Foolish Fishing Antics in Panama
By Will Carless
I’ve seen some very foolish things in my time travelling. I’ve seen good friends, intelligent people, drink the water straight out of the tap in disgusting Indonesian cities. I’ve witnessed countless otherwise ‘macho’ lads flirt lustfully with tall Thai ‘ladyboys’ without the slightest idea of their prey’s gender. I’ve done a few stupid things myself: lost my passport, been ripped off by obvious con-artists and the like. One learns from experience. At least, that what I always thought.
One of the most intelligent fellows I have ever had the pleasure of sharing a room with was a gentle Bostonian of the name of Tyler, with whom I travelled a good length of the Central American peninsula. Tyler was of good strong Yankee stock. Intelligent, well bred and bald, he traversed the world in a method that, although sometimes naive, generally grasped a situation with cool-headed purpose of thought. That was how I pictured my American friend: a practical, charming medical student well aware of the dangers of the World around him. So, needless to say, I was somewhat perturbed when I was awakened one morning by the cries of one Tyler D. Macdonald splashing around in the knee-deep water of the lagoon outside our charming guesthouse in Bocas Del Toro, Northern Panama.
Rising and stretching, attempting to grasp some idea of what all the fuss was about, I staggered to the window overlooking the lagoon and, blincking in the brilliance of the Caribbean sunshine surveyed the scene before me. There sweating and magnificent in the pallid morning air, Tyler stood, up to his waist in the sparkling water, brandishing a two-foot machete. Lounging on the balcony below the window sat two local boys, obviously enchanted by the fantastic spectacle my bald American friend presented. As I watched, Tyler brought the machete down in an almighty slash and splash into the water, sending a jet of water into the air. After the machete had lost its momentum, Tyler stared intently into the now murky sediment, searching for something. Assuming my friend had final felt the toll of the nightly cuba libre binges we had been enjoying of late, and was obviously suffering some sort of a breakdown, I called to him in a soothing voice:
“You can’t kill the water Ty - it’s not alive”
Laughing, Tyler shot back a reply that I was unable to hear because as he uttered the words he again sliced the machete down into the water, cursing this time and obviously enjoying himself. This tumult was followed by the searching action again, and this time he pounced, reaching his hand down into the water and arose, triumphant brandishing something small, silver and twitching.
“Fry! - This is how you catch them. You can use these tiny fish for bait, but you’ve got to stun the suckers fist. You have to search for a shoal, then you bring the machete down quickly into the middle and hopefully you might hit a couple and hey presto - bait.”
Ty’s antics began to make some sense and I breathed a sigh of relief that he still held at least some of his faculties. I enquired where he had discovered this ancient art of fish-slashing. He gestured to the boys on the balcony, explaining that he had inquired after bait for a forthcoming fishing expedition, and the two rascals had returned with the machete and an explanation of this half-brained method of catching fry. Shaking my head with wonder, I asked him why he hadn’t just asked for a net, as we had seen countless times the local fishermen scooping up scores of fry in one swoop. Compared to the nets, Tyler’s ‘machete-method’ looked about as efficient as a two-legged horse.
Shrugging his shoulders he replied that he would “rather do it the traditional way”. Besides, he assured me. It was perfectly safe, you just had to make sure the knife didn’t swerve in the water, come back and make contact with human flesh! As he explained this unforeseen danger, he spotted a fresh shoal just behind him and, whirling in the water slashed down with all his might with the knife, sending fish fleeing in all directions.
The expression on Tyler’s face was something I will honestly never forget. A patchwork of surprise, pain, amusement and foolishness crossed my friend’s handsome face as he said, hoarsely
“I don’t believe it”
Looking down at the water where the knife had made contact, I spotted something that had very definitely not been there before. Where the image of Tyler’s legs could be seen shimmering in the translucent water, a cloud of viscous crimson was spreading fast.
“I don’t believe I cut my leg”
What I remember thinking at the time Tyler sliced his leg open, was that he remained utterly calm throughout. He seemed to be far more amazed with himself for being the victim of such a gross display of ineptitude on his own behalf that pain seemed to pale in comparison. Watching as he emerged onto the balcony, I could see, amongst the blood, the shiny white of Tyler’s shin-bone. I rushed to the room and returned brandishing a towel and biting my lip in an attempt not to laugh at the scene that had just unfolded.
Tyler the medical student taught himself how to sew his leg up that day. He had come armed with a medical kit that would make a Swiss medical helicopter proud, and was all too keen to try out his fancy equipment. That evening, nursing a cold beer as the sun set over the lagoon, a local fisherman enquired at the guesthouse as to the location of the two gringos. He emerged onto the balcony and asked us if we were the tourists who wanted bait. Exchanging glances, Tyler and I looked back at the fisherman and nodded.
Then and there he turned and thrust the chain-net he was carrying onto a shoal of waiting fry. Tugging the net back onto the dry balcony he deposited a heap of quicksilver onto the boards and the scores of fry flicked and squirmed in an iridescent heap. Grudgingly, Tyler paid him a few pence, and with the fish twitching around Tyler’s feet, inches below his impressive bandage, he sat, fuming and drinking his beer in the muggy night air of Bocas Island.
