SPORTING CLIVE GAMMON
`For the serious sportfishing,' a German said to me once, 'what you need is the tiny boat and the huge fish.' That seemed a pretty superficial view to me. I've always known instinctively that the serious sport fishing re- quires the full set of oilskins, the three sweaters, the steady drizzle and a Scotsman telling you the river's all gone to hell lately. And as for all that fishing in the sun—I've had my share of it and it's not serious. More like some kind of pleasure, if you ask me, lying back in the fighting chair with nothing to do except work another dollop of Copper- tone into your nicely browning legs until one of the crew boys brings you a well-iced Pimm's or some ridiculous 500-lb marlin grabs the bait. Serious fishing is getting back to a Devon hotel, dripping wet, with three trout barely over the six-inch limit in your creel after a long day, and being told that dinner finished at 8.30 pm.
So when I heard about this trip to Mexico last month, I merely noted that I would miss the opening day of the salmon season—fit- tingly blank, it's been, for the last five years —and packed my suntan lotion, anticipating a few undemanding days in the sun with pro- fessional guides doing most of the work. `Comfortable arrangements,' the brochure promised, going on about complimentary wine and the most delicious food in the whole of Yucatan. Fishing would take place in the Yu Yum Laguna, it said.
Well, really, what kind of Disneyland nonsense was this? The Yu Yum Laguna? Somebody was clearly pulling a fast one, and the essential non-seriousness of the operation was emphasised for me when the three American friends who had set up the trip and who would be fishing with me said that nothing would he lost if we stopped over at Miami Beach for the night on the way south so that we could make a pilgrimage to Joe's Stone Crab Restaurant.
The stone crabs, delicious as they were. turned out to be only a minor part of the entertainment. Next morning I barely appreciated the experience of visiting a fish- ing tackle supermarket in the city, and barely survived the final bucking flight in a single-engined Cessna which took us from Cozumel island in Mexico to the fishing camp at Pez Maya, where the welcoming cocktail, as advertised, came close to being the last straw. But anyway, I thought, could now retire for the rest of the day in my individual cottage with patio overlooking the ever-blue Caribbean (see brochure).
Certainly not. It began to dawn on me that, sun or not, the Americans I was with had every intention of fishing seriously from that very minute, though they must have been as incapacitated as I was. What is more, the craft that awaited us were-not the gleam- ing fifty-foot cruisers with luxurious cabin accommodation that I had anticipated. Instead, we were provided with sixteen-foot skiffs, and the only assistance Mayan Indians to pole us along through the shallow waters of the Yu Yum Laguna.
Somehow, the afternoon passed. By next day, though. I was more able to appreciate that the fishing was, in spite of my preju- dices, of a high order of seriousness. And this was my experience too in the days that followed.
Each morning we started at dawn, the guide poling us over the flats of ginger-ale- coloured water. As the sun came up, through Polaroid glasses it was possible to observe a great variety of fish, as in an aquarium. Sting rays exploded under our bows, barracuda hung suspended, small sharks up to seven or eight feet long sulkily moved out of our way. We were after none of these, though. Our primary quarry was a fish, almost unheard of in Britain : the permit. It's an odd-looking creature, slab-sided, high-foreheaded with a mouth like a discontented duchess's, but it has superb angling qualities. Very difficult to catch, to start with. You have to stalk your permit in the clear shallows and drop your line with great precision in its feeding path —but not too close. In five days' fishing our party took only three and this, my friends told me, was an above-average rate of scoring. Permit also have great speed and stamina. A fifteen-pounder took more than half an hour to land—compare this with the usual one-minute-per-pound allowed for salmon.
Clearly, only one thing was lacking to make this trip as serious as any I have ex- perienced. If I ever go back to Pez Maya, it will be during the rainy season.
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