Extreme Fishing (24 page)

I tackle him: ‘That’s not a fish!’

He looks at me as if to say ‘So what? Mind your own business’, and I begin to get upset myself. But then I start thinking
What’s the difference between catching a fish or a
bird? Am I being hypocritical?
I look at the pelican – his distress somehow seems more poignant, more dramatic. To ease Alessandra’s inflamed sensibilities I offer to buy the
pelican from the guy. He’s over the moon. He’ll just go and catch another one but I’m pleased with myself, thinking I’ve done a good turn. Alessandra hugs me and dries her
eyes. And then the pelican attacks me. I untie the bird’s beak first and it goes berserk. Now, I want to carefully explain my rationale here; I know what you’re thinking ‘Why
didn’t you unbind the feet and
then
the beak?’ Well, I didn’t want to untie the feet first in case it escaped with a taped beak destined for a slow death by starvation. I
couldn’t think of anything worse, so now I have to deal with this furious-feathered-fucker viciously pecking me on the arm. I’m bleeding. Bleeding! I hurriedly untie the pelican’s
feet, deciding that all pelicans are inherently racist. I yell at him in my head.

‘I’m the good guy who rescued you from the bad guy, you idiot! But you think we all look the same, don’t you? You racist.’

He looks at me with his blue eyes as if to say, ‘Yeah, like you can really tell us pelicans apart, you asshole? I bet you probably thought I was a fucking heron or a swan first of all,
didn’t you?’

‘No, how dare you? Never in my life have I met such a rude . . . pelican! I want you to know I only saved you because she,’ I point at Alessandra who is now crying again,
‘
she
wanted me to. I should have let you roast.’

He pecks me on the arm again.

‘Ow!’

I let him go and he flies off without so much as a kind look behind. I wait for him to circle above or do a fly-past like animals do in the movies but I get nada.

‘Bloody pelicans.’

‘Did you get that on camera?’ Jamie asks Craig.

‘No, it was too ridiculous,’ he says.

Jamie is disappointed. As you know, he loves a good sequence where I experience pain, especially at the hands of nature.

After more than enough excitement for one day we walk back to the hotel. The Cuban Film Festival is on and there is a bustle of activity with press and filmmakers. I try to do
a bit of schmoozing with a couple of directors but I soon tire of their company and want to be back with my team. We decide to have ‘welcome to Cuba’ mojitos and an early night . . . by
1 a.m. we are all shit-faced, our speech slurring, like we’re electing a new pope. We all have a taste for the Cuban elixir.

Freshwater Tarpon

At breakfast we are all feeling like poo. Why do we do it to ourselves? We travel an hour and half by van southeast of Havana to the River Hatiguanico National Park. I am
freshwater tarpon fishing with Lazuro Vinola, who, according to our fixer, is the best tarpon fisherman in Cuba, if not the world. Philippe Rodriguez, who is supposedly the best guide in Cuba, if
not the world, accompanies him. No pressure on them then.

We motor up the sparkling river on a state-owned boat, driven by Lazuro, who is also the park’s head ranger. I ask the guys to give me one piece of advice for tarpon fishing.

‘Patience,’ they say in unison. ‘You will need a lot of patience. It’s very difficult to catch tarpon. You will lose many fish today. Take, take, take, off, off,
off,’ adds Philippe.

‘Oh, ye of little faith,’ I say, fronting it.

I mean, that’s not to say I haven’t had my bad days
, I think to myself. We all have. There was the time I lost the monster sturgeon in Canada but that was totally
Randy’s fault. Or what about the dorado in the Philippines, which was gutting. The worst was probably dropping another man’s machaca in Costa Rica. That was a real low moment. Lazuro
and Philippe trade glances and smile, knowing that, because of my fly-fishing background, I will automatically set the rod incorrectly and the fish will come off. They keep schtum.

Philippe slows the boat down and we come to a stop, and he cuts the engine.

‘Tarpon spook easily,’ he tells me.

As we gently drift down the middle of the river I try a few practice casts. The tarpon tend to hide in the root systems of overhanging trees and Lazuro tells me I need to cast two feet from the
edge of the root. We travel downriver all day, perhaps twenty miles, and never see a single soul.

Lazuro practises his cast. Wham! A tarpon takes the lure and leaps three feet out of the water. It’s a twenty-pound fish but it comes off and he’s gutted. I commiserate with him:
‘It’s an awful feeling,’ I say.

He speaks to Jamie in the boat across the way: ‘Please don’t show that.’

‘No, of course not,’ says Jamie, with his fingers crossed behind his back.

We drift to the spot where Lazuro says I’ll catch my first tarpon. I’m using a popper – a weighted plastic lure in the shape of a sprat. I cast and I’m in range. I pop
the floating line across the water a foot at a time to mimic a bait fish. Pop, rest, pop, rest. Wallop! A tarpon is on. I immediately set the rod up like a fly line. The fish comes off. Little do I
know that it is impossible to set the hook in the upper part of the mouth because it’s solid bone; the trick is to set the hook in the lower part of mouth. I lose seven tarpon before the guys
let me in on this secret.

‘You need to set the rod away from you, parallel to the water,’ says Lazuro.

Set down, away and down again, tip to the surface of the water. Got it. On the eighth take I forget everything I have just been told and set the rod up. Of course I lose the fish and have the
biggest hissy fit ever.

‘I cannot lose EIGHT fish!’

One of them whispers in Spanish (picked up by Alessandra): ‘What a drama queen.’ It’s true – today I am channelling Ava Gardner.

Nine, ten, eleven and twelve all stay on but come off during the fight. I set the hook correctly in the mouth, but the fish leaps and it’s over. After fish number twelve Lazuro lets me in
on the second crucial secret: ‘Tarpon are known as the Silver King, and when a fish leaps you must bow to the king and drop the rod to the water.’

The fish are bigger than the leader on the line in terms of weight, so when they jump the dead weight will snap the line, hence needing to angle the rod downwards.

‘Thanks for the top tip, guys,’ I say, wishing they’d bloody told me this earlier.

Tarpon number thirteen is on. I set the rod away, bow to the king when he leaps and catch my first ever tarpon! I bring him aboard with the help of Lazuro. He is a bright, clean-looking fish
with scales of sterling silver. His distinctive upturned mouth reminds me of the arowana’s pedal-bin trap and, just like the Amazonian fish, the tarpon is an air-breather, extracting oxygen
with the help of a modified swim bladder. These fellas are very adaptable fish and can reside in a variety of habitats, from low-oxygenated stagnant ditches or ponds as newly spawned tiddlers to
freshwater rivers or brackish creeks as juveniles, to the saltwater of the ocean as adults. As long as the water’s warm they don’t care. They’re a bit like me sister Joanne when
it comes to the cold – they just can’t stand it. Her house is like a sauna, I tell you.

When tarpon reach sexual maturity between the ages of seven and thirteen, they return to the ocean to join the other adults migrating. And at the end of this trip we are going after a Big Daddy
tarpon that could be ten times the size of this youngster today and measure up to eight feet. I pop tarpon junior back into the river – apparently these guys aren’t for eating, as they
are too bony.

Strangely we feel similarly about the hookers who chat to us in a bar later that evening. Naïvely we think they are friendly locals who want to trade a bit of banter – that’s
before we meet their pimp, Scarface. We tell them firmly we’re not interested and they scarper. Some things are not meant to be caught and taken home – they should be released very
quickly or never fished for in the first place!

Bonefish

The anglers who have done it say it’s the most exhilarating feeling in the world, and those anglers who haven’t done it dream of the day they will try it.
I’m talking about bone-fishing. It’s the exotic aspiration of the fly-fishing fraternity and I just hope it lives up to the hype.

From our hotel we head 200 miles northeast to the island of Cayo Romano, via El Pedraplén, a thirty-mile-long causeway, which in places is treacherous. I had wondered what the planks in
the back of the van were for and I soon discover they are for making ad hoc bridges where the road ceases to be. We make several of these temporary crossings where the waves from the ocean have
taken great chunks out of the tarmac, like marzipan. At one point I get out of the 4x4, as there is a ruddy great drop to the sea below. I’m not staying on board taking bets as to whether the
car is going to make it across or not. The driver negotiates across a crude wooden bridge that the locals have built. Castro might well have taught everyone to read but his roads are crap.

The island is empty, as is the sea. There’s no one around because no one is allowed a boat. I meet Eddie who, my fixer says, is the best fisherman in Cuba, if not the world. He has a
handsome face with a big moustache but unfortunately he doesn’t speak a word of English. We muddle on with sign language.

Bonefish are notoriously difficult to catch because they are very skittish, reacting to every sound and vibration. One slip-up and the fish is gone. Known as the ‘grey ghost’, its
silver design reflects everything around it, making it invisible, like a moving mirror. The best way to spot this pelagic phantom is by its shadow on the sea floor. I am using my own seven-weight
fly rod I’ve brought with me. It’s a Hardy Zenith with a Hardy Angel fly reel given to me by Val McDermid, the writer of
Wire in the Blood.
I show my rod to Eddie and he shakes
his head and laughs.

I say, ‘Hardy’s is the best in the world!’ but he shakes his head again. ‘Listen, I have caught some big trout with this rod.’

It’s our only conversation; from now on I have to be totally silent. This is the hardest part of fishing for me.

Eddie cuts the engine and begins to punt across the gentle lapping sea. The water is shallow and gin-clear as we head out to the salt flats, where the bonefish reside. They are powerful fish
that take off at incredible speeds, which is extraordinary given that shallow saltwater contains little oxygen. These fish extract oxygen from the water in a hyper-efficient way in order to move
like forks of lightning. Eddie stops punting and lets the boat float with the current. We are fishing from a platform boat, specifically designed for bone fishing, with a high umpire’s chair
for spotting fish. Eddie is sitting high in the chair and I am at the front of the boat, ready to cast. I need to be accurate – two feet off its mouth will spook it, but four feet away is too
far. It’s a windy day so it’s not going to be easy.

Eddie puts his finger to his mouth, signalling to be quiet. He sees something and points.

‘Cast,’ he says softly.

‘Cast at what?’ I whisper back.

‘Fish,’ he hisses.

‘I can’t see it.’

I pull the line out from the reel, ready to load the rod, but the whir of the reel spooks the fish. Eddie puts his hands on his head in despair.

‘It’s gone,’ he says.

‘I never saw it anyway,’ I say, grinning.

Using a mixture of English, Spanish and sign language he tells me, ‘Pull the line out beforehand. You need to be prepared.’

After the first unsuccessful attempt I suggest Eddie uses the clock system to tell me where to cast. He understands and we are set. Five minutes pass.

‘One o’clock,’ whispers Eddie.

I see a shadow. I do two false casts that don’t touch the water. Over, over, out, my first cast is on the money. He gives me the OK sign. A fish comes towards the lure. I have to keep a
three-foot distance to replicate an insect moving jerkily along the water’s surface. I do this using a figure of eight retrieve, winding the line gently around my fingers. It’s a very
effective method of pulling the line in. The fly I am using is like a bug-eyed nymph or caddisfly with large eyes, and it’s weighted. Bonefish also like small fish, but they are particularly
partial to their insects.

A six-pound bonefish gobbles my fly and WHOOSH! It shoots off like an underwater bullet, creating a bow wave in its wake. Faster and faster it turbocharges off in a straight line, zipping off
right, straight again, and back to the right. It’s taking the leader, fly line and backing line out to sea and I only have fifty metres of backing because I use this rod for trout and the odd
salmon in Northumberland, and no fish has ever taken this much line this far out before! As it gets to the backing I start to panic. I am going to run out of line and – oh, holy mother of
Jesus, son of God, no – I haven’t tied the backing onto the reel with a fucking arbor knot! The fish is going to fuck off to the Bahamas with my entire line. I grab the line with my
hand and put the brakes on. The line snaps and the fish is away.