One of our more flamboyant presidents made the now-famous
statement about walking softly. I would add the carefully,
particularly when you're fishing afoot in unfamiliar terrain.
On the second day of what turned out to be one of the miserable
trips I ever experienced, I found myself stuck waist deep in muck.
I was at Drake's Bay on Costa Rica's Pacific coast. I made
the mistake of trusting some folks I didn't know very well
and ended up staying at a place that could have passed for
the Tico version of the Bates Motel. The only person who
knew anything about fishing the area was a young kid who
had access to an ancient stiff and outboard. The first
day out we had great fishing near Canos Island, but the
motor was on its last legs and I didn't want to chance
oing out again. A small cove about a mile from where
we were staying looked like it could be a productive spot
so I set off to do some shore fishing. I was wearing a
pair of strap-on thongs and they proved idea for the type
of tropical terrain in which I was walking. Everything
was fine until I reached the mangroves. As I kid I hated
track, especially the high jump, and trying to traverse
the giant roots reminded me of those loathsome leg lifts
that I never seemed to master. At least I was making some
progress at my own pace without the annoyance of a storm
trooper coach yelling at you. When I reached a clearing
about 25 yards from the shoreline, I thought I had it
made. Not so. I walked about ten feet and the ground
suddenly gave way. When the pudding-like ooze climbed
no further than the elastic waistband on my shorts, I
felt a sense of relief. The first thought that came to
mind when I hit the soft spot was quicksand and I envisioned
myself being swallowed up like some doomed character in a
Tarzan movie.
Now my problem was extricating myself. I still had hold
of my fly outfit and for a brief moment I considered the
possibility of casting the fly to one of the mangrove roots
to pull myself out with the fly line. Of course looking
back on this, it's easy to see what a dumb idea it was.
But in partial defense, I would like to say that even though
I wasn't panicked, I was in a very unpleasant set of conditions
and I wanted to get the hell out as quickly as possible, so
at the time this didn't seem too far fetched. That option
quickly faded when I pulled the reel out of the muck.
Though far less appetizing, it bore a strange resemblance
to the fudge-dipped ice cream balls I used to concoct at my
father's soda fountain. The thought made me laugh and a
little humor at that point was a good thing. The reel as
so caked in mud that I couldn't even see the fly line and
there was no way the spool was going to turn so I couldn't
pull any line off anyway.
I did not relish the next option, but it was the only way I
was going to free myself. I couldn't lift my legs because
the thongs were acting like suction cups in the mud. My
next move came right out of a Navy Seal training film and
now it was my turn to put it into practice. I shut my
eyes as tight as I could then bent over and buried my head
in the muck. This enabled me to get my hands down to my
feet so I could loosen the straps and work my feet out of
the thongs. Before plunging my head in I had the sense to
study the path to the shoreline because I did not want to
open my eyes before I could wash myself off in the water.
I remember thinking this was like fraternity hell night
and as I had done way back then, I tried to blunt my
sensibilities to the misery at hand and just focus on
the immediate goal of plunging ahead. It probably took
less than a minute, but as you know, time has a way of
dragging when you're place or situation you wish to leave
behind as quickly as possible. With my feet free of the
thongs I was able to make forward progress and gradually
I found firm footing. Finally, I was able to stand up on
solid ground and it was almost like being on land after
weeks at sea. But the sensation that stands out most
vividly in my mind was getting into the water. It's
interesting how radical contrasts in our experiences
have a way of significantly implanting our memory bank
and I will never forget the magnitude of relief I felt
when I first waded into the water. The temperature
in that little cove was probably in the high seventies
but it felt as refreshing as a fast-moving stream in
the remote Sierras. I laid in the water like a
pool-side tourist in Palm Springs and almost lost sight
of the fact that the purpose of this arduous trek was
to fish. I eventually got around to that and caught a
couple of snook. It was the hardest pair of fish I ever
worked for. ~ Nick Curcione
Credits:
This article is an excerpt from Tug-O-War, A Fly-Fisher's Game
By Nick Curcione and published by
Frank Amato Publications.
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