Is It Science or Plain Bad Luck? (below)

Perilous Angling in the Land of the Hock-Tooey Fish

A Florida Fisherman in the Galapago Islands
part 1 - The Big Score


A Florida Fisherman
in the Galapago Islands
part 1 - The Big Score

As a distinct race of people, fishermen take many forms. The Florida fisherman is a versatile opportunist
used to angling in everything from the Atlantic Ocean to big pools of cow spit.

He is resourceful and determined and will not leave a school of feeding fish to save his wife’s life, unless it’s an emergency.

From experience he believes, “If it’s wet, it must have fish in it.”
 

When he travels, the Florida fisherman is not like other tourists, immersed in mundane details of tourisma like finding shelter for the night. Only when a hotel has been secured do the non-fishing tourists feel courage to intrude upon the world and then, only God knows why they bother. Their habit is to wander aimlessly. “Attractions” have been created for these sufferers.

Meanwhile the fisherman has been living life in the order in which it comes to him, plotting new crimes against his gilled partners in destiny.

All this left me standing on the ferry dock at the strait, between islands Baltra and Santa Cruz, frantically assembling my five hundred piece Daiwa backpacking spinning rod while the ordinary tourists walked their thirty paces from the aeropuerto bus to the ferry, miraculously unmoved by a feeding frenzy of strange looking birds ten yards out.

By the time my tackle was ready, the cowardly school of feeding fish had retreated beyond range.  Hoping for stragglers I started randomly casting a quarter-ounce Limper spoon. The ferry driver knows a little English and he said, “You must board now.”

In my minimal Spanish I tried to convey the idea, “This’ll do.- You go on without me.”

The driver was amused and granted me the time until he returned for his final load, about twenty minutes. They like to keep tabs on tourists in the Galapagos.

Briefly I bounced a gold Cotee jig on the bottom with no response. A small dart jig got a few light hits and it was time to cross.

Vowing to return, I was leaving the rocky, completely fishable shore of Baltra for the mangrove edged, apparently difficult to fish Santa Cruz.

“It’s better on the other side,” I was told.

“Oh, sure,” I thought.

The scene at the ferry landing on Santa Cruz was like a slightly absurd great fishing dream. A steel drum on floats was moored twenty feet out and big fish seemed to be splashing against its sides. Then I noticed big fish were feeding and swirling everywhere, by the dock and along the mangroves.

The feeding schools were accompanied by flocks of birds so thick that casting was impossible. It was better to cast at the random swirls. If a school surfaces near the fisherman, he has time for one quick cast before the birds arrive, which is enough.

I shoved several tourists out of my way, attained the bow, leaped to the dock and when the ferry stopped, I was tying on a Cotee jig like I’d been there all day. On the fourth cast I retrieved a jig that was severed just below the hook.

Rods and reels, and artificial lures, are practically nonexistent in Ecuador, so the ferry crew and bus drivers examined my tackle with great interest and pity, all shaking their heads at my folly as they touched the eight pound -test.  My foot and a half twenty-five pound mono leader notwithstanding, I was also advised to “Put meat on the hook.”

Lacking other recreations, they watched me in a bemused, condescending sort of way. A Limper was next into the fray. On my third cast it stopped dead in mid retrieve. The rod bowed, the Penn drag began the first of many tests in these islands, a cry went up and the skeptics were converted.

The fish felt too strong. A few small boats are moored out from the landing and a better vantage point was needed to avoid their ropes, so I sprang to the bow of the ferry. Greater height was needed  I tried, but couldn’t climb to the roof while fighting this fish, so a crewman reached down for the rod. Unwilling to relinquish that item, I offered my hand instead and was dragged up the face of the ferry. Atop the boat I stood, bruised, line clear of all obstacles, rod bent and drag buzzing.

“Pesca grande!” someone exclaimed.

For fifteen minutes I looked like some weird boat top antenna. Occasionally the fish stopped to reflect on its situation.  Although I couldn’t regain line, the runs became less frequent and there was hope that my spool would hold out.  I tried not to aggravate him  Then there was a much stronger tug followed by nothing.  The spectators moaned when we saw my line had been cut above the leader.

Most visitors to the Galapagos Archipelago fly from mainland Ecuador to Isle Baltra. The aeropuerto there is the size of a Steak ‘n’ Shake and it accommodates one large aeroplane simultaneously. For many that aeroplane is their last contact with the space age until they reboard. About two hours after the plane lands, a bus arrives and everyone crams in for a twenty minute dusty dirt road ride to the ferry at the strait that locals call “Canal”.

After the five minute ferry ride characterized by a conspicuous lack of trolling, the tourists transfer to a bus to carry them for an hour on the cross island dirt road to Puerto Ayorra.  This track divides a fantastic forest of endemic trees which will go largely unnoticed because the passengers are not yet led by a guide to distract them from business conversations. However, unencumbered by self importance, the few children on board are fascinated.

In life you are a fisherman or you are a fish. Puerto Ayorra is a town full of fishermen angling for their human fish who step twice daily from the tourist busses from Baltra. Most of the tour boats operate from this town and, except for expensive advance bookings, these boats are the only way to see the various islands. Competition for the bonanza is fierce.

Soon after I arrived, a local fisherman offered to take me fishing in his boat for fifteen dollars. I said, “You are a fisherman and so am I. Do not try to catch me like a fish as it will be at your peril.  Instead you should offer in friendship to carry me to sea and together we will address our common adversary.”

My Spanish being limited to baby talk, this was actually said afterwards in English in my head.- Then I wrote it down.

Even though the Galapagos Archipelago hosts many endemic fishes, there are some surprising familiar faces.  My second day I walked to Tortuga Bay, a beautiful mangrove lined lagoon where, after a wearying battle, a ten pound crevalle jack looked up at me.

“Can’t even get away from ‘em here,” I had to laugh.

Locals speak of the delicious robalos and I wondered if snook really did live in that isolated place. I never found them but I finally saw a lineside that a fisherman had netted along with some striking Galapagos green tailed mullet. Another fisherman had a slightly different looking ladyfish which they esteem as we do here, relegating it to fish soup.

Tours to the islands went for sixty dollars a day if you are a fish.  Being a Florida fisherman and not a fish, I netted eight ordinary tourists and delivered them to a tour operator.  Four days after hitting Puerto Ayorra I embarked on my free seven day excursion.

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