Sheridan, our cleaning lady’s sister is a local angler, meaning she just buys and re-sells fish that the old legends catch, but she does know where the fish are. She lives in a stilted shack on the water. Three rooms: living room with a tv, kids bedroom, and a kitchen-bedroom. Their bed was sandwiched between two big, rust stained coolers filled with dead fish. She’s a legend for sure, and we got along with her from the instant we met.

For some reason J thought it be a good idea for her to pick us up at 7 AM. Mad Hewy was not happy about that, he had a long night. But the boys pulled it together, shuffling out of the house, rods in hand, aches in head, with visions of meaty lunkers. Sheridan took us to a far flat around the other side of the island. She stayed in the boat, the boys dispersed like kids in a playground. So much turf to cover, so little time. Another cuda attack, again this one on my own fly. Took me to the reel, and I let him for the rush. The musky of the ocean. The Big One lands another cuda.


I saw J, Grit and Hewy start back to the boat, and already satisfied with my fish I followed. Tales of the night, handfuls of rice and beans as we lounge in refuge under the Central American sun. The Big One was far off and was hard to signal. The other boys got jellyfish stings and were ready to roll. Big One comes back with tales of 5-foot cudas that bit through his metal leader. A fish to dream about. Before we left the flats Big One hooks into a trophy needlefish that snaps him off. That’s what he gets for spinning.

We posted up on a unbelievable beach. White sand, crystal waters, Bob Marley playing through the speakers. Paradise. Me Hewy and Grit stayed on the beach slamming little jack, while Sheridan gathered sticks for a fire to cook our fish. J and Big One went out with the spear in hopes of gathering a plentiful bounty. We ate good on that beach.

James Mugele