“It was this big, really, it was! You can see it, it’s in Wade’s dad’s “It was this big, really, it was! You can see it, it’s in Wade’s dad’s house on the wall!”
This is a fish story. About a big fish (marlin) caught by Wade Speyer in Mexico on a day-boat out of Manzanillo’s harbor-the Mexican resort where the move “10” was filmed decades ago. Bo Derek was not on our excursion, but Wade, Bucky Lasek, Lance Conklin, Frankie Hill, Tod Hastings, Mark Hunt and George Powell were all part of our crew.
The story begins with Joel Tudor making a recommendation, “Oh, yeah, definitely check out Playa de Oro, it can get serious.” Ok. Joel and I were standing in the Powell Corp’s “G Spot” booth at ASR in San Diego. The “G Spot” was an accurate approximation of a dive bar. Its pool table and free beers made for an attractive lure for skateboarders anxious for something to do during the ‘trade show.’ It was so popular the fire marshals came by to check on the crowds gathering in the aisles. They shot some pool but claimed they couldn’t enjoy a beer to go along with their game. Their loss.
Joel and I were joined by Craig Stecyk as we discussed the merits of surfing around Manzanillo during the off-season. “Playa del Oro,” got it. Joel added, “It’s just outside of town, it’s past a coconut plantation, it’s a dirt road down to the beach, maybe a mile drive?” I’ll find it. And we did.
Flying out of San Diego the cargo area held my 10’4″ Infinity surfboard, which became a challenge in maneuvering long before we made it to any beach. I had duct-taped Aloha surf racks to my board before I checked it with our luggage. We thought we were prepared. Turns out Manzanillo wasn’t really ready for our level of circus performance.
The “10” resort, Las Hadas, was more than less shut down for the off-season. Our rooms were fine, two connected 2bd 2ba condo-like resort spaces, but the resort’s kitchen staff was reduced, room service wasn’t available, and the restaurants were only open on the weekends. We found a local store that provided coffee, tortillas, beans, rice and a selection of two or three beers and one local tequila brand. “When’s dinner going to be ready, honey?”
At that time the airport didn’t have rental cars available, so we were shuttled into town to locate the Avis office. Two VW Bugs and a ‘bay window’ VW van provided for our transportation. Bucky self-assigned himself as one Bug driver, I took the other Bug, and George was in the van. It was the last time any of the vehicles would resemble their original appearance.
This Fish Story is now interrupted by the ‘Finger in the Sand’ interlude. It was a sad moment, the Finger in the Sand moment. We hadn’t found Playa del Oro on our initial forays into the surrounding jungle. We did find a sandspit like beach a few miles north that must provide an epic left when the swell direction hits from the south. No waves, but a quaint sea-side shack of a restaurant serving ice-cold beers and fish tacos under funky umbrellas shading tables and chairs in the sand. Relax. Chill. There we were, waiting for our food when the mariachis arrived. Boisterous and energized they enthusiastically responded to George’s request for ‘Guantanamera,’ and then played it vigorously only to have their performance interrupted by a blood-curdling scream…AYYYYYYYYYYEEEEE!!
I remember jumping up as I turned to the scream coming from a woman a table away from us with her hand in front of her stricken face as blood pumped from where her pinky finger had been located. What the hell? Her stunned husband was stupefied, staring at something he didn’t recognize as blood poured down his wife’s arm. I grabbed my napkin, covered her hand and assured her, “Everything is going to be fine,” and then yelled out for ‘hielo.’ “Hielo, por favor, necesitamos heilo, por favor!”
The fish shack guys were immediate with ice in towels. I gently wrapped up her bleeding hand as Todd Hastings miraculously discovered her severed finger in the sand beneath her chair. It looked other-worldly, small and lonely in Todd’s the outstretched palm of his hand. We wrapped it in a separate ice-soaked cloth napkin. We assumed the couple were Germans, although they barely spoke-the husband was as traumatized as this wife and she wept silently. I was babbling about “re-attaching the finger, it’s amazing what can be done…”
The fish shack guys gathered up a rusting ’53 Chevy pick-up truck with the intention of getting the bleeding woman to the ‘hospital.’ The German dude reluctantly climbed into the back of the pick-up carrying the finger in the icy napkin. One of the fish shack guys drove the truck with a woman who sat next to the amputee, comforting her with her eyes while rubbing her shoulders and back-the three of them crammed into the truck’s cabin as the driver shifted through the gears with the floor mounted transmission shifter sticking up between their knees.
As they drove away we were able to reconstruct how the amputation had taken place-the restaurant’s folding wooden chairs had seats that folded up toward the chair back. When lowered the chair seat was held in place by a short steel rod protruding from the side of the chair. In adjusting her chair, which didn’t slide on the nonexistent smooth floor, the German woman had lifted her chair out of the sand by holding on to the sides of the chair, repositioned it, and then sat down on the seat with her fingers still wrapped around the sides of the chair. Her finger ended up between the seat and the protruding steel rod and when they came together it was her finger and her body weight creating a perfect storm of pain and consequence for her. She never knew how her finger was removed from her hand.
And that’s as much as we knew then, and now. As the Chevy pick-up disappeared on the dirt road, the distraught German dude looking in our direction waved at one point, we gave him a closed fist salute in return.
The Fish Story began to unfold after we found Playa del Oro the next day. We found the road to the beach by accident and experimentation. No signs. No indication of a remote surf spot other than what amounted to a graded dirt/gravel trail as much as a road. Definitely one-lane much of the distance through the jungle-like foliage of a canopy of overhanging vines and trees-a deciduous explosion of greenness. And then there was a clearing. A break in the canopy. Sunshine on the roadway. Which provided a blasting spotlight of illumination revealing 1000s of geckos. Geckos laid out in sunshine bliss. Visualize all of the Geico television commercials you’ve ever seen…1000s of these bright green geckos were basking in the warmth of the direct sunlight. I screeched to a halt. What the hell? Bucky pulled up behind. We gazed down the road, “Uh, whaddya think?” I revved the engine, honked the horn. Nothing. The geckos weren’t phased a bit.
Bucky waved his arms, jumped up and down, to no avail. He hopped back in his Bug, pulled around our vehicle and as he passed us I could clearly hear a popping sound. Visualize popcorn popping. I apologized as I accelerated after Bucky. The law of the jungle was in full popping force.
Apparently, Playa del Oro is today a resort community with homes and resort style hotels, but for us, in the early 90s it was an empty beach-with one or two unoccupied homes more than a mile down the beach. Playa del Oro’s sand was flecked with gold bits, the waves were small, and the heat was intense. We walked, we explored, we lamented our lack of fishing gear for surf fishing, and after pulling off my Infinity to ride the shorebreak for a few bone crushing waves we all agreed to head back to the Las Hadas to see what was available for a fishing expedition.
Yes, yes we did drive the same route back to the main road, but the sun no longer spotlit the roadway, and apparently the local bird population cleaned up the geckos’ remains. No popping on the return drive, which meant for Bucky ever-greater opportunities to test the limits of his Bug.
Leaving the Manzanillo harbor the next morning it seemed we were well supplied for a day on the water. Liquids. Solids. Equipment. Our conversation was highlighted by our reflections of the previous evening’s entertainment in a disco like club a few miles from Las Hadas. There were women dancing who were or weren’t part of the club, we never decided. There was one rather buxom dancer who seemed to want to disrobe for the patrons, but her clothing never went too high or too low. Our recounting the experience was clouded somewhat by the amount of beer and tequila we’d consumed, but we all agreed the dancer was never unclothed. Eventually our captain had Wade and Bucky bait lines, which the deck mate helped cast to the mostly calm blue waters of the Pacific. The captain confident, the deckhand was confident, Wade and Bucky were smiling in anticipation, and Mark Hunt was seasick. George had stayed ashore.
Wade was laughing before the fish hit his line. It was an explosion. WHAM! The reel started to scream. Bucky suddenly looked disappointed. The deckhand began moving things away from Wade’s chair, and then buckled Wade into a harness. The rest of us became spectators to the spectacle of one pasty white skateboarder up against an unknown combatant. Minutes? Hours? Wade pulled. Wade pushed. It was sweaty and challenging and in the end there were cheers and gasps from the gallery! “HOLYSHIT!!!”
The captain maneuvered, the deckhand grabbed a hook and Wade’s marlin was aboard! “HOLYSHIT!!!” The Fish was huge, flopping to save itself, ready to spear any of us in the close quarters of the boat’s deck. The deckhand grabbed a club and began an assault on the fish’s head. The fish was flopping, blood sprayed…the deck looked like a killing had taken place. “HOLYSHIT!!!”
Heading back to the marina the conversation was passed around the horn. We all had insights. We all had something to say. Beers. Shots. Celebration! “HOLYSHIT!!!”
Wade had landed a trophy fish, we all had a Fish Story and Wade had a fish. Dockside I arranged to have the fish prepared as the trophy it was and then have it shipped to Wade’s house in California. $1000s were involved, seven pages of forms, documents, shipping information, it was all put to my Powell Corporation company card. Wade was impressed, “Dude, this is awesome, whatever happens, it’s all awesome!” And it was.
Weeks later Wade called, “Jim, it’s here!” What? “The fish, it’s here, it’s in a crate, we’re unpacking it now, it looks like it’s ready to hang on the wall!” Awesome. “It is, it’s so awesome, I’m giving it to my dad, he can hang it here in his house!” Awesome. “It is, it’s so awesome, thank you!”
And there we were, the 2025 Skateboarding Hall of Fame Induction Ceremony at Vans’ HQ and Wade and I were laughing about how weird life is and I asked, “So, you’ve still got the fish, right?” “Yeah, for sure, yeah…wait, come here…”
Wade took me over to his dad, “Hey, this is Fitz, he’s the guy who took us on the fishing trip and then arranged for it to be shipped to the house…” Wade’s dad’s eyes widened, “Hey! I’m glad to finally meet you!” “How is the fish?” I asked. “Well, that’s quite a story isn’t it?”
PS: Preparing to leave Manzanillo, whatever our feelings were about the geckos, I had a bigger concern about our rental bugs, Mr. Avis’ VW Bugs. Returning them in town we parked them around the corner form the Avis office. There was a fountain and planter area in the town square opposite where Wade and Lance began a brief session with ollies to a ledge, and then grinds and tail slides, it was the first time skateboards had appeared. Local kids converged as they responded to the unfamiliar sounds. Wade offered up his board for them to try, and soon the locals were attempting to ride on the rough pavement surrounding the fountain.
Inside the Avis office I was asked, “How were the vehicles for you?” Fantastic. “They’re full of gas?” Actually no, we weren’t able to fill them up. “That’s all right, we can do that for you, just sign here.” I signed.
Bucky’s Bug only had 3rd gear. It only started in gear, with a lurch, and then continued forward at the touch of the gas pedal. The clutch didn’t function, the Bug drove well enough, but only in third gear. On our return drive from Playa del Oro Bucky had launched the Bug at a low point in the road that more or less created a 1/4 pipe like transition that Bucky couldn’t resist. From behind we could see Bucky’s Bug high in the air, the entire bottom pan of the Bug was visible before it returned to earth with a smacking sound from the engine area which re-entered earlier than the rest of the car. The head snaps were offset by the hysteria.
The brakes didn’t work too well either since the clutch didn’t engage with the transmission permanently stuck in third gear. My Bug hadn’t left earth, and was still somewhat mechanically sound, but it was dirty enough to eliminate recognition from the interior or exterior.
Mr. Avis came out from behind his counter to watch the skate demo, “So, this is what you do?” Yes. This is what we do. “It’s amazing what you do…” It is. Loading our bags and the Infinity into the airport shuttle I wondered for more than. 30 years if I’d ever hear from Mr. Avis about the condition of our Bugs.
Chris Senn was on the trek too, he caught an Albacore of epic proportions…