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FANCY AMBERJACK
The green mountains of a tropical rain forest, thinly covered by a
morning mist, rose behind us. We stared out over the blue Pacific
Ocean stretching to the horizon, four friends with their cooler,
clutching their new hundred-dollar fishing licenses, at the marina
of Quepos, in Costa Rica. We had arrived from Destin Florida, a
fishing village in its own right, and now we stood on the edge of
the Holy Grail for fancy amberjack, the legendary Rooster Fish.
“Boys, this ain’t the Gulf of Mexico,” Ron said, as we looked
at rocks thrusting through the glassy Pacific. Several peaks,
located only a few hundred yards from shore, supposedly dropped off
eighty or ninety feet below the water’s surface. We hurried to the
docks of what was heralded to become the largest harbor in South
America. Today it looked like a bridge to nowhere. We presented our
licenses and IDs, which proved we were indeed the gringos who had
paid for the yearly licenses. There were no trip licenses, and our
chances of fishing Costa Rica again any time soon were slim for my
friends and a solid none for me. Wives see no sense of humor in,
“Honey, I’m going fishing with a couple of old friends for a few
days.” The trip turns out to be two weeks in Costa Rica.
Once, maybe. If I tried it twice, my fishing would be from a
riverbank, within walking distance from the tent I’d be living in.
Fishing was the plan.
That’s why we became excited about the bar next to our hotel in
San Jose called the The Blue Marlin—and there was a little casino
downstairs. It had to be the best fish camp I’ve ever visited. I
became convinced, right before sunrise and after the second shift at
the Blue Marlin, that, if Hemingway had stumbled in here, he’d
never have made it to Key West. His famous novel may have had a
different meaning and title: The Old Man Caught it All, at the
Blue Marlin.
Days later it was obvious that some of us were still suffering from
the previous forty-eight hours as we packed into a skiff, which
became dangerously unbalanced with five guys and a cooler. The
little wooden skiff rocked and tipped its way out, as the Costa
Rican guide casually handed us a couple of buckets, to help with the
bailing. Our friend Jerry, wearing dark sunglasses and a sparkling,
gaudy sombrero. Rumor had it he’d won the sombrero by performing a
tempestuous, tequila-enticed pole dance at a local nightclub earlier
this morning. Occasionally, Jerry would grunt out words like
“Coffee” or mumble, “No more tequila,” and then he would be
quiet for a while in a comatose way. The tipping of the boat,
along with the sound of frantic bailing, startled him into
consciousness again. Jerry looked around and exclaimed, “ Where
are we? What day is it?” The boat rocked hard to port; “And what
the hell am I doing over water?” Two of Jerry’s three questions
we couldn’t answer.
Just before sinking, we managed to climb on board our chartered
boat, which was small by Destin standards. Back in Destin, a 24-foot
wooden boat was the skiff. Jerry, now leaning over a railing on the
boat with a rather pale to bleached white complexion, moaned,
“Guys, is this boat rocking or is it just me? Where’s the
head?” Paul, who had been first off the skiff and had quickly
surveyed the vessel by simply glancing forward and aft over the open
deck, handed Jerry a bucket. “Here you go, Jerry. Best I can tell
this is the head. However, I’ve found that hanging over the side
of the boat is the quickest, and sometimes it draws fish.”
Before any of us could
jump ship, our Costa Rican captain fired up the single inboard.
BANG! A backfire, then several nonstop bangs as the boat spurted
enough smoke to make us invisible to the rest of Costa Rica and to
each other.
We coughed and blindly
worried about the location of Jerry’s bucket, as the little vessel
lurched forward. Groaning its objections to moving, the transmission
growled and clanked louder than the valves and other innards of the
engine. Offshore fishing was immediately off the boards and out of
the question.
Our little vessel was
heading out. As the light wind blowing off the Pacific cleared the
smoke away, I began a frantic search for a life vest (maybe two) and
a ring buoy, if there was one. I settled for a life vest and two
cervezas. Our friend Ron was already at the side of the captain,
waving his arms and hollering in his best Spanish, “No Pacifico!
Little bitty boat, Bigo Pacificio.” The captain nodded,
“Si, pescar de rocks. Ooster pescado, si.” Paul had worked
on fishing boats off and on most of his life in Destin. Obviously he
had heard the little engine that might—more likely, might
not—make it back to shore. He shouted over the engine to
Ron, “Boy, I’m glad you speak Spanish. Keep us within swimming
distance of land. And, while you’re up, get me a beer.”
As a boat captain
myself for the past twenty years, I preferred two or more engines
and a sail, if you’ve got one, although drift fishing while
awaiting rescue wasn’t so bad, in calm seas. I won first turn in
the chair, since my buddies were popping beers like someone had
hollered, “Free beer on me!” Which rarely happened, unless the
bar was really crowded, nobody knew me, there was a side door, and I
was far from home, like in Costa Rica, for instance. Jose was our
deckhand. None of us, including Ron, could pronounce his real name,
and he couldn’t speak English, so Jose worked just fine.
Jose was busy
twisting my hook into the lip of a live baitfish. Then he tossed it
behind the wake of the boat, and I let the line run until Jose
motioned it was far enough. While Jose was baiting my hook, I
was looking for a leader on my line, steel or nylon of some type,
any type. Surely there must be a leader. I tried to relay this
concern to Jose, but he shrugged and said, “No comprender,”
which were the only words besides, “Si, cerveza, gracias” that
he seemed to know.
Our captain was
circling one of several large rocks in the area, when he saw a
school of jumping baitfish; he powered up and wheeled the little
vessel around. Immediately a small explosion erupted from the
engine, creating a large puff of black smoke. Fortunately for us, he
had turned into the wind, so it was only a moment or so before I
could see my reel and take in a breath of fresh salt air. I had just
begun to relax, listening to the clanking of the motor, checking my
drag, when suddenly my bait was hit by a determined strike. This
fish meant to eat something. Instinctively I set the hook, and it
was on. Suddenly, to our delight and amazement, the fish tail
walked, splashed down, and began running, with the boney fin on the
front of his head cutting the surface like a razor. “Rooster
fish!” I cried out. Jose nodded, “Si, ooster, ooster.”
I was in fishing
heaven. The powerful fish I had hooked was pulling hard, then
running in, me reeling like mad. Then off he goes again, with that
hood ornament slicing through the water. We’re yelling, spilling
beer, trying to take pictures, and falling down. Then it was over;
the fish was gone. I reeled in my cut line, pointed, and said, “I
need a leader. Comprender leader?” Jose shook his head and began
tying on a hook.
I drank a beer and
looked at the impressive Playa Manuel Antonio national park, one of
several beautiful national parks in Costa Rica. The motor coughed; I
drank another beer.
Ron, our friend from
Texas and now our designated interpreter, tried to explain to Jose:
“Amigo, we need-o a lead-o for our line-o, comprenda?”
Paul remarked,
“Ron, I believe he speaks Spanish, not drunken Texan. Ah, while
you’re up, hand me a beer.”
For the rest of
our trip, the missing leader became a moot point, as that was the
only fish that struck our lines the rest of the day. The
captain tried and tried. He circled the rocks. He even fished, like
maybe we were holding the reels wrong. Then he pointed out to sea,
and we all shouted, “NO,” shaking our heads in unison, while one
hand clutched a faded orange vest and the other held fast to the
rocking, coughing boat.
We carried the empty
cooler back to our rented villa that evening, to our charcoal
grills, filled and waiting for the grilled fish extravaganza to
begin. Unfortunately, all we had caught was a watermelon, one
pineapple, and a couple of papayas in the boat’s cooler. We
did have eight hundred dollars tied up in our fishing licenses,
charter boat, refreshments, and photos of green mountains, rocks in
water, and one dismayed, untipped Jose.
To
my friends
Costa Rica, 2006
Jim Chavers
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Photos
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