A Snook Hunt Along The Shores Of The Spanish Main

Toward nightfall the Don Huacho II turned up, and the next morning the seas were calm as we weighed anchor. After some discussion Captain Martinez agreed to put us ashore at R�o Grande with provisions and pick us up again four days later. This time we hit the jackpot—or at least the fishpot. At the river's mouth we landed more than 60 snook in less than two hours.

We also had collected a group of little campa�eros who took great delight in our equipment and our activities. Cabell took one of the older boys to the village, and when they returned Cabell announced that we had a house, a cook and laundry service. The house turned out to be an empty Victorian clapboard affair with a porch on three sides—the fourth side had rotted out.

We fished at Rio Grande for three days and found two more good snook holes—one across the river and one off our side yard. The charts told us that Rio Snook was about 12 miles to the north of us, and the name beckoned. The villagers insisted it was only half the distance shown on the map—three miles to Sandy Bay (to which they could take us by boat) and then another three miles walking the beach.

We arrived at Sandy Bay at 4 in the afternoon, and figured we would walk the three miles to Rio Snook, fish until dark and walk back. The three miles turned out to be nine. Halfway there Cabell sent two of our constant campa�eros back to Sandy Bay for bread.

It was dusk when we reached our goal. The boys built a fire while we fished until dark. No fish. We sat around the fire while the oldest compa�eros, armed with a machete, scurried up a tree for coconuts. When the bread contingent arrived, we ate coconut bread, drank Coconut milk and had coconut meat for dessert.

The night was uncomfortable—too cold away from the fire and too hot next to it. I spent the last few hours of darkness sitting on a log facing the fire, forearms on my knees, head on my forearms. Our 10 little Indians, uninhibited by the reluctance of civilized men to touch each other, huddled in a cozy mass of skinny brown arms and legs.

At the first glimmer of light we waded into the inlet, reveling in the water's warmth. And there was more than warmth to be had there. There were snook. We caught several and then adjourned for breakfast. No fish ever tasted better, and the bleak mood engendered by our chilly night soon gave way to a kind of wild optimism. We were not even surprised when the Don Huacho II hove to 200 yards off the inlet. On our last two days at Rio Grande the fishing was superb. In all, we caught more than 250 snook, 50-odd jack and a dozen mackerel. None of our snook weighed more than 15 pounds, but we hooked—and lost—others that might have gone twice that. Anyway, the natives—like natives the world over—told us that it was the wrong season. September is the time for the big fish, they said—shoulder-high and "this big around."

On the way home Jim Branch started organizing a September trip.