(Quepos, Costa Rica)
With Auntie Susie and Uncle Wayne staying on the boat last night we were free to take off at first light in an attempt to catch some fish. Now Greg will insist I cursed the day when I asked the day before how he’d like his Mahi cooked, and if that excuse doesn’t hold he’ll fall back on the reasoning that Uncle Wayne is a fishing bad luck totem. Whatever the excuse, long story short, we didn’t catch a single fish. A complete skunk.
Unless of course you count the bird.
The problem with four colourful lures trolling just under the surface is they’re attractive to more than just the fish. You get many an opportunistic bird dive-bombing your fishing lure looking for a quick snack. And if you’re less than lucky like us that bird may just get hooked. Like our little friend today who got hooked in his upper leg. A fact that made for an eventful reel in, boarding, pinning down via paddle, left hand fake out for a right hand head grab, and subsequent de-hooking. A three person operation to set the little bugger free.
Back at anchor with no fish to show for ourselves the guys headed out with guns. When they returned so shortly after leaving there was bound to be a story, and a story there was. A shark story. I’m still unsure which screw is loose in Greg’s head that makes shark sightings an acceptable, even welcomed, event. Though for us prairie folk the sight a shark is reason to hit personal best swimming speeds back to the dinghy. An activity that Uncle Wayne, I’m sure, executed with brilliant finesse.