Back In the Day Written by, Robert Leffew robert@theonlinefisherman.com
Like all fish stories, the fish get bigger, and the stories get longer, but this fish tale comes with a little twist; I’ve got pictures. On an uncommonly sunny day in Bara Tortuguero, Costa Rica, four friends were on the hunt for Snook, Tarpon, and whatever else might take the bait. We were the only gringos that lived on the east coast, besides the odd Missionary or Banana Plantation manager, in 1972, so we were more of a friendly side show as opposed to the unpleasant interlopers of today. The trek up the east coast of Central America, in our dugout canoe took three days and we were set on fishing the river lagoon at the mouth of the Tortuguero River. Although the natives along the way were drawn to us as an oddity they rarely saw, they did respect that we were traveling over a hundred miles in a 19 foot dugout that was hand carved out of a single cedar tree with the addition of well fit gunnels and a solid transom. The 35 hp Chrysler outboard pushed the dugout at a comfortable speed even packed with the tents, supplies, and fishing gear of four men. The trip from Limon Costa Rica, to near the Nicaraguan border, took several days and each night we camped by the river mouths of Parismina , Pacuare, and some other unnamed inlets long before there were any towns, lodges, or civilization. At night, after setting up our tents, we would use a flash light to lure the langoustine to the shore, enticing them with bits of bread, and then pin them to the sandy bank with a Hawaiian sling. The ones we didn’t eat for breakfast, mixed with our scrambled eggs, wild orange, and coconut milk, we used for bait.
It turned out that these scrumptious little fresh water prawns were irresistible to the tarpon, snook, and whatever else was lurking around the lagoons. In the pitch black night we could hear loud splashing everywhere, the gigantic tarpon sounded like cement bags being dropped off a bridge. Except for the smaller snook, we could only guess what was tearing up the baits as the majority of times they just stripped the line off our light weight reels; we had to stop the spool in the hopes that the line would break near the leader so there was something left to fish with the next day. Occasionally we’d get a jumper and guess the tarpon weight to be around 100+ pounds. Of course being rookies we were ill prepared for the loss of equipment that fishing these monsters would consume. After losing most of our precious line, and all of our lures except one Creek Chub; we were thinking the trip up the river from Limon Costa Rica would end up with just stories and not much else. Once in Tortuguero, our final destination, we camped at an abandoned hotel once owned by Archie Carr, and used by the famed sea turtle expert from the University of Florida as a research center. The Spartan accommodations were welcomed after the constant downpours and our substandard tents. Wet, tired, and almost out of supplies we tucked into the old building during one of the most violent thunderstorms I’ve ever experienced. The following day, we got our break, and with the sun out, we unloaded the dugout, rigged whatever tackle we had left, and set off for one last fishing adventure. As we took the turn out of the pass, the bar mouth looked a little rough, but we were thinking that maybe just offshore we would get some action. As we got closer to the ocean the bigger the waves got; now there was no turning back. As the dugout plowed through the waves we were all sure that this was the end. For some divine reason we actually made it out of the bar mouth, but of course our salvation was short lived. The surf coming in was huge and we were thinking we should have brought our surfboards instead of the narrow and unsteady canoe. After some soul searching,
and uncommon realism, we decided to head back in and just fish the lagoon like reasonable men. This was easier said than done! Once we turned around and headed back to the lagoon we were like four men in a tub, trying to surf down the waves and not roll over to certain death in the riptide that was the cut. As we wallowed and yawed down the six foot waves it became obvious that this 19 foot boat, barely 3 feet wide, and filling quickly with seawater, would capsize, and deposit us into the shark infested inlet. But as luck would have it, we were coming in and looking good. My pal Ken turned around in the boat to congratulate Jim, the pilot, on his boat handling skills when we noticed that Jim wasn’t there, he had been swept overboard along with a couple of rods, a tackle box, and other supplies. Panic quickly issued. Ken, who was disabled in Viet Nam and had very little use of his right side, jumped up and ran to the rear of the vessel. He grabbed the tiller with his good arm and swung the boat around taking her back into the surf to search for our compatriot, whose head was bobbing in the surf like a lobster buoy in a hurricane, being swept away, and waving like a man saying goodbye. By the time we reached him he was almost a quarter of mile out to sea. After we grabbed Jim and hauled him back into the dugout, we once again made our way back into the turbulence of the cut. Coming off the waves and dropping into the troughs was a real adventure. Almost at the entrance to the lagoon we were perched on a crest where the boat did a nose dive into the shallows. When we were airborne the anchor came loose from the bow tether and dropped four feet onto my little toe. The loss of my toe was a small price to pay for safety as we reached the calm waters of the lagoon. Now secure, behind the bar mouth, and floating in the placid Toruquera lagoon, we waved to the few awestruck locals who had witnessed our fateful voyage. As we made way for the dock at our camp one of the onlookers told us to go to the Tortuga Lodge across the lagoon where a guy named Tiny, from Alabama, had some medical supplies to help with my injured foot. Tiny was aptly named because he must have weighed 300
pounds and hadn’t stepped foot off the lodge property for years. After his diagnoses that assured me I would lose the toe, he bound it in antiseptics and tape. /Strapping on my hiking shoes over wool red top socks to encase the throbbing foot, I made a somewhat un-tropical picture. In those days there was no electricity, no way to fly out, and only one phone that was bolted to a metal pole with an antennae and rarely worked. Tiny was the only way to get help until you motored two days back to Limon or headed north to Bara Colorado, on the Nicaraguan border which was almost as desolate. Being avid and undefeated fishermen we did not let our misadventures sour this unbelievable opportunity to catch some of the biggest prizes in angling. The next day we took our faithful vessel back to the bar mouth and set out to catch whatever would it would offer to our struggles. Now watching the bait fish swarm the cut, we knew that there must be predators lurking under them. Out of bait, out of tackle, and out of our minds we pulled a spool of 40 pound line I kept as leader material out of the remaining tackle box. On the shoreline we found a couple of sticks of wood that would serve as a make shift Yoyo and wrapped the line around the boards. Of course we had no cast net and only one lure left; the white and red creek chub with rusty treble hooks and a less than secure eyelet which as expected, disappeared on the first cast. In the cut you could see the snook ripping through the baitfish near the surface, but without bait what could you do? One of the local natives, who by now thought we were the finest entertainment ever, suggested that we take off our T-shirts and tear them into strips that were about 6 to 8 inches long, then tie the shreds onto the hooks and cast them into the swarm of bait. Using his advice we tossed out the make shift lures and yanked them through the bait swirls. Low and behold, it worked. We caught over a dozen snook ranging from 10 to 25 plus pounds; dragging them up the slope onto the beach as they fought like mad. We were screaming and jumping up and down on the dark sands of the inlet, laughing and shouting that this is what we came for.
The small crowd of natives was shrieking and clapping like high school cheerleaders and told us they would be glad to trade turtle meat they legally got as indigenous people for some of the fish. We cooked the snook and turtle in a poaching liquid made of river water, sugar cane rum, coconut juice, and lime; a recipe offered buy one of the old men. Once the food was ready with the addition of fried plantain, rice, and fruit we feasted with our new found friends settling into the balmy night. It doesn’t get much better than relaxing under the coconut palms with some home grown calypso music, a bright fire light glow, and a belly full of fresh snook. For the next couple of years I ran fishing tours along the same length of north eastern Costa Rica. Almost all of my clients were sun stroked Americans on their first trip to the fishing promise land. It was fantastic fishing and great fun sharing the lessons learned the hard way and to prepare for success in a place where tackle shops, marinas, and rescues were nonexistent. There were no charter boats on the coast in those days; only a few aluminum john boats, and just one or two small fiberglass skiffs plying the hot spots. You almost never saw anyone. Now you can fly to Tortuguero in 30 minutes, catch your limit of snook, and be home for dinner, but you will never know what a true jungle river fishing adventure can be; not like back in the day.