Peacock BassTards

We were considerably entertained at the evening meal by the two gentlemen who rounded out the camp’s compliment of anglers. They were from Wyoming and appeared to be the closest of old hunting and fishing buddies who had reached that stage of friendship where loyalty was unquestioned. Theirs was the type of relationship that lends itself to inoffensive, but intense, good natured ribbing. Some might even consider it insulting. When Tom informed the other guests at the dinner table of the particularly poor day of fishing his friend Gary endured, Gary was quick to explain, as gently as possible, that Tom was actually in the early stages of Alzheimer’s disease. In a touching display of kindness, he further explained that he had actually signed Tom out of the long term care facility where he lived to make this trip.

This revelation, of course, resulted in loud and prolonged laughter from the rest of us. All of Tom’s rebuttals and explanations were sensitively dismissed by Gary as further evidence of his friend’s tragic disease. Once the Scotch bottle had been nearly emptied, all returned to their tents for a few hours rest in preparation for the following days battles. Fishing the next day was made a little more interesting by Jerry’s suggestion that each man add five dollars to a pool to be given to the guide whose anglers caught the most and the largest fish each day. Whether you’re in Vegas, or deep in the Amazon, some things just never change. We slipped into slumber, visions of peacocks dancing in our heads.

The 5:30 AM door knock seemed strangely appropriate the following morning. I would not have been more refreshed had I spent the night at the Ritz, but this clearly was NOT the Ritz. I’m not certain how many stars our accommodations might have rates- perhaps one dwarf star. Breakfast was dispatched without incident and soon after, rods, flies, cameras, and anglers were stowed aboard guide boats and we were off seeking adventures unknown in the reaches of the Amazonian forest. Temperatures settled at the ninety degree mark and not a cloud was to be found. I had already begun to wonder why I bothered to bring my raincoat, a waste of valuable baggage space it now seemed. Though it had never left my bag, it had seemed completely incongruous to not bring a raincoat to the rainforest.

My fishing partner for the day was Jim Barnett. A natural athlete and former college football star, he was an expert with both fly rod and bait caster. This day, his sights seemed set on size. He mostly eschewed the fly rod and selected the more effective plug technique. He primarily used the peacock bass fishing version of weapons of mass destruction known as the Yo-Zuri Crystal Minnow. Indeed, it appeared that no peacock within three miles was immune to the darting and diving movements of this seductress.

Jim’s plan proved productive, as the very first stretched the Boga to a very hefty eighteen pounds. My vigorous congratulations concealed my overwhelming inner desire to catch one of similar size. It needn’t be larger, just close- something to get me into the Holy of Holies of the peacock bass fishing world. I hungered to gain some degree of respect from my peers at the dinner table back at camp. Deep within, I wanted to be among the anointed ones, but dared not speak this dark desire.

The Amazon completely lived up to its billing. Everywhere we directed our gaze, new wonders greeted our eyes. In the water, freshwater pink dolphin rolled and snorted. These large mammals looked very much like the Atlantic bottle nosed dolphin so familiar from our home waters, yet here we were some twenty-five hundred miles from saltwater. Giant river otters, some reaching six feet in length frolicked at river’s edges. Overhead, gaudily colored macaws, like flying circus clowns, crisscrossed the river. Ah, life in the wild was indeed good.

We soon discovered that bringing large numbers of peacocks to hand necessitated the fly rod, but the larger specimens responded better to diving swim baits. Jim and I, interestingly, caught an eighteen pounder each, and together, brought to the boat an even one hundred fish that day.

We thrived on the challenge of getting flies and plugs as close as possible to the bank or brush without actually entangling our lines, an occurrence causing some consternation in our guide. Unavoidably, many hang-ups amongst the branches occurred. We rationalized by telling the guide that we were actually attempting to entice the aruana to leap from the water to grab our flies or plugs. It remained entirely unclear if Reynaldo bought our explanations, but it did make assuage our guilt from so many errant casts.

A long ten hour day on the water resulted a leader board showing one hundred total fish, two eighteen pounders, two thirteen pounders, and ninety six lesser fish. Appropriate pixel proof had been provided at the scene of the crime, and when the five PM alarm rang on the guide’s wristwatch, we were whisked right away to the camp.

Hurried inquiries followed our arrival back at camp. “How many did you catch?” “How big were they” “Are you sure you read the Boga correctly?” “What lure and what flies did you use?” I felt like a true expert, petitioned for advice from those lesser successful. After all, we had had a terrific day. We even had photographic documentation of our claims. That made us the experts of the minute. “Jim, what about this?” “James, what about that?” Very heady stuff for me- being held in such regard by guys who I knew to be the real expert fishermen. Despite the fact that we had used a borrowed lure, I basked in this temporary glory. Earned or not, I hoped our reign remained unusurped tomorrow evening. After all, it is good to be the king, even if just for a single day.

Day four began routinely, with my good friend and fishing confidante Mike Barnett joining me in the boat with guide E-saiah. He brought the sad looking Tohatsu to life with a sputter and we made for parts unknown. Without a GPS or even a map, he could have been taking us anywhere. I certainly would not have known. The weather remained hot. Even this early, the heat was beginning to fall on us from above and creep in from the edges of the forest. The cool breeze from the boat’s forward thrust cooled our skins, while the equatorial sun burned mercilessly above.

Our destination proved to be Peacockville, like Margaritaville in the old Buffet song, a magical place not found on any map or GPS. This spot sported no frozen concoctions, but did have an abundance of those fish of many colors I had come to love so much. Displaying his absolutely uncanny fish catching ability, Mike immediately put a lovely fifteen pounder in the boat. He was throwing a borrowed Yo-Zuri diving minnow, the magic bullet for this trip. It had proven itself worth ten times its weight in any substance you would care to name. It turned out that the sole possessors of this charm were the two gentlemen from Wyoming, Tom and Gary. Fortunately, their gregariousness was exceeded only by their generosity. They had supplied each boat with a single example of this lure, to be used until lost or broken. They even did it totally gratis. It was this wondrous lure which had captured Mike’s fifteen pound specimen, and later, a magnificently colored giant of some eighteen and a half pounds. After that catch, I finally deduced the derivation of the word “Yo-Zuri”. It was apparent that the name literally translated from the Japanese, means “Peacock Magnet”. After I had landed a few larger fish and began to appreciate its unique capabilities, I began to refer to it as “My Precious”, though I did refrain from sleeping underground and eating raw fish, a la Gollum.

We now faced a terrible dilemma. We had three basic choices- we could use the arm and

We now had a damaged lure with no possibility of repair. Surprisingly, when I tested its swimming action, it was nearly indistinguishable from the original’s. We soldiered on with “My Precious”, and landed quite a few more fish- enough for a grand total of seventy five fish for the day. Alas, none of my fish exceeded six pounds. I rationalized to Mike that the “grande” peacocks he caught were the result of having used an intact lure. We both recognized the fallacy of that argument.

As the day neared an end, we worked up a narrow lake off the main river. The water was clear as a Bahamas flat and we caught a few fish as we approached the corner area. Ahead, we saw a very large dark shape in the water. We thought maybe it could be the mother of all peacocks, but as we got closer, it was a moderate sized Cayman, lying motionless on the bottom. He seemed unperturbed by the boat or by us, and came floating to the surface. Mike had the fly rod in his hand, and a smallish fly attached to thirty pound Maxima leader material. He nonchalantly cast to the Cayman to see what response he might get. The Cayman refused the fly, instead beginning a slow motion swim to the bank. Mike cast again, but this time his fly stuck in the big reptile’s tail. The Cayman, for his part, remained completely unaware that he was now tied fast to a fly rod. Mike gave him a tug, but the Cayman flipped his tail in a single powerful stroke and the Maxima snapped like a pine branch in a hurricane. I wondered what the world record for Cayman on thirty pound line might be as we cranked up and turned towards the lowering sun, and camp.


..to be continued.

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Peacock BassTards (Part 2) by James Yates MD This article is copyright protected.