Mahahual Y Bacalar

The open wounds on Brady’s feet were starting to leak clear fluid into the nylon Chaco straps as most of the blood had washed into the crystal clear Mexican ocean. Somehow he had forgotten his wading shoes ninety miles away at the cabana on the edge of the Bacalar Lagoon. But the fish were here, somewhere. We just had to keep casting through the wind and the pain.

That morning as the sun peaked over the spectacularly blue yet choppy lagoon all the birds in the forest announced their love (or disdain) for one another in the loudest cacophony of birdsong imaginable. No level of Mexican tequila hangover would let us sleep through what the call of nature was throwing at our ears, so we pulled on soggy beach clothes while the smoke from a wood fire wafted through the jungle.

The two twenty-something indigenous Mayan cooks were building a simple yet incredible breakfast over open flame as their ancestors had done for eons. Our canned refried beans we had picked up in Tulum were sneered at as if it was dog food while they mashed fresh black beans into a savory paste. These two happy people had a dusty Honda motorcycle that was constantly on the fritz, but bounced day after day over bone jarring limestone forest roads so they could prepare meals for thankful sunburned gringos like ourselves.

In a one room cabana over the crumbling concrete boat ramp, a colorful old ex-pat with long grey hair and more energy than she should’ve had at her age became our unpaid guide to Bacalar, Mexico. The few brief conversations we had with her ranged from the cost of doing business in Mexico to the best local restaurants to tipping etiquette, to which boat service we should take into the lagoon. She had lived in the Yucatan for decades and had a lifetime of stories she could’ve filled a library with. What she had to say about these beautiful small-statured Mayan who prepared meals and endlessly raked the fallen branches from the property was eye-opening and angering.

She said the indigenous in the Yucatan were blatantly racially discriminated against and weren’t allowed to bring home a certain amount of money without being heavily taxed. They, similar to our United States indigenous tribes, were looked down upon and had the thumb of the government holding them down. Therefore instead of paying her employees in pesos, she would buy them items, like scooters, that were considered gifts, and couldn’t be taxed.

That morning after spicy chorizo and eggs, fresh fruit, and scratch tortillas we loaded up our families into a van that had been through the ringer and started through the jungle towards the quirky port town of Mahahual. Our flats guide would be waiting under the lighthouse, heavy rods rigged with crab patterns sure to be swallowed by bonefish, permit, and everything else the big blue ocean could provide. As we drove through miles of mangroves a text popped up from our trusty guide saying the ocean would be unfishable. Yes, the wind was at 20 knots. Yes, there were going to be waves. No, we weren’t phased.

Mahahual is a port town next to the Costa Maya Cruise Port. Little shops sell a repetition of useless items to chubby cruisers such as wood carved flutes shaped like penises. But the margaritas are strong and plentiful. A heavy concrete pier reaches out into deep water where a cruise ship was making its approach. As we piled out of the rusty van with gear, kids, and positive vibes the goliath boat made a U-turn and headed back to the open ocean. They decided crashing a cruise ship full of portly tourists into a pier wasn’t worth the risk. Most people would have called that a sign it might be too windy. We, on the other hand, rigged up our 9 weights and drove down a sandy road until the water looked promising and the sargassum wasn’t shoulder deep.

I had strapped on my trail running shoes (I’ve never run a trail in) while Brady cursed from the other side of the squeaky van. After tearing the whole land ship apart searching for his wading shoes, he decided his Chacos would work just fine in the sandy flats. It was a decision his feet would hate him for. The salty spray in the wind hit us in the face as we tiptoed over the gnat-covered beach seaweed and depressing plastic debris.

The warm thigh deep ocean would surely hold all the fish we had become accustomed to people hoisting jubilantly into the air on the internet. We worked our way down the flats squinting for dark shapes and blind casting with the wind at our backs, just hoping at that point. Then out of nowhere there was a sharp black fin swimming toward Brady’s location 50 yards away. I yelled through the howling wind “SHARK!”

I assumed it wouldn’t attack, but how would I know what mood it was in? We are used to fishing for harmless trout or carp that don’t have several layers of razor sharp teeth. Getting through the coral and waves to shore was out of the question, so we chose to stand our ground.

Yet as the fish approached, we realized this wasn’t some small version of Jaws, but a Permit. Then there were two. Yes, the shiny silver wide-bodied fish from the Internet! I pulled a good cast out of my ass but definitely the wrong fly in front of the lead fish, stripped six inches, and moved this phantom of the flats just enough that my entire body seized up in anticipation. It turned away and swam toward deeper water but not any faster. My next cast into the wind landed square on its head and sent the very big fish bolting for the Gulf of Mexico. As it torpedoed away I saw its big black eye look up at me as if to say, “You’d have better luck drinking a margarita on the beach with your wife, playing a dick flute.” My hands were trembling.

Five or six hours later we stumbled out of the van at the lighthouse overlooking the endless ocean. Brady could hardly walk. It looked like someone had taken a belt sander to his feet and he tiptoed down the sidewalk like he was on hot coals. Smiling the whole time.

In the shade of swaying palm trees strung out among a sea of empty tables typically filled with cruise ship tourists were our families. Every kid with fully braided hair, sunburned, and wives loaded on margaritas. DIY Mexican flats fishing at its best.