Your Invitation to Travel The World & Fish

I have lizard lips. The tops of my feet are the color and feel of two baked terracotta clay pots. The taste and smell of salt spray permeates everything it touches.

Yet, I feel this is paradise. 

I have yet to see a single piece of trash or traces of mankind anywhere. Think Florida, but no jet skis, no prop trails, other boats, or houses. No competitive guides and other fishermen...or the maze of floats and net scraps mixed with the debris from every continent.

I’m off-grid and feel the layers peel away from living on a schedule.

I’m free of the trappings we are forced to live with at home. A total reduction of one’s self back to a basic routine of simply fish, eat, sleep, repeat. 

I’ve seriously lost time and date consciousness. My artist-fish-brain is overloaded. 

I brought my watercolor travel kit but have only found the time early before breakfast to paint. The expanded palette of every spectrum of blue is ever-changing with the sun versus cloud balance in a game of dominance.

We shout out cheers for the Sun team with all the passion of a tight ball game. Expectantly I cast a feather into the sun through a crosswind trying to play havoc with my rhythm. The guide smiles, takes my rod, and lays out effortless meters with his cast.

For years I have made my living as a guide back home. I’m known in my home waters. My native brownies require accurate casts, but 50 feet is a punch. Native guides always get my respect no matter where I travel.

The guide and I talk about life and family. For most people, he tells me, life is very hard here. My Ozark vernacular and his Cuban/Spanish somehow settle into a workable conversation. He tells me he’s one of the lucky ones here. His pay comes from the gratitude we sports leave with him at the end of the week. 

He seems happy. He doesn’t own a car, and probably never will. His total focus is on seeing me succeed in my quest for tarpon. 

We settle on terms with nods and gestures. He encourages me with, “Cast more feet man, long strip the fly, no lift the rod... Ten o’clock, more left.” On occasion, I hear, “Good cast.” I also hear, “No cast at Cuda unless you want to lose your fly.” 

I repeat in my head the simple basic clear instructions. 

Time and clouds pass.

I’m rocked by gentle waves.

My soul is thoroughly refreshed by being in creation, in harmony with the Creator.

My meditation is short-lived, “Cast 10 o’clock!” the guide shouts, and I come fully alert. Then I see the silver roll.

I manage a decent cast. The electric pulse runs from my rod tip to my guide's eyes. Together we are on high point. 

I feel the heaviness of a sea creature attack the seemingly weightless undersized offering and suddenly feel that I didn’t bring a big enough gun. I’ve learned that any fish whose surname is Megalopolis is going to demand respect.

My fingers are taped for the fight. I go into strike mode, trying to distance myself from my lifetime of straight-up hook sets. My brain is shouting, “Strip set, no raise the rod!“ This time, my arm pull gets the signal clear from my brain just in time before 50+ years of muscle memory can take action. 

I jab hard, again, again, and again. I feel the solid reward of a good hookup. 

Instant explosion, panic, moments trying to gain some sense of control. My Abel drag, cranked to “truck pull” level, is spinning like a top. In the space of a few heartbeats, I’ve survived three eye-level jumps and one “way above the rim” showoff dunk from this fish.

Like a rodeo rider, if I can get those 8 seconds, I might win. 

I feel great satisfaction. I’m fully alive. 

I chance a look over my shoulder and see the deep approval of my guide. I can’t see his eyes; they’re covered in dark shields. But, I can read them by his smile.

Then another athletic moment by my prize fish that would make the highlight reels on any sports newscast.

Then my line goes limp. My high instantly crashes inside my whole being. 

I’m now as empty of the opposite I was just feeling.

What great error did I commit this time?

I sheepishly turn to my guide ready for a reprimand. 

He smiles warmly, “That’s Tarpon!”

My wife, Marlene, and I recently spent 5 days on a boat in the gulf waters off the coast of Cuba, fishing for Tarpon, Bonefish, Permit, & Mutton Snapper. 

We, and the crew, caught numerous fish and even enjoyed a fresh-caught meal one evening. Successful fly fishing in the Ozarks is a thrill and takes great skill. Saltwater fly fishing is a level-up experience. Everything is bigger, meaner, and stronger: the fish, the elements, the fly rods, and even the weather conditions. 

What an amazing experience! Next week I've got a story about how my art-fish-brain collided on the boat in Cuba (see photos below), leading to an impromptu art lesson, and how I found beautiful local art that I brought back home with me. 

Until then!

“Bow to the King” by Duane Hada