Jim Austin

His previous columns are archived HERE.

JIM AUSTIN

Fishing with Shorty or, The Really Big One That Got Away

PUTNEY, VT | 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 myself and my tempestuous flower Ruth, had been spending the past three months in Ocatal, Nicaragua. The lad had decided that Spanish fluency was the key to landing an ambassadorship in some espanolish country. He found a total immersion outfit on the net and off he went.

His first telephone call home was a bit frantic. Apparently nobody including his instructors spoke a word of English. He 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 would live with a family, study Spanish all morning then work in the community as a volunteer afternoons. After doing 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 caesarian section. The lad got a bit woozy watching the hip replacement but rallied to rather enjoy the caesarian.

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 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 3 rolled around and we flew to Managua and boarded a puddle jumper to San Carlos at the end of the San Juan River that 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 boarded a water taxi for a three-hour trip down river to our jungle hotel. The water taxi was a long canoe with a 150hp ancient Mercury outboard on the back. There must have been fifty people on the bench seats, crammed shoulder to shoulder.

Our three-hour trip cost us foyr bucks each or eighty 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 rainforest camp named Monte Cristo. It used to be a pretty upscale but has fallen on hard times. The caba–as 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 espousa, was oblivious to the decay. (Maybe that's why our marriage is so successful.) She loved the river and the location. I trailed around behind her while she checked out potential lots near our cabin.

After the rainforest 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).

On the last morning before our afternoon departure a glorious tarpon hit my giant red and white Rapala. It struck like a true predator, vicious and violent. I set the hook and the fight was on.

Marriage, the birth of my son, my Nobel Prize all 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.