There is something special about waking up on an equatorial Pacific island that goes beyond tanned feet and an unlimited supply of pineapples. The sound of waves lapping on the shore of our secluded bay are calming and gentle, and it’s hard to believe that this is all part of the standard work day.
The sun is just starting to light the eastern sky as I leave my casita, and walk down to the kitchen to get myself a cup, actually a pot, of that glorious Panamanian coffee. Cafe negro is strong like my mate, black like my dog, fresh like my lady and slightly bitter (again like my lady), and it only tastes right when enjoyed in bare feet, out in the salt-sea air.
I love this time of the day. As a saltwater guide, I have very little time to be alone, away from the noise of the outboards and the pounding of the boat hull as it stomps over waves. In the Islas Secas dawn I start my day quietly. I am sitting on a log that washed up on the beach sipping java, waiting for the sun to turn up the heat while watching the water rise with every minute and playing out the day to come.
Average tides on our islands are eight to 12 feet, so on the big tides the water can come up 2 feet every hour. It is amazing to watch. Where does all that water come from, and where does it go, day in, day out, since the beginning of time?
By 7:00 a.m. we’re westbound and down. The porpoise issues of Day Three are still a bad memory, so we make the decision to try Montuosa again, if for no other reason than to have a bait die of old age as opposed to having it poached by a porpoise the second it hits the water. At this point, I just want to know the baits can actually swim.
It is a beautiful day, and we are rolling 32 knots under the props, and will be there in 45 minutes. The air is warm, expectations are running high and we are all a little bit punchy at the prospect of some fish.
Right on cue, the daily battle over the IPod takes shape. My mate Juan is one of my favorite people, despite his shitty taste in music. He’s trying to play some techno/disco babble while Dr Prince twisted up with a little Fleetwood Mac. I am bigger than Juan a-n-d I’m the captain, which in this case means there better be some rock and roll spewing from the speakers or there will be a new clown in unemployed fishing mate town.
He spins the dial, and we crank into some Aerosmith, and I nudge up the volume over the engine noise. “Living on the edge” has me fired up, and I leave Juan to his grumbling and climb to the upper station on my hard top, leaving the boys to piss and moan about never getting their way.
We arrive at Montuosa and put a spanking on the bait. I scan the horizon, noticing for the first time that there is no one else here. I love to be the first boat with baits in the water on the high spot. The water looks great, much bluer today than the last time we fished here. With both baits in the water, I start drawing figure eight’s over the high spot.
On the second pass, I hear Juan yell from below, and I can tell by he’s voice that the game is on. “Boss! I’m bit!,” he yells up to the tower as I watch him drop into reel free spool as I kick the throttle back to neutral.
I look down over the hard top at Juan. Normally, when a marlin takes, line peels off the spool as the fish grabs the bait and runs. But Juan and I both know that when a marlin hits hard and heads straight for the boat, it can all be over in a heartbeat. We’re watching for the line to go slack, indicating a run straight toward us, and Juan is ready to collect slack if he can.
Then we see her, and she’s p-i-s-s-e-d! She gets full-on air, jumps again, then crashes down in all her marliny black glory. The bait is visible, sideways in her mouth. On the third jump she drops the bait. I can see Juan deflate a little bit, but he knows to leave the bait on the water, for the marlin to pick up again.
I grab a second bait and as we drop it back, Juan gets bit again. The fish has recovered the bait and intends to keep it this time, and she’s running straight away with it, through the gentle water. 1… 2… 3… 4 seconds–I’m counting in my head, and I’m about to tell Juan to hit her when I see him ease the drag up to strike.
I come forward easy on the throttles, as much to help set the hook as to be powered if the fish charges and I need to bail. Black Marlin run and jump toward the pull of the pain way too often, and a captain has to be nimble to clear the escape route. We are tight and line is rolling out as the top shot disappears over the water, and the 100 pound braid is a blur coming off the spool. We are throwing high fives and whooping it up when the electricity in the rod disappears.
I make a couple quick moves to get tight again, but I know it’s hopeless. We put the mouth on it too early and jinxed our way out of a fish. I see the bait flopping on the surface, as a porpoise dials in on it. That second take was no marlin, just another one of our blunt-nosed bait poachers. The tricky bastard swam in and took the bait before the marlin could get back to it. I can see where this day is heading and break out a large bottle of aspirin.
We ding a couple of sailfish, sting a dorado or ten and by the end of the day head home 0-for Montuosa. We are trying our best, but the porpoise army is raiding our baits on a regular basis.
My luck has got to change, or I’m going to have to stoke up the juju with some Classic Stones. Because you can start me up, start me up and I’ll never stop.


























