Getting permission to capture fish in the Satobra or purchase specialized ichthyocides would never come, at least not during the time Alan was still in the country. There was no office bureaucrat who would care that this community college professor saw a jaú just eight kilometers upstream of a river where there were plenty of jaú. Only Alan’s instincts told him it was important. If he was going to capture a jaú, he was going to have to do it against the rules and using the methodology of the past.

Alan strode into the dusty storage room of his research laboratory and removed a backpack electrofishing unit, kept there since his younger days. Even then it had been archaic. When he reached the field site, he reconnected the monitor, and activated the alarm system to alert him to the appearance of any large fish in the field of vision of the dorado. And then he sat down and waited.

And waited, and waited some more. After ten hours, with the area perceptibly darkening with the setting sun, Alan began to sense the futility of his efforts. He was looking for that rarest of experiences, that exception to the rule, a jaú in the Satobra. But, he told himself, at least he was getting some research data on the dorado. It had actually done some feeding, going after a shock of small fish, pushing them against the banks of the river and capturing some in its sharp teeth.

A high-pitched beep signaled something large moving into the area. Alan glimpsed on the monitor a huge, flattened black head crossing the dorado’s visual field. A jaú. A very big, gravid-looking jaú. Alan fumbled for the backpack electrofishing unit and raced to the banks of the river, clanging audibly as he climbed into the boat.

“Too much noise,” he muttered. Alan yanked on his chest-high rubber waders, entered the boat, maneuvered it downstream, and quickly plunged the electrodes into the water and activated the pulse button.

All kinds of fish floated near the boat—mostly small characoids and chiclids. A few larger piranhas. Some came to the surface, but many stayed under the water as they swept by in the current. Alan strained to peer into the water. No jaú.

Christ, he thought, the thing’s not coming close enough to the surface where I can see it. Or it got by me. He worked his way a little farther downstream. Against all reason, he set the current up high—very high. He became Ahab in search of his white whale. He was in danger of frying himself with the fish. Alan plunged the electrodes in. Again, all kinds of little and medium-sized fish, many appearing dead this time as they floated by. No jaú.

And then he saw his Moby-Dick, its equilibrium disrupted and floating slowly under the clear water near the bow of the boat, fins twitching ineffectively. Alan stepped to the front and quickly plunged his long-handled landing net in, still needing to lean over and reach fully to his shoulder in the water, just snagging the jaú’s head. Only the head fit; it was huge.

As Alan hauled on the handle and pulled the jau toward the surface, he experienced a rush of exhilaration, an almost boyish excitement, at this capture. He was still heartedly congratulating himself on his adroitness, smiling broadly, and wishing others had observed his quick-witted capture of the fish, when he tipped the boat and nearly plunged headfirst into the water through his unwitting and awkward effort to pull this monster catfish over the side. He was immediately humbled. Unable to haul it over the side, Alan was grateful no one was watching as he clumsily maneuvered the boat to the shore, dragging the catfish in the water.

Once he had the fish on the bank, Alan crouched down over it, exhausted and breathing heavily. The jaú was bigger than he had been prepared for. He gripped the stunned, but alive jaú and lifted it up as high as he could. Muscles straining and teeth gritted, he got the head up to his chin, and still its tail, and quite a bit of its weight, lay bent on the ground. It was nearly as big as his five-foot-eight, 173-centimeter frame. What was the jaú: 160cm? Perhaps 75-80 kilograms? Alan knew jaú got this big, at least in the deep rivers, but he’d never seen one this big, let alone caught one. Actually, he chuckled to himself, I guess I didn’t actually catch this one either, not by any rule book.

Alan pushed the bulging abdomen. No eggs squirted out. Not ripe yet, Alan deduced. He sat back and looked at the rapidly darkening sky. Time to head back. The jaú could stay anesthetized in the dorado’s transport tank on the ride back. It barely fit, but the tank was aerated and temperature controlled and with water drawn from the Satobra River. And the jaú was a notoriously hardy fish. He could return it later. Right now, Alan wanted a good look at a most unusual specimen.