Anglers heading to the Bay of Pigs
CROUCHING at the bow of a small motorboat, trying not to make a sound, I wonder if my Cuban guide, Juan Carlos, agrees that we make for a strange scene.
You see, we’re very near where, more than half a century ago, a bunch of CIA-backed Cuban exiles tried – and failed spectacularly – to overthrow the Castro regime.
On this warm November morning, I’m part of a new kind of American invasion of the island nation’s infamous Bahia de Cochinos, or Bay of Pigs, this time armed with fly rods.
The Bay is in the Cienaga de Zapata Biosphere Reserve, an aquatic Eden more than triple the size of the Everglades that is home to around 200 bird species. Only 10 anglers per day are allowed in the part of the reserve we’re in this morning, called Las Salinas, 130 square kilometres of mangrove flats just west of the Bay of Pigs. Today, I have the whole place to myself. Or, as I’ll gush later to fellow fly-rodding nerds back home: fishing heaven.
I had arrived the night before after a quick flight from my hometown of Tampa, followed by a couple-hour car ride southeast from Havana to my hotel in Playa Larga, situated at the northern tip of the bay’s beach.
Able to swing only three days of playing hooky this trip, I had decided to spend about half my time chasing bonefish and tarpons while also enjoying local culture, including homecooked meals in family-run restaurants known as paladares.
Soon after hitting the water with my guide, I know I’ll be back.
Juan has just finished giving me a quickie tutorial on bonefishing, including tips on casting in wind. He explains how he will direct me to cruising fish by describing the face of an imaginary horizontal clock, with the boat’s bow at high noon. Behind me he stands atop a short platform, gently poling the skiff over improbably clear water.
“Be ready,” he stage-whispers, eyes on the shallows somewhere ahead. “Eleven o’clock. Thirty metres. Cast. Now.” Though unable to see the fish, I do as commanded. I pause for a couple of seconds, letting the tiny Rubber-Legged Gotcha fly sink the foot or so to the sandy bottom, then faintly twitch the line in my left hand, hoping to make the lure appear to be a hapless crab.
At first, I wonder if I’m imagining the bump of a fish inhaling the fly. With my left hand, I give the line a sharp yank. A moment later, the hooked fish bolts.
“What a pretty sound,” Juan says of my whirring reel’s highpitched whine.
Several minutes and as many runs later, I’m cradling my first-ever bonefish before releasing it.
“Big boy,” Juan says of the sleek near-5-pounder. Boys, he explains, are what he calls all bonefish because the Spanish word for them, macabi, is masculine. Similarly, permit are girls. Tarpons, because of grammatical gender and size, are big guys.
By car, we make our bumpy way back down the single-lane dirt road we came by. Again we pass flocks of bright-pink flamingoes wading in shallow waters in search of shrimp.
A long day of fishing – and ambitious sampling of my new favorite beer – convinces me to reluctantly decline my driver’s offer to show me the local nightlife in favour of sleep.
The next day brings nonfishing activities, including visits to a crocodile zoo and a kitschy replica Indian village on an island that wouldn’t be out of place in my home state of Florida.
By midday, I’m starting to regret my decision to take a break from fishing, until my driver suggests a stop at the Cueva de los Peces, or Cave of Fish. True to its name, the pondlike saltwater cave is home to fish. Then I walk across the road to try snorkelling in the bay, teaming with sea life, including colourful corals. Only hunger and a lack of sunscreen finally pull me from the sea.
This evening’s meal at another paladar, Restaurant Don Alexis, offers fresh surprises: venison and crocodile, grilled tableside over charcoal by the gregarious proprietor and chef, Alexis, who seems as delighted to share his food as practise his English.
By the third morning, I’ve quit bothering to set my alarm, ceding the job to a local rooster’s punctual and full-throated crowing.
A half-hour drive north brings me to Rio Hatiguanico, a freshwater haven for tarpon fishing. I tie a finger-length, black-and-purple tarpon fly on my line as my guide, Alfredo Gonzalez Marrero, slaloms our boat up the twisty river. I’m the sole angler on the river today.
Killing the motor, Alfredo points upstream. “Tarpon rolling,” he says, pointing to a narrow spot in the river where something big and silvery briefly surfaced.
I cast down the middle of the leafy tunnel. Stunned by the sight of a tarpon’s maw engulfing my lure, I hesitate and strike late, missing my chance. I cast again. This time, I set the hook and the leg-long fish leaps skyward, shaking free of the lure. As bites taper off, we pull anchor and head farther upstream, eyes out for telltale rolling of feeding tarpons.
The first – and only – fish I land today is a nice-sized snook. I imagine my fishing pals would be bummed to miss catching a tarpon. But as we head back down the river that afternoon, I feel lucky just to have come here.