By Ethan Denault
By the third morning in Cuba, I understood that everyone had lied.
The magazines lied. The fishing lodge lied. Even the old guy at the fly shop in the Catskills, who leaned across the counter like he was passing along nuclear launch codes, had lied.
“Those fish are communists,” the old man said. “They eat what’s put in front of them.”
He couldn’t have been more wrong. The fish had the anxiety level of people trying to merge onto the New Jersey Turnpike for the first time. Every cast that landed six inches off sent an entire school vanishing into water so shallow it seemed physically impossible to disappear.
Rogelio, our guide, never complained. He looked where the fish had been, then back at me.
“Otra vez.” He motioned with his hand. “Again.”
He was probably 60, though Cuba seemed to compress ages together. Everybody looked weathered but strangely durable, as if surviving shortages for decades functioned like CrossFit.
“Otra vez,” he said.
I cast.
The fly landed with enough grace to convince me I’d finally figured something out.
The fish bolted.
Rogelio smiled politely.
“Otra vez.”
Best Laid Plans
Back home, I’d spent months preparing for this trip.
I’d bought a fly rod that cost more than the Honda Civic I’d driven through college. Watched instructional videos featuring handsome men who never seemed to sweat. Practiced double hauls in the backyard while my wife watered tomatoes and carefully avoided making eye contact.
“You look good,” she’d called through the screen door once.
I nodded without taking my eyes off the line.
Three months later she asked if we should separate.
The timing felt unrelated until I realized she’d probably been deciding for years while I’d been researching tropical fly patterns.
Mend the Line
Lunch happened on a tiny island made mostly of sand and stubborn bushes. Rogelio unpacked sandwiches wrapped in newspaper. An old radio played music that dissolved into static every few minutes before finding itself again.
I asked him if he’d always been a guide.
“No.”
“What did you do before?”
He looked out across the flats.
” Ingeniero.”
“Really?”
He shrugged. “Si.”
Then he laughed. Apparently, that was all there was to say about it.
The lodge had eight American fishermen. At dinner they talked exclusively about equipment. One man delivered a TED Talk on the proper spacing between crab flies in a permit box. Another insisted the entire trip would come down to leader length.
Everyone claimed not to care how many fish they’d caught. Everyone knew exactly how many everyone else had caught.
There was something deeply comforting about this. Men could transport themselves to an island 90 miles from America but still find a way to recreate the atmosphere of a suburban homeowners’ association.
Competition was apparently our most portable cultural export.
Shallow Water
On the fifth day we found tarpon. Not giant ones. Maybe 40, 50, pounds. Still enough to make your pulse rearrange itself.
Rogelio spotted them first.
” Ahí.”
I saw nothing.
” Ahí.”
Still nothing.
Then the water shifted almost imperceptibly, like someone breathing beneath a blanket.
I cast. Too far. Again. Too short. Again. The third cast landed perfectly.
One strip. Two.
One second there was only water. The next there was a fish. For three glorious seconds I became the fisherman I’d imagined during all those evenings in the backyard.
The line came tight.
The tarpon exploded into the air.
I shouted something embarrassingly triumphant.
Then I trout-set.
Years spent wading upstate New York trout streams had programmed my muscles with all the permanence of childhood trauma.
The fly shot back toward the boat. The tarpon vanished.
Silence.
Finally Rogelio said, very gently, “Muy rápido, amigo.”
Then, in English: “Let him eat.”
Day Becomes the Night
That night the power went out. Nobody seemed surprised. The bartender continued pouring rum in darkness. People drifted outside carrying drinks because there wasn’t anything else to do.
Without electricity the stars became aggressively visible.
One of the Texans started talking politics. Nobody joined him.
I found Rogelio sitting near the dock smoking.
“I’m still kicking myself over that damn tarpon,” I said.
He shrugged.
“Mañana.”
“You think we’ll find another?”
He looked out at the water.
“Siempre.”
“And catch it?”
A smile crept across his face.
“Eso es diferente, amigo.”
He took a slow drag on his cigarette and let the smoke drift toward the water.
Qué Lindo, Amigo
On the final morning we never found tarpon. Instead, we spent hours following schools of bonefish across endless white flats.
The wind stayed manageable. The light stayed perfect. The fish remained just difficult enough to keep hope alive.
Late in the afternoon I finally hooked one. Nothing dramatic.
Just a respectable 5-pound fish that ran exactly the way bonefish are supposed to, burning backing off the reel while Rogelio laughed louder than I had heard all week.
When I released it, the fish paused for a heartbeat before disappearing.
Gone. Like it’d never existed.
Rogelio eased the skiff toward the marina. Across the water, Havana shimmered in the last orange light, its faded buildings softened by distance.
I thought about my wife packing boxes while I chased fish in a country I’d romanticized mostly because it had once been difficult to reach.
Then I heard her again, calling from the screen door.
“Want a beer?”
“In a minute.” The cast unrolled in a tight loop, stopping just short of the tallest tomato plant. The screen door eased shut.
Rogelio cut the engine just outside the marina and let the boat drift.
The water flattened until sky and sea became nearly indistinguishable.
He nodded toward the horizon.
“Qué lindo, amigo.”
He said it the way he’d pointed out fish all week.
I looked.
Across the water, Havana was disappearing into another rolling blackout.
I watched until the last lights were gone.
