SHAAM (Six Hookers And A Monkey) What Could, And May Have Been

[Capt Josh]

I've just returned from a lifetime in Panama, though barely seven days have passed since i've been gone. Once again, i've surprised myself on many levels, thanks to genuinely poignant discoveries that are known to yield such truths. Like the first time i "discovered" Mexico, its as though old cartography has been drawn anew, and a whole new world of passionate endeavors just revealed itself before me.

There is a magic that exists in new waters. A somewhat beautiful curse, created from things like temptation, bounty, challenge, diversity, and the promise and potential of some kind of mythical madness that may, and often does, present itself at any time. Like Mexico did so many years ago, Panama now promises an elixir not so easily garnered from more familiar waters, and i'd be lying if i said i wasn't already dying to return.

Ben, Jr, and I deported ourselves via Mexicana Airlines from Puerto Vallarta and by dusk we were careening southbound for Panama City, and the biblical levels of debauchery found therein. I fancy myself a bit of a traveller, but despite my best guessing i was utterly thunderstruck by what awaited us once we made it out of the airport. Foolishly thinking the further south one ventures, the more remote and unsophisticated cultures may become, a collective "WHAT THE FUQ?!?!?!?" resounded throughout the taxi as we dangerously wheeled in and out of traffic and the skyline of Panama City loomed into view.

Even at night the sight is impressive. Countless skyscrapers rose out of the Pacific, haunted by the shadowed silhouettes of tropical mountain jungles. A vista more akin to the post cards of Vancouver or Seattle, i thought, than any preconceived notion i harbored regarding the isthmus of the Americas. Here was a vibrant and energetic civilization with a diverse culture that beckoned you to dive out of the taxi and lose yourself in the rhythm and movement of the city, complete with it's colorful inhabitants, all seemingly celebrating something. Blacks, Asians, Caucasians, Panamanians, Aboriginals, Americans, Canadians, Europeans, Latinos, and, last but not least, the Columbians...MY GOD THE COLUMBIANS!!! An eclectic mix of freaks in all shapes and sizes, the energy was contagious and we wasted no time devouring the madness with our trademark abandon.

The details of the first few nights remain clouded, for a myriad of reasons. Even the most skilled anecdotal historians would have trouble putting the pieces together in any recognizable form. All i have are flash backs and jarring moments of clarity where only the most impressive or shocking experiences present themselves, but judging by what i've seen, i guarantee you, we had ONE HELL OF A TIME!

Somehow we wound up with police escorts during our entire foray into the beast that beats within the city. If you asked me today whether or not i thought riding around in a paddy wagon with a couple of heavily armed federal police officers while a group of us went wild for days at a time in a foreign country was a good idea, I'm not exactly sure what i'd say. It sounds dangerous at best, but when you find yourself caught within the vortex of such a place as Panama it's usually best to roll with the punches and let your most basic animalistic instincts run the throttles. I will tell you one thing, Panama is certainly the kind of place for madmen like us, so having a police escort every now and then could be considered a good thing. Thanks to our heavily armed brothers for keeping an eye on us, and showing us a side of Panama City that few have the privilege to see.

After four solid days and nights of nearly non-stop debauchery we eventually remembered we'd come all this way to do some fishing. Herk and Sue, who had traveled from New Jersey on their 54 Viking "Reel Epidemich", were already there in the Flamenco Marina and were gracious enough to change out our pesos and offer us a place to stay. Those two travelers have a story of their own, and i always love spending time with them. Two weeks prior to our arrival Herk and Sue enjoyed some spectacular fishing in Pinas Bay, and their stories only fueled the fire we'd successfully ignited over the previous few days. The Colonel and Steve were inbound to meet us and the promise of heart stopping madness was now only hours away.

Adam and the boys arrived just in time with the Boomer, after a long and arduous voyage south from Puerto Vallarta, and it was just like old times back in PV as the crew assembled under different constellations, privy to the kind of collective energy we seem to produce in nuclear proportions wherever we go. After loading the Boomer with a weeks worth of supplies we left the Bridge of the Americas behind us and pointed our bow for the Perlas Islands, and eventually Pinas Bay.

The first afternoon we concentrated on making bait around the Perlas, a task we soon accomplished with our usual efficiency. After loading the tank with fresh bullets, we dropped the hook and enjoyed the kind of relaxed wilderness living that comes with nights spent offshore in remote places. Good music, grilled steaks, strong drinks, and close friends, all enjoying life aboard 67 feet of opulence under a star rich sky in another beautiful location. Another shitty day in paradise, i offered the heavens, another chocolate laden cookie to keep in the jar.

Shortly after midnight, following a fantastic dinner of Panamanian fillet a la Boomer, we opted to depart for the "dumping grounds", an area well-known for it's potential for bragging size tuna. We'd talked with a commercial live-bait long liner a few nights before and, while most of the conversation had little to do with tuna, we did garner enough information to deduce that if there were cows about, the dumping grounds were the place to find them.

I ended up threading the Boomer through the aforementioned long-lines as we approached the dumping grounds roughly an hour before dawn, while a lumpy sea did it's best to obscure the reflections of the long line marker flags on the radar. As dawn crept slowly towards us petrels and terns replaced planets and red giants, and even in the grey light i could make out ample bird life on all quarters of the horizon. We set our course for Pinas Bay, in a round about way, to ensure we'd have at least half a day to look around, hoping that in our haste we'd stumble across the mother load of tunas.

Weaving in and out of the long lines, it wasn't long before the dorado found us. An all too common complaint, we were soon to learn, while fishing Panamanian waters. I think by the second afternoon of fishing we'd jokingly changed the name from Panama, to Doradoma, honoring the seemingly endless supply of fat, healthy dorado that swam there. There were days where i would have killed for action such as this, but these were not among them, and I was glad to be in the tower as the boys chased frantic leprechauns as they jackhammered about the deck.

That first full day of fishing on the way to Pinas was full of the kind of anticipation one enjoys while plotting courses beyond new horizons. Each mile promising that which survives in mystery until more familiar trails are tamed. It's a magical feeling that keeps you searching in the gyro's for some as of yet unknown madness just beyond range. But truthfully, despite the majestic circumstances, all we caught was dorado that first day. But the potential for something greater was there, and perhaps, ironically, that's exactly what drives us more often to return.

We spent that night plotting against howler monkeys in the same bay Zane Grey used to haunt so many years ago. Tropic Star Lodge is a testament to the kind of fervent, biblical worship that men have lavished on the sport of big game fishing for years, and rocking gently on the mooring in front of the lodge the Boomer was a giant tuning fork for the kind of energy that legends like Zane Grey have harnessed before. There's more than the tropical humidity in the air down there, a kind of kinetic energy exists that compels one to believe that some kind of monster could appear behind the boat at any time, and history has proven, over and over again, that such expectations are certainly warranted.

We awoke at dawn the next morning to howling northerly winds and less than lackluster conditions. The kind of day you'd normally turn around in but we'd come all that way, and by god we were going fishing. Herk took the helm for most of the morning as i tried desperately to keep the galley and salon from vomiting any more of it's contents onto the floor. You could tell Adam and the boys had traveled down sea since PV, because things weren't happy about heading in new directions. The salon had suddenly gone madly off in all directions and it took the better part of the morning to secure things properly again. By lunchtime the winds had subsided just enough to allow me to crawl up to the tower and thanks to the radio chatter from one of the lodge boats, i steered the Boomer in the direction of a school of porpoise and the promise of tuna once more.

We steamed up sea for another eight to ten miles before the school of spotted porpoise loomed into view. It was not easy keeping pace with the cetaceans in the 6 - 8 foot seas and i could easily tell that the lodge boats who were attempting to live bait the school were having a hell of a time. I called down for the spreader bars, screaming instructions so the boys could hear me over the 30 knots of wind, and it wasn't pretty but soon enough we had a mix of Archer and Canyon Runner bars splashing in the wake.

I spun the Boomer down sea to intercept what i hoped was the leading edge of the porpoise, determining such facts was no picnic in the sporty conditions, and just as we approached i noticed a fast eruption by what appeared to be a half dozen decent sized fish, right where they should be.

"GEEET RREEEAAADDYYY BOOOOYYYSSSSS!!!!" i hollered over the wind as we approached the spot the fish had erupted in just moments before.

Obviously, it didn't take long....

SMASHFUQINGWHOOSH!!! A solid fish DETONATES on the long right rigger bar, a chartreuse Canyon Runner death machine that would account for the majority of the tunas on this trip. The fish misses on the first pass, and the second, each time coming completely out of the water in furious dedication, but the weather is working against the fish too as the bars are blown all over the place, proving difficult to engulf.

Herk, who was watching from the helm level below the tower, starts screaming "MARLIN!!! MARLIN!!! MARLIN!!!" as the tuna makes repeated attacks, no doubt fooled by aging eyesight and the fact that he's probably not used to seeing tunas go apeshit behind the boat like this.

Steve, who came down specifically for the tuna action, offers the rod to the Colonel because he hears Herk screaming "MARLIN!!!". I'm screaming "TUNATUNATUNA!!!" from the tower but nobody can hear me because of the howling wind and the ear piercing wail of the Accurate 50W as the 100 plus pound tuna on the other end jackhammers for the horizon at a rate of unimaginable speed. ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ....

It's pure, unadulterated chaos as only we can produce it, everyone is trying to clear lines, the weather is working against us, and we're all screaming at the top of our lungs just to be heard over the wind, I'm not exactly sure if ol' Zane would approve, but for us, it certainly doesn't get any better than this!

Steve has now figured out it's not a marlin, but too late! Colonel is doubled over and trying desperately to keep up with the fish. I spin the stern down sea and try and keep things at least semi-professional while the circus of deckhands, owners, pseudo captains, and guests choreograph the madness below. Twice I'm almost thrown out of the tower as the fish Crazy Ivans up sea and I'm forced to turn broadside to the crashing rollers. Thankfully, after a determined battle the fish settles down and we're able to stick the gaffs in a good one, particularly considering the conditions.

For the next three hours we enjoyed the kind of action worth traveling abroad for. Hair-straight-back pandemonium that delivers one from the bullshit often left behind at the office or dinner table, and transcends ones conscience to a place where wind, and weather, and ultimately great fishing takes center stage. There is a certain freedom to the madness, for those who are willing to partake and endure all that is often encountered to get there.

After leaving the tunas, we re-deployed the marlin lures and continued down sea towards Pinas, where another relaxing evening in much friendlier water was filled with the sounds of fresh grilled ahi sizzling in harmony to the residual energy in the air. The Koonas arrived in fleets of dugout canoes to trade various local crafts for deep purple tuna, trying to convince us the howler monkeys we'd so vehemently sought were lurking just out of range. One elder, paddling a dilapidated and no doubt rotten old canoe, offered a handful of "monkey fangs" as testament to his prowess, and therefore his trustworthiness, should we decide to pay his price for trapping and delivering a live monkey. We all knew they were boar tusks, not monkey fangs as claimed, but the thought of him returning with a wild and untamed howler monkey, and later it's eventual destructive breakdown once the tranquilizers wore off and it awoke in the overhead baggage compartment of Mexicana flight 381 to Puerto Vallarta, nearly convinced me to shell out the $100 to see what would happen next. Thankfully, more prudent reasoning took over and we opted to purchase a few trinkets instead. In hindsight, it's incredible how close we often flirt with such inevitable disasters.

Not long after dinner we decided to head ashore, saddle up to the Tropic Star bar, and see just what kind of trouble we could get into. It wasn't long before the Whiskey Sours caught up with us. While we were outside smoking cigars and watching promotional videos from the lodge, i happened to glance over and lo and behold a living legend had snuck up upon us. None other than SF.com's very own Tred Barta stood hovering over us, looking quite impressive in his khakis and epalets, I'm not gonna lie.

"What's up Tred?" i ventured.

"What's up guys!" Tred countered, and away he went on a colorful and often hilarious account of his week in Pinas Bay. I've met Tred a few times over the years at various trade shows or functions and it's always a riot to spend time with him. He's got the same kind of gregarious attitude that enables self depreciating humor and often righteous claims, some people lack the ability to appreciate this eclectic blend, but I'm certainly a fan of it.

Tred treated us to a few previews of upcoming shows that he was working on final edits for, and we heckled and laughed during the programs while the whiskey seemingly rained down from the heavens. Some hilarious stuff in there for sure. Jr and Bishop were both awestruck by the approachable nature of Tred and demanded a photo op with him. Fodder for foolishness i assure you. After a few hours the whiskey finally ran out, but the laughter remained strong as we wobbled our way back down to the dock, managing not to lose a single soldier in the process. Safely aboard the Boomer once again i thought of our day, and all that had come our way since the sun rose so many hours ago. I looked to the heavens, thinking of the tuna bite we'd so fortuitously enjoyed earlier and screamed out "I LOVE TUNAMA!" to nobody in particular. The last of us went to bed singing a bastardized version of the theme song from Tred's show and borrowed verse from Team America. "I'm Tred Barta, FUCK YEAH!!!" over and over again until the last of the madmen finally surrendered to sleep.

Calm seas and cloudless skies greeted us the following morning, nearly sending the entire entourage into hysterics, as up until this point the weather had been sour at best. We could already tell our luck was changing and it wasn't long before the first blue dog came charging through the spread. The Joe Yee widow maker on the short corner went off in a violent explosion as a few hundred pounds of blue marlin came careening through the wake, summersaulting three hundred and sixty degrees before unceremoniously spitting the hook, much to the chagrin of everyone on deck.

We continued to troll raising another blue marlin which Herk expertly teased to the corner of the transom, but the fish somehow refused to eat. Sometimes i think perhaps we tease them too skillfully, but you never really know now do you.

WHACK! WHACK! WHACK! Dorado after dorado kept any hope of a quick snack at bay. The leprechauns are as voracious as the Columbians down there in Panama. Don't say i didn't warn you!

Sometime around 2pm in the afternoon we stumble across the kind of madness we so often go looking for. A frantic oasis of carnage and gluttony, a veritable orgy of bait and game fish that sends grown men into hysterics as they scramble for baits, poppers, jig sticks, anything and everything they can possible find. The Boomer looked like a Naval destroyer in short order, all manner of missile and munition firing from the port and starboard sides.

"HOOKUP! HOOKUP!!! HOOOOOOKUUUP!!!!" people are screaming as dorado and football tunas launch the counter attack. The boys are happy once again, their rods firmly attached to more than willing participants on the other end. Granted, it does not take much to keep us happy, but this kind of madness is nothing but fun.

JR decides to bridle up one of the football tunas that take turns demolishing the poppers, and in less than five minutes we've got the bite we've been looking for. Big fish eat peanut yellowfin, and this fish was of obvious stature. But somehow the circle hook failed to find purchase, and once again we watched another behemoth tail away. Story of the day, i thought. So be it, we continued to hammer on the tunas and dorados till the bitter end.

After the fishing we enjoyed another two nights back in Panama City, where we took to the festivities with renewed fervor, already acclimatized and well versed in the onslaught ahead. It was a great way to end the trip, leaving just enough to the imagination to fuel thoughts of what may come next. We boarded our respective planes the next morning headed back to LA, PV, and other such points in between. It was a fitting end to an already epic trip, despite the weather or the arguably mediocre fishing. For us it wasn't about the monster marlin, or gargantuan tunas, but rather the journey of discovery and eventual infiltration to a culture where we most certainly fit in. Panama will reveal much deeper secrets within the years to come, and we will be there to reap the rewards of diligent worship with the best of them.

The journey home was uneventful, because most of us slipped into self induced comas for much of the way. When we did eventually arrive back in PV it was hair-straight-back and hit-the-ground-running, straight to the marina to fuel up the boats in preparation for charters the very next day. It's a pirate life for me.

Its always nice to come home, but it's even nicer when warm, bait fish rich waters, and ample numbers of big tuna and marlin are there to greet you. Within five minutes of fishing back in PV we'd already hooked a solid tuna, and the madness only got better from there. Soon wahoo, tuna, and both black and blue marlin were giving the Barcott boys a workout over their two glorious days of fishing with us. We had to scream "PANAMAWHERE?!?!?!" a few times, only because we couldn't help it, it truly does feel great to come home.

Stay tuned amigos, because i have an inclination that there's a lot more of these shenanigans coming soon....

EPILOGUE:

The 6 hookers (fishermen) AKA the Colonel, SteveD, Adam, Ben, Jr, and yours truly are already planning our next trip to Panama in January. As of yet, we still haven't located the monkey.

[Ravens16]

Captain Josh that was a awesome read, DAMN!!!
My wife is a teacher and she gave you an A+++++++++++

Pictures are so clear and the writing was just unreal!

Thanks so much!!!!!

Was wondering where you have been

[Sea Draggin]

Best report I've read in quite some time. Brought a little warmth to the cold Carolinas.

[Tenacious]

Always a pleasure to read your reports!! Nice pics what kind of camera did the marlin shots come from?

[richmake]

What can I say JT....I'm sick to my stomach!!!!
Awesome read bro!

[hunt4fish]

Another great read and pics,I'm just glad you posted another venture in the life of a superstar.. Keep'em coming and Merry Christmas and Happy Festivus..

[Qualifier Chris]

All I can say is good thing for the pictures. Never was much for reading a novel.

[Capt Josh]

Thanks guys, happy holidays to everyone too!

Most of the tuna and marlin shots came from my Canon 30D w/ 28 - 70, and 100 - 400 IS L series lenses.

Just gearing up for an afternoon fish with the boss on the Maximo, then a 3 day overnight trip that will take us into x-mas. We've got a few charters scattered over the next two weeks while the boss is here as well, then after the 4th it's back to Panama, and beyond!

Happy holidays and be safe out there!

[gottaflylee]

Glad to have you back home brother. Great read as always and the picks...say no more...
Hope you and yours have a very Merry Christmas, thanks for the great present here...

[alltackle]

Dude, you are living the life.