Fishing Costa Rica's Golfitos

The young man slipped beneath the waves. Early that morning the waters at the mouth of the Pacuare river raged wildly. The usual drill at the Parismina lodge was to shoot the inlet and fish for tarpon in the relative calm of the Carribean. But on this day the waves were stacked too high for the 16-foot flatboats equipped with 25 HP Yamahas. And because these were shark infested waters, the Costa Rican guides wisely counseled their guests to fish the beach instead. But top executives are not used to being told, no.

For whatever reason, one man was able to convince or browbeat his guide into attempting the open water. As Science Fiction author Kevin Randle said in his novel Seeds of War, "Death is not a passing grade."

Minutes later a big wave slammed into the little boat, flipping it in the air and spilling both men into the water. When the hull came down, it smacked the exec in the head. With the American dead in the water, Sanchez Chalet frantically struggled to make his way to shore before the sharks tore him to shreds. Meanwhile, the guides on the beach had witnessed the accident and waded through the surf in an attempt to run a line out to him.

By some accounts, they were a scant ten feet away from rescuing him when he disappeared in a wave along with three bull sharks. Later in the afternoon his red baseball cap, a tennis shoe and a piece of lung washed ashore. The American's body washed up intact.

True to the lyrics in Billy Joel's song, "Only the good, they die young."

Sanchez, a guide since the age of sixteen, had invested his earnings from the fish camp in cattle, while his buddies squandered their money on booze and brothel girls. Sanchez' herd numbered 27 when he died. These things happen. The tragedy occurred the day I arrived in Costa Rica's capital city. We were a group of 20 outdoor, guests of Mako Marine in country to test the waters of a new sportfishing campe on the Pacific coast and barely a dozen miles from the border of then Noriega's Panama.

The prime attraction was Golfito Sailfish Rancho's guarantee that you'll catch a sailfish, or you come back free. Waiting for a connecting flight, I wandered San Jose's Juan Santamaria airport and spotted the battered and scorched wreckage of an airplane tucked out of sight behind a backlot hangar.

A nameless aircraft mechanic somberly explained, "It was a Boeing 727. One night somebody parked a pickup truck on the runway and forgot about it. The plane came in for a landing and slammed into it."

That's all he said. It was clear he was baiting me, knowing from experience I'd be compelled to to ask more about the incident. I resisted the urge, wracking my brain for any recollection of an evening news story over the past ten years about a Costa Rican plane crash. Finally I blurted out, "Was anyone killed?"

He grinned like a devil who had just won a soul. He paused a full minute before answering with a playful shrug, "No. They all got out in time." Not long after that I climbed into a twin engine Piper and headed South. An hour later we landed on an old United Fruit Company golf course, longsince converted to an airstrip. A pack of scrawny dogs barked and chased the plane all the way to the hangar.

The Golfito Sailfish Rancho is situated on a large landlocked harbour where five major rivers drain into the gulf. Needless to say, there is plenty of bait, and plenty of gamefish. The lodge proper is down the coast from the small town of Golfito.

A modest fleet of long line commercial boats were tied off at the municipal dock. Dozens of gutted marlin, sailfish and shark lay on the bloodied deck with their heads and tails chopped off. The vision was harder on the soul than a tour through a Kansas City slaughtering house. The more things change, the more they stay the same.

Back in the early 60's, Cuba's fishing camps folded when Fidel astro took over. With Noriega's ascent to power and decline in favor with the US, Panama's highly regarded Club Pacifico went down the tubes (Note: Tropic Star Lodge is thriving) Interestingly, the Golfito Sailfish Rancho's boats are the former Club Pacifico fleet. And how they got here tells like a scenario from a John Le Carre novel. The Club Pacifico owner sold the 23-f00t center console Makos to then Golfito Sailfish Rancho owner, John Kollman. In the dark of the night, the fleet slipped their moorings and started to make their way north up the coast. Engine trouble disabled some of the boats and they had to be towed. Panamanian Defense Force patrol craft, nearly intercepted them once but either weren't paying attention, or didn't want to be bothered. By sheer luck all of the boats made it without serious incident.

Even though Golfito is a jungle camp, accomodations are far from rustic. There is daily laundry service. The joinery and workmanship of the buildings is superb. Beyond structural integrity, the layout is aesthetically pleasing. Behind the buildings, three separate cataracts tumble down the side of the mountain. One of them flows under the bait shop, spills over into the swimming pool and on down to the sea. At night you can look across the gulf towards the dull glow emanating from the mining town Puerto Jimenez, where the gold comes out of the ground nearly 100 percent pure, averaging from 23.5 to 23.8 carats.

The only complaint is the waves that crash so loudly on the sand beach. At night it's so loud it sounds like a car wreck outside your window. But you soon grow used to the rumble, much as dothose unfortunate souls who live adjacent to railroad tracks.

Our guide was a native Costa Rican, Lindor Jimenez. After spending hour after hour on a boat, for seven days in a row, you learn all of the intimate details of each other's life. Lindor's big news was that he had just bought a house. His priorities during the search had been simple, it should have a good water supply, be located near a dirt road and be close to a school for his children. At one point during the trip he invited me into his one room home and proudly displayed his most prized possession, a coffee table book titled: The Lore of Sportfishing.

Quiet and unassuming Lindor is well-accustomed to brash, omniscient Americans who sound off long and loudly about how they want things done their way, where the fish are likely to be schooling and what kind of bait one ought to drag behind the boat. Techniques that work at Kona or Cairns may fizzle at Golfito. Guides like Lindor know from experience what works, but won't risk offending guests by appraising them of the local conditions.

The tired, Diesel Makos are a little slow, topping out at about 20 knots. And because it takes from 30 minutes to an hour to get to the fishing grounds, it would make sense to repower with bigger engines or turbos. But then again, whose in a hurry.

With this in mind, we didn't pick the location, didn't choose the lures, sew-up Panama bellies or sharpen hooks. Instead, we relied on our guide's expertise, telling him, "Look, you live here, you know the fish, you know the fishing grounds. Show us what you know. We'll listen." Then we sat back and watched the baits.

Whenever the drag started to screech, someone in our party took turns, grabbbed the rod, set the hook and cranked. Our best and most consistent luck was with a red and white Rapala lure. Our boat landed so many Roosterfish, Dorado, Sierra Mackerel, Cubera Snapper and Jack, we literally blistered our thumbs and forefingers. Admittedly, there was no skill involved. Just tired arms and skinned fingers that stung from the salt spray.

After a four days of fishing the black rocks at Punta Burica we decided to go a mile offshore where Lindor suggested there might be sail. At varying times during the year, the blue water is just offshore a mile or so. The problem is, because the camp is so new, the bottom hasn't been
mapped and no one really knows which months are hot and cold.

Five miles offshore the water still shimmered green.

Ten miles out the Pacific finally turned blue.

Just beyond the horizon we spotted the ominous black profile of an aircraft carrier steaming south. Presumably one of ours on its way to Panama.

Lindor throttled back the diesel and the lines went in the water. As time slowly passed we watched a red 55-gallon oil drum bobbing on the surface. Throughout the morning a succession of huge, lumbering tortuga sculled past on their way to some secret rendevous. Occasionally we monitored the approach of a whale shark, or photographed the playful antics of a school of dolphins. The rest of the time we watched the bait and talked about the meaning of life and death.

Out of the blue, a sail struck what I would have figured to be the least likely target, a red and white that had been hit so many times a third of its skirt was missing, the hooks were thick with rust. Why this bait, I wondered? Because the sail couldn't spot the hook for all the rust?

In an excited voice, Lindor called his buddies on the VHF, rapidly jabbering away in Spanish that his boat was hot, that the gringo had a sail on. And this sail had cojones, it was behaving like a marlin. Indeed it did, fighting with more spirit than ought to be legal. Instead of standing on his tail, and dancing a Irish jig, it leaped into the air, smashed and throwing water time. Once it had been brought alongside the boat, Lindor dropped the mike, scuttled over to the transom and grabbed the wire leader. Estimated at 110 pounds, we revived then released the sail. Too bad the long line boats weren't as sporting.

Later that night I found myself wondering what would motivate anyone to travel so far away from home and to such a isolated location. There was no phone, no nightly news or Wall Street journal. Nor was there gridlock, acid rain, muggers, rude drivers, and the thousands of other civilized frustrations we deal with on a daily basis. Without those distractions, you're better able to concentrate exclusively on the business at hand: The sensaround blue sky and water, the swells rolling the deck underfoot. It's only after two or three days that you begin to settle in. Every day your mainspring unwinds a little more. Once back stateside and safetly nestled in your cocoon, your dreams are filled with the visions of a Dorado skimming across the water in a blaze of color, you lurch in bed as you subconcious battles a sail. And you dream of the day when those blasted crashing waves at Golfito lull you to sleep.