginger—ingredients bought that morning from a truck that cruises through the neighborhood like an ice cream truck, but selling local produce instead. The ceviche comes together with fresh fish and citrus, while someone fetches warm tortillas from the neighbor’s morning batch. We gather under the covered porch and devour the feast while swapping stories about everything from our first fish to favorite childhood memories, all of us savoring the flavors of the fish we had caught earlier that day, just down the dirt road.

The next morning, we are back on the water with another captain, Gato—Oscar’s cousin, one of the sons of the couple Mary rents the space for her fly shop from. It is another day of pure abundance. Huge yellowtail bend rods to their breaking points, roosters dart through the surf, skipjacks tear across the surface. We break rods, snap fly lines, scrape up our hands and legs, and get roasted by the sun.

I hook into another massive yellowtail—easily as long as my whole body—but before I can bring it in, my whole rod snaps in half. Gato and Mary shake their heads with a smile. “Ranchera,” they tease. Ranchera is a playful term used by the locals for someone who just can’t quite get it right that day. I wear the title with pride. That same spirit is what inspired the name of The Fish Ranch.

The following days are filled with more of the same: fishing, food, friends. I finally catch my yellowtail, but the species I was so eager to target when I first arrived becomes almost irrelevant as I am consumed by the people I come to call friends. In just over a week, I feel like I am a part of the community that has been here for years, and for some, generations. Mary had told me, “I’m pretty sure the love language in my neighborhood is plants, coffee, and fish.” She laughed when she said it, but I could tell she meant it.

“The sense of community here is so strong. Family is the number one value. People work hard fishing and farming, but they also really value time not working. We share meals, we support each other. Our neighbors swing by and pick up Sebastián for rides on their motorcycles or bring over dinner or smoked fish or baked goods. We just feel so loved. And most of our food is local; this area is an agricultural valley. We get fresh meat, cheese, honey, tortillas, and tons of fish. Corn, green beans, jicama, watermelon, asparagus, figs. Your day revolves around the sun, the weather, what’s growing and what’s biting.”

Here in Baja, Mary brings people together with ease, whether over a day of fishing, a shared meal, or a morning coffee on the porch. As someone who hopes to have kids of my own, I am particularly inspired by the way she raises Sebastián, never compromising her care with the stresses of adult life, prioritizing fun and connection, and providing for him a slower paced life rooted in the outdoors and in community.

On the last evening, all the captains gather at Mary’s house. Sebastián runs barefoot across the tile and I’m in the kitchen vacuum-sealing fresh caught fish to freeze and bring back to Montana. Neighbors and friends join little by little and we finish off the night with hotdogs from the local stand and a fire in her backyard. We dance, swap stories, watch the stars, and plan future adventures both near and far.

When it’s finally time to head home, I look out at the ocean for one last glimpse, overcome with gratitude for the friendships forged, the fish chased, and the rare kind of magic that makes a place feel so effortlessly like home.

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Editor’s note: To book a trip with Mary or try to catch your own yellowtail, visit www.thefishranch.com.