Planning a trip is always an exciting exercise, and at the same time a stressful one. You’re always full of doubts; uncertainty is always a travel companion. When Leti and I started putting the pieces of the trip together, we knew we had to try our luck with tarpon, but fitting a fishing day into a 2,000‑km journey across Costa Rica wasn’t going to be easy. In the end, we decided to start on the Caribbean coast and begin our adventure in search of the silver king.
The Caribbean is an incomparable place, with a landscape beauty almost unimaginable to European eyes. The jungle spills onto white beaches and turquoise waters. Life can be felt, heard, and seen everywhere you look. The culture of its people — the way they relate to each other and live in harmony with such exuberant nature — is admirable. Maybe that’s the secret behind their contagious happiness and kindness: living with and according to nature, not against it.
On the afternoon of our arrival, we headed to the soda run by our guide, Wuacho. There, while enjoying a good casado and a cold Imperial, he gave us the first details about fishing in the area and what we could expect. It had been a strange season, with an excessively rough sea and very few calm days. The storms hadn’t shown up yet, and the rivers and lagoons hadn’t burst open, so there wasn’t much baitfish around and the tarpon were quite elusive. Despite the sea conditions, we agreed to meet at dawn the next day, hoping the waves wouldn’t keep us from going out.
It wasn’t the best night of my life, honestly. Or maybe it was — I don’t know. It’s something I miss at home. Spending so many days a year on the river means I no longer lose sleep the night before a fishing trip like I did as a kid. But when traveling, exploring new destinations in search of new species, those feelings come back. Blessed insomnia.
We crossed the reef that protects the mooring area while the first rays of sunlight still colored the mist created by the waves crashing against small islets. On the way to the fishing grounds, we had the chance to ride alongside dolphins and manatees, while Wuacho told us curiosities about the local wildlife. The ride felt short, and soon we reached the mouth of a lagoon that was currently closed to the sea. We tested the area with a few warm‑up casts while Leti, Wuacho, and I strained our eyes looking for any sign of activity, but time passed and only a distant dolphin gave us a small scare.
We changed spots, and the pattern repeated. I had to make more and more effort not to end up in the water. Casting from the bow of a boat being rocked by two‑meter waves is a great balance exercise. We saw a couple of splashes that put us on alert, but still no connection with any fish.
While cooling off with an Imperial, Wuacho and I talked about flies and leaders. In a moment he built an entirely new leader, using knots that for a freshwater rookie like me felt like a whole different world: biminis, slim beauties, double 8s… With that setup, I’d bet an arm you could tow a tanker. We chose one of the new patterns Nacho Heredero designed for the trip and returned to the first spot, hoping the change in tide and currents had brought some fish into range.
Wuacho and Leti took turns with the spinning rod, and I kept insisting with the intermediate line and the purple/chartreuse combo. The sun was beating down hard, and Wuacho worked to keep the boat as close to the break as possible, avoiding any wave catching us off guard. He explained that in that area, the current running parallel to the shore creates a whirlpool and mixes the waters, trapping shrimp — and when that happens, tarpon gather. It didn’t seem to be the day: no birds, no baitfish, and not even the occasional jack.
I had to blink five times, close my eyes, and open them again — but yes, I was seeing it. In line with the boat, just a few meters away, coming out of the transition zone where the waters mixed, I saw a tarpon just centimeters below the surface. It was coming straight at us.
I stripped in as fast as I could, praying I’d have time to present the fly even once. The fish accelerated when it felt the wake and turned. With barely three meters of line out of the rod, I placed the fly a meter ahead of it. I was terrified — I knew there wouldn’t be another chance, and I hate presenting so close to the rod tip. I wasn’t going to have enough tension to set the hook hard with my elbow, and these fish have steel mouths.
I made the first strip and everything happened too fast. The fish turned, opened its mouth, and jumped — all in one movement, in a fraction of a second. I strip‑set as hard as I could and hit it with the rod with everything I had.
I started dancing around, feeling the coils of line piled under my feet. I jumped while trying to clear them into the reel and control the line going out. Soon I got control and the reel began to scream. I tightened the drag all the way, and it still kept running.
The fish jumped 100 meters away from us.
The first minutes were pure adrenaline and fun. Then the hard work began. For more than an hour and a half, I twisted and fought against a fish that had the initiative at every moment. I went through every possible mood: I laughed, I got angry, I got anxious, I relaxed, I got a rush every time I managed to get all the backing back on the reel, followed by a crash when the fish took 100 meters again like nothing. Leti kept me focused the whole time.
I asked for water, for juice, for a candy, I sat down, stood up, asked them to pour water over me. And above all, I got tired. I couldn’t feel my forearm, my wrist hurt like hell — both wrists, because I no longer knew which arm to hold the rod with.
After an hour, I had several bruises on my stomach from bracing the rod butt.
Wuacho handled the boat masterfully. He made things much easier for me, but the fish refused to leave the current and head into open sea. There were moments that felt endless, with the fish pinned in the middle of the current, and I thought it had wrapped itself around an anchor and was laughing at me. Finally, we made the only possible decision: if we couldn’t get out to open water, we’d take it to the beach.
From the beach, after an hour and forty minutes, Wuacho finally managed to grab it. I don’t know what I felt in that moment. I suppose relief — plain and simple.
When the fish swam off, I walked toward Leti. I hugged her and cried. I think she was happier than I was. I was exhausted, and what filled me the most was having shared it with her.
Back on land, enjoying the pelicans, the dolphins, and the wind on my face again, I started to savor it. It’s an incredible feeling. A dream fulfilled.