When I snuck from the bungalow, careful not to wake those still
asleep, and stepped outside, there was little doubt I was not in
winter-time Bradford.
A large, grackle-like blackbird about half the size of a crow
landed in a small tree above me and let out a loud, screechy
whistle. The back half of this strange sounding bird was a
startling scarlet.
The tropical vegetation surrounding me was luxuriant, green and
vibrant, some species of plants having absolutely huge leaves. This
beautiful green expanse was made even more breathtaking by the
bright splashes of brilliant color made by the many different types
of flowers interspersed among the greenery.
As I looked toward the ocean I saw a far-off group of frigate
birds against the pink and gold sunrise, then a line of pelicans
flying deliberately toward their fishing grounds. A green parrot
let out a loud squawk that was immediately answered by another.
Had it really been 10 degrees below zero just a week ago at
home? Yes it had, but that all seemed like a bad dream now, because
I was in Costa Rica and going deep sea fishing in just a few
moments.
This all seemed so surreal, was it really happening?
Soon Brendyn Jones, my daughter’s new father-in-law and his
friend John Yankoski came screeching to a stop and I jumped inside
their rented SUV. We tore down the steep hillside and through the
sleepy town of Quepo. After a misguided turn or two we pulled into
the marina.
The marina entrance was fenced and the guard asked us the name
of our boat. We told him, he consulted a list and let us in. A long
1,000-foot pier stretched in front of us and as we walked out we
passed a huge, derelict crane. It was old and rusty, probably from
the 1930s and I was amazed to see it had been steam powered.
A long-out-of-business banana company had originally constructed
the port and the railroad to haul their produce to it. The railroad
grade and its bridges now constituted the area’s main road and the
abandoned pier the center of the sports fishing industry. Costa
Rica does very little heavy construction outside the few major
cities.
The harbor master waved our boat in and we looked her over. The
Magic Moon was a twin-engined, 35-foot boat with a flying bridge.
Her captain, Ishmael, was a strongly built, swarthy individual who
nodded hello to us, then climbed up to the flying bridge where he
remained the rest of the trip. The mate, Manuel, was a stocky, good
natured guy who spoke pretty good English. He welcomed us aboard
and the captain immediately hit the throttles. The twin diesels
roared into life and the creamy wake boiled white behind us as we
began our one-hour run to deeper water.
As we motored, Manuel prepared our trolling bait. The 12-inch,
silver fish we would be using had a long narrow beak. Using a
needle and strong, waxed thread he sewed a 3/4-ounce sinker between
the gill plates and then sewed a large circle hook on top of the
head. He prepared about 20 baits this way. Next he cut very heavy
monofilament line into three foot leaders and began tying circle
hooks onto them. I had him teach me to tie the unusual knot he used
on such stiff, thick line.
The land soon disappeared in the haze and at the 20-mile mark we
began trolling. It was agreed I would take the first strike as this
was my first attempt at deep sea fishing. I was all smiles at the
generosity of my new friends.
It wasn’t much more than 15 minutes when I was shocked to see a
sudden flurry of water as a large sailfish began slashing his
3-foot bill at one of the teasers we were trolling. Talk about
luck!
Teasers are square headed, skirted, hookless lures that skip,
splash and bubble along the surface to attract game fish. The
captain reeled the teaser in as Manuel dropped one of his baits
back in its place. The sailfish grabbed the offering, Manuel handed
the rod to me and I staggered forward as the sailfish dragged me
toward the stern. Manuel buckled a fighting belt around my waist
and I managed to fit the base of the bucking rod into it, all the
while holding on for dear life as the line melted off the
spool.
I backed slowly up and sat down in the fighting chair, braced my
legs and looked up just as the sailfish came flying out of the
Atlantic about 100 yards away, white water flying, his bill
stabbing at the sky. Immediately he jumped again and again,
thrashing, leaping, arching high in the air in his anger at the
hook. The rod jerked powerfully against my grip and I marveled at
the power of this great fish, but the line was no longer streaming
out and I began pumping him in.
It was all work now.
About halfway to the boat the sailfish jumped several times
again, then went deep. I reeled down and pulled painfully up,
reeled down, pulled up for about 10 minutes. My back began to hurt
and my arms ached. It was a delicious pain, a labor of exquisite
beauty.
The sailfish suddenly reversed tactics and roared to the
surface, exploding out of the water only 20 yards away. He was
finally tiring, but so was I. Another five minutes and Manuel
grabbed the leader, then the fish’s bill and after a short scuffle
pulled the fish onto the boat’s gunnel.
Words cannot explain the pure joy that filled me as I grabbed
that rapier bill and gazed at a 140-pound fish I never thought I
would ever have the opportunity to catch. This was indeed a day to
remember and rejoice in.
