Dusty Two Tracks, Saltwater, And Combat Spanish

We dusted off our spanish and pointed the rental car south. Possible run-ins with the Federales, complicated directions and horrible roads crowded our minds. It turned out to be a wasted use of mental space. As we headed toward the Belize boarder, we only encountered kind people, well kept roads, and the directions could have read; drive four hours hang a left, drive one more hang a right. The roads became increasingly smaller and the drive was a highlight of the trip.


Five days of uninterrupted fishing ensued. We developed a rhythm. Rise with the sun, drink coffee, commute to the flats. We alternated fishing on our own and with local guides. On our own we navigated two tracks and followed leads from those who were willing to share. Mostly they told us about various roads that led to water. The fishing was left up to us.


With local expertise and a forty horse Yamaha attached to a Panga we explored even further. Taking turns on the bow we cheered each other on and scanned the water for fish. Shots at bonefish, barracuda, tarpon and permit filled our days. Cold beers quenched our thirst and the living was easy.


Mostly we enjoyed each others company. It had been years since we’d done a trip together. Families and a couple thousand miles had made getting together difficult. But this time around my brother was not to be deterred. Defending his dissertation the day before we left and with an Ivy league teaching position awaiting him this summer he had earned a vacation. I was honored he asked me to join him.


We fished till dark most nights. The sun sank early at our modest latitude and we’d cook burritos over the stove top, debrief the day and then sit on the porch listing to the sounds of the ocean. Satiated  and far from the distractions of our computers and cell phones, we’d hit the sack early and press repeat. It couldn’t have been better.





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