PUTNEY — While you Vermonters were cursing the day you ever moved to - or originated in - Vermont, I was traveling to Nicaragua in search of the mighty tarpon.
My son Shorty, the fruit of the sainted union between me and my tempestuous flower Ruth, had been spending the past three months in Ocotal, Nicaragua. The lad had decided that Spanish fluency was the key to landing an ambassadorship in some español-ish country. He found a total immersion outfit on the Net, and off he went.
His first phone call home was a bit frantic. Apparently nobody, including his instructors, spoke a word of English.
Shorty had some high school Spanish and an intermediate college course, so he wasn't a complete mute, but he had his work cut out for him. The deal was that he lived with a family, studied Spanish all morning, then worked in the community as a volunteer in the afternoons.
After some farm work, he was asked if he wanted to volunteer in the local hospital. Hoeing turnips in the blazing sun was getting old, so he jumped at the chance.
Here's the weird part: They gowned him up and sent him straight to the operating room, where (on his first day) he would observe a hip replacement and a cesarean section. The lad got a bit woozy watching the hip replacement, but he rallied to rather enjoy the cesarean.
After a few days, the doctor asked him if he wanted to “help.” Shorty said “sure,” like he did this at home all the time.
The next day, he stood beside the surgeon about to perform a hernia operation. The doctor turned to him, handed him the scalpel, and said (in Spanish): “Go for it.”
The lad turned as white as his gown, while the surgeon chuckled and said, “Just kidding.” He ended up holding back flaps of skin with retractors while the sawbones did the hernia deal.
Shorty went on to assist on several more surgeries over the course of his stay. You know, with the cost of health care in this country, it might be a great idea to have college students do the easy stuff during your surgery. I mean, how hard can anesthesia be?
* * *
April rolled around, and we flew to Managua and boarded a puddle jumper to San Carlos at the end of the San Juan River, which borders Costa Rica.
San Carlos, in the words of the great travel writer John Muir, is a dump. Dirty, hot as hell, and wretched is the best you can expect. We had a lunch of beans, rice, and an unidentifiable meat, and we boarded a water taxi for a three-hour trip downriver to our jungle hotel.
The water taxi was a long canoe with a 150-hp ancient Mercury outboard on the back. There must have been 50 people on the bench seats, crammed shoulder to shoulder. Our three-hour trip cost us 4 bucks each, or 80 cordobas in the local lucre. I figure we got a deal, since we were at least twice as big as the biggest Nicaraguan.
The big canoe dropped us off at a rain forest camp named Monte Cristo. It used to be pretty upscale but has fallen on hard times. The cabañas were run-down, and the deck chairs overlooking the San Juan River were sprung.
Everything gave the impression that the forest wanted its land back and wasn't going to take no for an answer. Ruth, mi esposa, was oblivious to the decay. (Maybe that's why our marriage is so successful.) She loved the river and the location. I trailed behind her while she checked out potential lots near our cabin.
* * *
After the rain forest walks, drinks on the deck, horseback riding, and all the superfluous activities were out of the way, it was time to fish.
Shorty and I hit the river with a guide who blithely informed us that September was tarpon month and they didn't eat much in early April. I didn't care. I could see giant tarpon rolling around in various locations, and I was sure I could get them to eat.
After a few days, I was getting a bit desperate. We caught a few other species but no silver kings (that's fishing-show talk for “tarpon”).
Tarpon are pure silver with scales the size of your hand and an underslung jaw that gives them a prehistoric look. They are simply the best game fish alive. Marlin and tuna are anemic guppies in comparison to the mighty tarpon.
On the last morning, a glorious tarpon hit my giant red-and-white Rapala lure. It struck like a true predator, vicious and violent. I set the hook, and the fight was on.
When it leapt out of the water the first time, I almost swallowed my cigar. This fish was enormous - and not enormous like Uncle Fred's bass, which he caught in the '50s and had grown by 5 percent per year until it weighed 15 pounds. This fish was longer than Shorty, who stands at 6'1”.
I gabbled something (but I'm sure it wasn't in English) about getting the camera out. I fought the “great fish” (Hemingway's Old Man and the Sea) for 15 minutes before getting him within 10 feet of the boat. He then chose to leap clear of the water twice in rapid succession.
Ten more minutes of fierce cranking and hauling got the fish to the side of the boat. The brute stared up at me with an eyeball the size of a dinner plate. I was about to get Shorty to reach over and grab him when the fish decided he wasn't out of gas yet.
Tarpon turned and headed downriver. I had the drag screwed down as tight as it would go, and he still pulled 50 yards of line out of my ancient Penn reel. In a flash, he turned to a rocky outcropping and cut me off on some underwater snag. The guide said the fish weighed 75 kilos. I could have been devastated. (I once cried big tears after losing a large pike.) However, I wasn't about to blubber in front of the guide.
When all was said and done, it was good enough to just hook him up and fight. I would have let him go anyway, so I am designating him as being “released” at a distance.
Marriage, the birth of my son, my Nobel Prize - all these events paled in comparison to catching this classic piscine. Ruth says I need therapy. Shorty says I need a reality check if I thought he was going reach over and land the fish.
I say I need more red-and-white Rapalas.