Ripe, red coffee and blood on the deck
The not-so-nice scent of rotting fruit from the nearby Coopeatenas coffee processing plant, the Benificio Diamonte, let me know that harvest had begun. Not in a big time way yet, jut small amounts selectively picked as bushes with a little too much sun for this altitude ripened. But it has to be picked; green to yellow to orangish to red and then brown and down on the ground and lost. Don Ramon and young David had picked the little ripened fruit on Finca Zacatal, only two cajuelas – maybe forty pounds. But like a Beaujolais Nouveau, the first fruit of the season carries a certain excitement.
I was just putting the half-full sack in the back of my Montero when a huge Ford pickup pulled into Casi el Cielo. My fishing companion stuck his head out the window and yelled “Come on, let’s go: it’s time to put the Montauk in the water.” He had added a smaller boat to his adventure armada, a 17 foot , center console, walk around Boston Whaler. So the coffee moved from my car to his and then to the
Beneficio San Isidro, where, after Jose and I shared lots of fishing stories with Rolando Rojas, it began the fermentation, cleaning, drying, husk removal, pre-roasting, roasting and packaging that puts in on our shelves.
Puntarenas and the
Jowen taught me the instruments and controls and the channels and obstructions as we high propped out to deeper water, but soon we were on plane and zipping toward the fishing grounds. Working birds disclosed fish feeding at the surface and we slowed, stopped and cast metal jigs at the diminishing boil. As fast as the fish showed they departed. I was so excited being back on the water that I cannot tell you how long the run to the Negritas took, but it wasn’t long, and a few minutes after getting there we switched to white, red head, five inch Rapalas and were trolling around the island just off the rocks. We were in the Pacific; the little chain of islands including Tortugero and the Negritas is where the blue ocean and the brownish green Gulf of Nicoya
Roosterfish, pargo, grouper, dorado, sierra mackerel, jurel or jack and even the occasional wahoo or sailfish were possibilities. Rod holders had not been installed so it was only possible to fish one rod at a time, so under the guise of wanting to test the boat and all components (but really more interested in my getting a fish) we steered clear of the rocks and slow trolled keeping an eye on the fish finder for water depth and for the
small and larger blips on the screen indicating baitfish and under them – game fish. Each time we passed over schools of baitfish the skipper would then see larger fish images and command, “Two hands tight on that gear Martin, that’s a thousand dollars you are holding and there are fish down there capable of ripping it overboard.” White knuckled I waited while the end of the G. Loomis rod vibrated the Rapala dance. Rainy season. Too many previous moonlit nights. Middle of the day. Quien sabé? But a couple of hours of trolling produced only one small Spanish Mackerel, a beautiful little fish, and the one which christened the deck with its bright red blood. The dock boys would enjoy this fish for dinner. It fought well but was no match for the gold anodized Calcutta
I had taken the helm after clearing port on the way out, but was tired from the constant movement of the boat and the toll that that takes on your legs as you stand bent kneed and bowlegged struggling for balance, so Jowen “drove” back. He loves this little boat and pushed it to the limits as we flew over the slight chop and in between the winter wood in the water.
In the center of the Gulf, Birds! We stopped as the few birds of earlier had grown to hundreds and the surface was broken in bands thirty feet by thirty yards as some unknown predators slashed at baitfish driven to the surface. Again metal was tossed to them and this time we were both hooked up to the hard fighting Jack known locally as Jurel. Ten/twelve pounds each they were a good fight and there were thousand of them within casting distance. We cast, hooked up, fought and landed or released as many as we had the arm and leg strength for. The school would veer away, break up and then re-group as we fought the hooked ones. A short run to where they resurfaced and we were hooked up again. It was the largest school of feeding game fish I have ever seen and what fun. Four went into the ice chest and the rest swim to grow and wait for our return.
Over spicy lemon shrimp soup and beers at Restaurante Leda in Mata Limon we exchanged views of photos on our digital cameras and told stories of fishing past and future.
From coffee harvest to café con leche at sunset at the beach, with singing reels and pounding waves in between – just another average day in Costa Rica
g. martin lively
