THE DANCE OF THE BONITA

FISHING IN CUBA’S JARDINES DE LA REINA - by Austin Kenny

There is a legend in Irish mythology of ‘An Bradán Feasa’, the Salmon of Knowledge. According to the legend, boundless wisdom is bestowed on whoever catches and eats this fish – the ultimate brain food. Since I was diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease fifteen years ago, I have entertained the fanciful notion that there might be a fish that could replenish the brain’s dopamine producing cells. Their depletion is what causes the disease.

Whatever about the existence of such a magical, wisdom bestowing and therapeutic fish, the process of fishing itself has proved therapeutic and contributed greatly to what little store of wisdom I possess. Often it has been magical, and never more so than in Cuba’s Jardines de la Reina when I travelled there with four angling friends in late November.

The archipelago of Jardines de la Reina is a 130-kilometre long chain of low coral, mangrove covered, cays and reefs. It lies 60 kilometres off the south east coast of Cuba and is a protected area with no human inhabitants or commercial fishing save for a handful of boats that fish for lobster. In this magnificent marine wilderness the wildlife is as abundant as it is varied with pelicans, eagles, gulls and all manner of sea birds as well as iguanas, turtles and over 30 species of fish.

The floating hotel, La Tortuga, is a converted ship moored in a sheltered cut five hours ferry ride from the port of Jucaro on the mainland. To get from Havana to Jucaro you can either take a one-hour flight and a two-hour coach journey, which we did on the way out, or a six-hour coach journey, which we did on the way back. It’s a long way to La Tortuga.

There is accommodation in seven air-conditioned cabins for fourteen anglers. For our week there were just ten – five Irish, two Argentineans and three Americans who, because of the US blockade, were obliged to travel surreptitiously via Mexico. We arrived late on Saturday on the night of a full moon - propitious for fishing we were informed, so after dinner I headed off with Vidal, the night fishing guide. A short distance from base he anchored the skiff in a channel between two islands in water about fifteen feet deep.

He set up two rods, each with a sardine on a single hook which was cast out and let dangle in the current. In the bright Caribbean moonlight, we settled our rods in the rod rests, one either side of the boat, sat back and had a beer.  Like most Cubans I’d met he spoke little English, was curious to know where I came from and had never heard of Ireland.  For some reason, when asked where I came from, my reply ‘Ireland’ was invariably mistaken for ‘Holland’ and at this stage I found it easier to proclaim that I hailed from Amsterdam.

Vidal liked to sing as he fished and I’m not averse to rendering a few bars myself, so I taught him the chorus of ‘Molly Malone’ and he taught me a verse and refrain of ‘El Cuarto de Tula’.

Some night an English speaking angler will be surprised to hear the strains of ‘Alive Alive O’ emanating from a man, oblivious to the location or even the existence of Dublin’s fair city, and even more surprised to be told by the singer that he learned the song from a Dutchman.

Two hours later, just after eleven, we were back on La Tortuga. I landed three jack crevelle between 15 and 20 lbs, two barracuda of similar size, three red snapper between 8 and 10 lbs, a four-foot shark and now I’d be able to sing along with my favourite track on ‘Buena Vista Social Club’. The shark and barracuda were released. The jacks and the snapper were brought back for the cook, and delicious they were too.
I slept well that night.

Next day came the serious stuff – fly-fishing for bonefish and tarpon under the expert tutelage of Aurelio Jiminez, aka Jim, my day fishing guide.

Jim stood on the raised platform at the stern, scanning for bonefish as he poled the skiff silently across the flats towards the mangroves.  It was early afternoon in late November and the temperature was 27 degrees centigrade.  The sky was a deep, unblemished blue and bright sunshine sparkled on the gin clear water, which on the flats was two or three feet deep.  The surface was dappled by a light breeze.

I leaned against the support rail on the casting platform at the bow with my fly rod in my right hand and loose coils of line at my feet, poised to cast on Jim’s instruction.

‘Look, a big shoal’ he said, pointing at two o’clock some distance off. I peered intently in the direction he was pointing but could see nothing.  As we moved closer, I could make out a dark patch against the white sand and assumed it was grass or rock.  Then the dark patch moved. 

A shoal of twenty or more fish was swimming slowly from right to left in a V formation like a flock of geese.  They swam so close to the surface that several tails were showing shark–like above the water. ‘Cast eleven o’clock’ instructed Jim. I made two false casts then shot out the line.  The fly, a Crazy Charlie – Jim’s choice – landed gently a foot or two in front of the lead fish.  I paused momentarily to admire my cast.  All morning I had given a display of hopelessly inept casting.  Eager anticipation was my excuse. Bonefish spook easily.  Tapping your feet on the boat or a splashy cast sends them darting away.  I assume this must be bloody tiresome for a guide, who has laboriously sought out the fish and poled you into position only to see them chased away by your clumsiness.  But Jim, like virtually every Cuban I met, was patient, gracious and good-humoured.  Each time it happened his response was either ‘Sorry’ or ‘No problem’ but I knew what he meant.

This time I was barefoot and Jim positioned the boat that bit nearer and upwind of the target.
‘Good cast’ he said.  I suspect it was more grateful relief than admiration.   ‘Strip, strip, stop’ he instructed.  I pointed the rod at the fly, holding it low and parallel with the water, and retrieved the line with two short pulls and a stop, two short pulls and a stop. Then the lead fish turned to follow the fly.  Incredibly, the rest of the shoal followed him in formation and as I continued the retrieve, a V-shaped shoal of twenty or more bonefish pursued my fly towards the boat.  Nothing in fly-fishing compares to the exhilaration of such an experience. I felt the take and struck by pulling hard on the line with my left hand.  I raised the rod and the loose coils of line shot through the rings then snapped taut and the rod buckled.  The reel sang with a high-pitched whirr as the fish striped line at a speed that defied the laws of physics.  In seconds I was halfway into the backing.

Seven or eight minutes later, after a series of electrifying but shorter and shorter runs, the 5 lb bonefish was landed, photographed and released. Perhaps not the titanic struggle of Santiago in Hemmingway’s ‘Old Man and the Sea’, but my first bonefish and for me momentous.

Each of the following days brought new wonders and delights;
 

• The choreographed, arched leaps alongside the boat of two, three and occasionally four dolphin together in perfectly synchronised unison.
• The powerful take of a tarpon before the surface exploded as the fish soared into the air. Then the spray and the hissing line as it tail-walked, silhouetted by the setting sun – a giant orange semicircle sinking below the horizon.
• Lunch of lobster and barbecued freshly caught snapper and tuna on the white sandy beach of a tiny island, under a canopy made of palm leaves.
• And on the afternoon of the last day, the grand finale - the Dance of the Bonito. Out past the line where the luminous aquamarine turned to a deep dark blue, frigate birds circling and diving indicated the presence of densely packed shoals of baitfish. At the spot marked by the birds the sea was a seething cauldron of frenetic activity as hundreds of bonito, small tuna of about 5 lbs, were leaping into the air and crashing into the packed shoals, then darting about chasing those that had been detached.

But this was only the warm up act. We managed to catch a couple of tuna on poppers – surface spinning baits – when a group of shark came to investigate the commotion and decided to snack on bonito. They were six to eight feet long and the fish they seemed particularly to fancy were those that had taken a popper and were in the process of being landed. It was heart stopping to see, in the clear blue water, an eight foot shark take a tuna you had hooked and were playing, then make off with the tuna, the bait and all the line on your reel. Salmon spinning rods and twenty pound line were no match for these guys and, as long as they hung around, there was little hope of landing anything and every likelihood of loosing all the baits, traces and line we had. We decided to let the shark catch their own fish and headed for home. In the sunset the water still boiled with darting, dancing bonito.

The last evening, after a wonderful dinner of jack crevelle, red snapper, black beans and rice, we sat on the deck of La Tortuga sipping rum and smoking cigars with our fellow anglers from Argentina and America. I know it’s fanciful, and that ballroom dancers and train spotters will make the same claim, but that balmy Caribbean night, as we exchanged addresses and tall tales of fishing exploits in Connemara, Patagonia and Montana, I was convinced that the bond between anglers was more than just a shared interest. Friends I have made through angling I count among my oldest and truest.

Writing this now and browsing through the photographs, the joy of recollection is tinged with sadness at the realisation that I will probably never return to Cuba. It is unlikely my health will allow and almost certain my bank manager won’t.  Still, `tis better to have hooked and lost. It’s then you get to experience two intense and contrasting emotions and that’s when you know you’re alive. And where there’s life!

Yes! Maybe somehow I will go back. I still have one more verse of the song to learn, one more cast to make and one more denizen of the deep to conquer. As the mighty fish, in a plume of spray, tail-walks into the sunset perhaps it will take me with it, back to the source of all life.
Is that a bell I hear, Santiago?