| Each time a breaker crashed over our 16-foot skiff, more of the silt-colored water pouring into the river’s mouth, or boca, flooded our flat-bottomed boat. A 6-foot breaker finally killed our 60-hp engine, followed by more waves that tossed us in circles as my fishing gear and everything else went flying into the shark-infested water.
It took all our strength for my guide, Juan Leo Martinez, and me to hang on. In seconds, or maybe minutes, we were up to our necks in the muddy Rio Colorado, northeastern Costa Rica’s tributary to the Caribbean. I silently calculated the wisdom of fighting the ripping currents and the likelihood of reaching the closest beach about a mile away.
It was my second visit to Barro del Colorado, back in the mid-1980s. Catching and releasing a thrashing, jumping tarpon is about as lustful an experience as I know, and I’d been hooked since my first visit. When we could make our way through the boca, we headed out of the river in search of schools of rolling silver kings. A hookup in the ocean allowed us to follow and catch the fish. When the weather was too rough and turned the rollers into breakers, we had no choice but to anchor near the river mouth and ride incoming swells like a roller coaster. If we hooked the savvy tarpon there, they almost always headed for the open sea, spooling us if we didn’t break them off first.
After one day of impatiently bouncing in the boca, waiting for the tarpon to enter the river on their way to Lake Nicaragua, I asked Juan if he thought he could navigate through the waves in the mouth. The situation was marginal, I was younger and perhaps more foolish and Juan was a tad macho.
In his safety lecture, the manager of the fishing lodge had cautioned us about tarpon fishing and sharks: If a tarpon jumps in your boat, do not jump into the water. Don’t even think about taking a swim. This was before the Costa Rican government granted permits to longliners, a decision that has greatly reduced the shark population. Back then, anglers fighting a hooked fish often saw the chocolate-colored water turn bright red with blood. The frenzy of the tarpon suddenly ended as a marauding bull or hammerhead shark left anglers only a tarpon head for a catch.
I gazed longingly toward the ocean and thought about the times hooked tarpon had jumped into my skiff, causing me, with less grace, to jump onto a bow seat. Once I even momentarily shared the boat with a tarpon hooked on a nearby angler’s line. Juan had managed to release the thrashing fish without injuring anyone. Neither of us had given a thought to jumping into the shark-infested ocean. Although I’d gone diving in other places among sharks and didn’t especially fear them, the muddy Rio Colorado was not a place I wanted to share with this fish.
One day in the boca had been enough for me, however, and after my next pleading look, Juan weighed anchor. Cautiously, we began to weave through the incoming rollers. Occasionally a wave broke on the reef below. There seemed no way to anticipate when a roller would become a breaker. Every once in a while, Juan would back off the throttle, turn and slowly circle until he thought he could move forward again. We had about a quarter-mile to go to reach the ocean.
Juan and I hadn’t got far when that big wave killed the engine. The thought of swamping never entered my mind. Juan would simply restart the engine, and we’d be off. The outboard had a way of sputtering out on a regular basis, but he was an old hand at getting it going again.
And he probably would have, if a second breaker hadn’t crashed on top of us, tossing us about like a wobbly Frisbee. Juan tugged on the cord frantically as we spun in circles, but the outboard wouldn’t go. It was all I could do to keep from falling out of the boat. Each time a wave hit us, gear flew out and more water came in. We were sinking.
A lot of good my shark bravado would do now. We’d been swept powerless into frenzied seas and riptides. Four words from Red Cross training – stay with the boat – played in my head. But soon, there would be no boat.
As the skiff swamped, the water rose up our legs, then floated us over the gunwale. Soon we were hanging onto the submerged skiff in a life-or-death situation made even scarier when my glasses were knocked off, preventing me from seeing shore.
Then, out of nowhere, another skiff came alongside. I remember Juan saying in Spanish, Take Maria first. Another guide had seen us, dropped his anglers at a nearby beach and headed into the maelstrom to rescue us.
As he negotiated the waves, the guide grabbed me and then Juan, who still clutched my rod in his free hand. We headed to the beach where the guide had dropped his customers. Not wanting to lose a minute of fishing time, they were busy surf casting. They had no idea that a miraculous rescue had just taken place. Soaked and bedraggled, I walked up to them and sheepishly apologized for interrupting their sport. They looked at me as if I were nuts, until I explained my close call. Then I turned to Juan and said, Get another boat. Let’s go fishing.
Juan was game. He borrowed some lures, and soon we were back on the boca, although with no more thought of heading into the ocean. The boats carried no radios then, but it didn’t take long for word to spread that a lone gringa had swamped in the mouth of the Colorado. Within an hour, anglers from other camps were pulling up to my boat to snap a photo.
Times have changed in Barro del Colorado, and so has the fishing. Several lodges have closed, and the newest, Silver King, operates unsinkable 23-foot, closed-transom, deep-V fiberglass boats with excellent radios. That means anglers can fish the ocean almost anytime, except when the waves are breaking hard in the river mouth. When I look at the old skiffs, I wonder whatever possessed me to encourage Juan to attempt that foolhardy passage. Lust for tarpon had knocked any good sense out of my head.
On a recent visit, I had the opportunity to see Juan and to thank him again for saving my life. He has got some gray hair (not equal to mine), but he’s still guiding. And he hasn’t swamped in the boca since. Many of the other guides are still there, and they all remember the incident. Not too many gringas come even now to fish alone at Barro del Colorado, and none has ever swamped in the boca.
© 2002 World Publications, LLC February 2002
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