My fishing guides know my ever-growing list of esteemed lost fish, incredible dreams hooked and lost, each in their own dramatic fashion. Giant Tevally, Peacock Bass, Payara, Tarpon (oh the sheer number of lost tarpon) — this list is long. But, the prehistoric beast in this photo missed the list and reminded me why I fish — to clean my soul, refresh my aura and make tales.
The night before I landed this 26+ pound tiger fish in Tanzania, a pride of lions back-roared through our camp at 3:46 am and lingered for another twenty minutes, their angry breaths followed their shadows along my tent walls, ending my restful sleep. I reached for my In-reach and cranked up my phone to send Britt my usual “Morning sunshine. I love you text.” Why do I hate my phone? It delivers almost as much bad information as good, and, this morning, it was bad. Really bad. I had a problem back in the States I needed to resolve.
The plan for that day was to fish with Matilda, walking the riverbanks with our guide, Ryan, and a professional hunter who was there to protect us from cape buffalos, elephants, hippos and crocodiles as we stalked the bush along the river’s edge — the watering hole for these big five killers. The news I’d received that morning possessed my thoughts and by the time breakfast was over, I’d resolved not to fish that day. I was shook by the news and determined to solve the problem. Matilda talked me into taking my gear and I set out with her, Ryan and the PH.
Most of the morning, I lazed on the riverbank watching Matilda’s effortless fishing. She asked me at every jungle opening if I wanted to cast until she demanded I cast at the next clearing after declaring she would not fish again until I did. She knew I was upset and handled me with kid gloves until she grew tired of my shit. “Let’s go. Make a cast. Catch a monster.”
I capitulated. I hadn’t solved my problem but the allure of the river flushed it from my mind, as we approached the most cast-friendly jungle opening we had yet visited. I loaded my rod and hauled a decent cast. It was in the right direction but was a little short of the distance I wanted. My disappointment exploded in the ether when I made my first strip. I felt the tiger’s strength and weight as it ran upstream and across the river to the opposite bank. The four of us knew from the splash and subsequent hole in the river’s surface, we had a beast on the hook.
Unfortunately, so did a fifteen foot crocodile sunning on the opposite bank, who sprang in pursuit of the hooked tiger fish. The PH moved to the edge of the river and leveled his AK-47 sights between the crocs eyes. As I reeled the trophy tiger to us pulling the croc along with it, I eased away from the bank, shaking as much from the size of the fish as from the menace of the approaching croc.
The PH crouched and firmed his stance, as Ryan braved the bank’s edge with his net, one eye on the fish and one on the approaching croc. I eased further up the bank and warned Ryan he was too close to the edge and the croc, now five meters away. The PH shuffled his stance, readying himself to fire, clicking off the safety on his assault rifle. I am convinced Ryan scooped the fish out of the jaws of the croc a millisecond before the PH pulled the trigger, saving the fish from the croc and the croc from the PH.
I didn’t make another cast that day. I felt Nature’s serendipity blessed me with a tale and a fish of a lifetime. As Matilda says, “when it’s your fish; it’s you fish.” Any other cast would disrespect the fishing gods. At lunch camp, Ryan dubbed me “One Cast Ronnie.” He wasn’t the first to give me that moniker.
Stay tuned for the vignette of the first time a guide called me One Cast Ronnie.
