We started the weekend off with a round of golf at the Gilroy Golf Course. With our carts warmed up and loaded with plastic bag coolers of beer we tee'd off Paul's bachelorhood-is-over-weekend.
Immediately I shanked, hacked, sliced, hooked and whacked through, consuming an average of 1.5 beers per hole on the front 9. I also notably averaged 1 pee per every two holes. So that would mean I have a one-pee-per-every-three-beer (after a broken seal) capacity. Which is really below par for an ex-frat guy. At the end of our round of 18, our game had gradually disintegrated into a free-for all hack and putt; which is perfectly fine by me. By hole 17, I was thoroughly shithoused.
As we drove south toward Monterey I drifted into oblivion. By the time we arrived at the hotel, I was actually hungover. The rest of the night involved pitchers of beer and what the restaurant Knuckles calls "Sliders." I'm not sure what these things are, but they look like hamburgers only smaller and nastier. I cut out early from "dinner" to go heave in our bathroom, and nap off the residual beer funk. An hour later, I was up and at'm. Beer in hand.
Yup, the evening continued to devolve and despite having a 5am wake up call to go deep sea fishing, I didn't hit the sack until well after 3am.
So when 5am rolled around I was my chipper self. I happily dragged myself out of bed and crawled into my fishing clothes.
We loaded onto the Star of Monterey fishing boat. This crusty old boat took us south. Really south. 2.5 hours south. Past Pebble Bech, Carmel, Big Sur. After what seemed like an eternity, I woke up still sitting upright. It was time to cast our lines. The minute my sinker hit the water, we were getting bites. We pulled up Rock fish at an incredible rate. My burlap sack was filled in less than an hour.
Paul, who'd been anxiously awaiting the signal to drop our lines pulled up his third fish when the first wave of nausea hit him. Insta-vomit. His fishing trip was over and he spent the rest of the trip in the cabin, passed-out with his new best friend, "Mr. Blue Bucket."
Fishing is a brutal activity. Sure we throw back the little ones. But only after we hook them through their mouth into their skull, or through their eyeball. Then trying to remove the hook we rip off their jaw, or tear the lens off their eye, or pull the barbed hook through their face holes. Then toss their struggling bodies into a burlap sack to suffocate to death; only to be tossed back out onto the deck and spiked through their torso, head or gills and tossed back into a bloody bucket. THEN, they are layed out, still grasping for air, onto a cutting board to have their muscles filet'd off their bones and then tossed out into the ocean only to be torn apart and eaten by the awaiting gang of rabid seagulls tailing the boat.
Ah, the cycle of life. It's good to be at the top of the food chain.
That evening, after a long nap, we went over to Hefe's house where we had some really fresh fish tacos. Somehow food that we murdered to death with our bare hands is so much more enjoyable to eat than store-bought. These tacos were deeeelicious.
We did NOT go to a strip club that night, because there are NO strip clubs in Monterey. But we did manage to procure some entertainment despite that. Unfortunately for you, the details of that are to stay in the cramped quarters of my memory.
Let's just say this. None of us did anything that we weren't supposed to do.
Paul gets married on Sept. 17th. to Janice. May they live happily ever after.