Running with the Curimbata   (A short story, part I)

I’ve been referred to as “a fisherman’s fisherman.” Not to brag, but like the honor contained in the phrase “a man’s man,” this is the kind of recognition bestowed on a person who has reached the pinnacle of the fishing arts, having qualities other anglers admire and wish to emulate.

It was my own fishing buddies who tagged me with the term, and there’s no higher respect than that earned from those who know you well. I give no credence to the contention of said fishing buddies that they christened me thus because I’m just as likely to snag another fisherman with a hook as land a fish, that it is properly “a fisherman fisherman,” analogous to “a bass fisherman” or “a trout fisherman.” Admittedly, when you sink a barbed hook in some people a few times, they do tend to get creative with their words. They certainly were vigorously creating new combinations of words when trying to remove the hooks.

Sure, I’ve impaled a few fishermen with barbed hooks, capsized a few boats, and been passed on the highway by the boat and trailer I thought securely fastened to my car—what fisherman hasn’t? But while envy, and a few casting related infections, might prevent my fellow fishermen from acknowledging true mastery, one’d at least think my immediately family would. Alas, my children, who are at that tender age where they still see their parents as God, consider my sole divine attribute to be an everlasting, unbounded, and unchanging ability to feed bait to fish. Even my wife is not above embarrassing me.

“Don’t you think you’re being a bit overprotective of the children,” I’d say to her.

“They can take the helmets off after you cast,” would be her zinger response.

While my fishing buddies—and wife, children, innocent bystanders—may be reluctant to recognize my fishing prowess, mistaking my unconventional approach with ineptness and lack of physical coordination, the truth is that I’ve gained renown in foreign waters. This is sort of a “no man is a prophet in his own land” phenomenon. True, these foreign waters are limited to one foreign nation, and more specifically, one area of Brazil, the Pantanal. However, I’ve become so well known in those parts that local fishermen often stop and point at me whenever they see me take a boat out. And, in an apparent sign of reverence, they also depart those same waters when I arrive.

For those unfamiliar with the Pantanal, it’s the world’s largest wetland system and expands through parts of western Brazil, eastern Bolivia, and northeastern Paraguay. This pristine, barely inhabited area, just south of the Amazon, is larger in size than the entire state of Florida and is a virtual cornucopia of exotic birds, spectacular flowering plants, and myriads of aquatic reptiles and mammals. And, it is also home to shoals of fish, which grow very large and attract fishermen from all over the country. Having fished there many a day, I feel qualified to contribute to the world’s knowledge about angling in foreign waters.

I would’ve liked to have added insights as well from my fishing companions. Sadly, none have been able to make the trip, mostly henpecked by wives and fiancées who insist they be present for the birth of their child or for their marriage ceremony. While sitting in one buddy’s living room, I overheard a conversation with his wife that shows the excuses some wives and girlfriends can come up with.

Wife: “You say there are huge amounts of fish, right.”

Randy: “Huge amounts. Huge fish.”

Wife: “But you’ll also be out in a boat on a remote, wilderness river with Richard. When the boat tips over while he’s casting, you’ll end up in a remote, wilderness river with “huge” amounts of piranhas and crocodiles and anacondas.”

Randy: “Well, they’re actually caimans, not crocodiles. And the last time he tipped over the boat was only because of the currents.”

Wife: “Currents? It was a lake and he tipped over the boat because he was surprised by a fish hitting his lure.”

Randy: “Well, it was a big fish. Or at least he thought it was.”

Wife: “At any rate. Assuming you even made it to shore, you’ll then be walking through a swamp miles from civilization, with lots of jaguars.”

Randy: “Yeah, I guess.”

Wife: “And did it every occur to you that Rich only wants to take you fishing because of rule number one of being in jaguar country—Always take along a fishing buddy who runs slower than you?”

Randy: “Ah, honey. The jaguars probably would pass on me as a potential meal because of Rich’s fishing plug caught it my ear.”

Well, har, har, Randy. I never came close to casting a fishing plug into your ear. And if you had been wearing a baseball cap instead of a ten-gallon cowboy hat, I wouldn’t have caught that either.

And so, I will foray alone into shedding light on the unique challenges in fishing in foreign waters.

And the foremost challenge is communication.

[This short story will be continued in the next blog post]