Costa Rica Tarpon Fishing
By: Will Rice
The Road to Manzanillo -
The tarpon fishery along southeastern Costa Rica is off the radar of most fly fishers. But adventurous anglers can still find big fish and steady action on the open seas just north of Panama Dese tarpon are a mysterious feesh,” said our guide, Finias “Mushe” Agustin, as he steered our 26-foot panga back into Costa Rican waters from the inshore ofPanama. “If dey don’t get you one way, dey get you another way…but maybe not the way you thought.” Indeed, Murphy’s Law could have been written in homage to the Silver King: If anything can go wrong, it will. On a recent exploratory trip to the relatively unknown tarpon fishery at the southern end of Caribbean Costa Rica -- the Sixaola River mouth—we hooked, jumped, and fought 13 tarpon, most of which we estimated to be more than 80 pounds. However, after six full days on the water we were unable to get a single tarpon to the boat. As admittedly novice tarpon chasers, we fell victim to poor hook sets, bird-nested fly line, failed knots, spit hooks, breached reels, shattered leaders, and a general lack of experience when it came to handling such a powerful fish on light gear. But during a week in early April, two fishing buddies and I set out for the far reaches of the Costa Rican shoreline in search of relatively economical, off-the-grid adventure and a little self-study in the ways of deep Caribbean tarpon. We got more than our share of both.
The Sixaola River (pronounced “six-Ola”) is all that separates Costa Rica from Panama, an area of Central America where lush emerald rain forests collide with sweeping sand beaches. Bundled into the southeastern corner of the country, 150 miles (243 km) south of the capital city of San José, lies an unspoiled tarpon fishery that is literally and figuratively at the end of the road.
When the seas are calm and the swells are small, fly anglers can chase tarpon by panga, and the fish will aggressively take a hastily presented baitfish pattern near the water’s surface. When the fishing lights up, finning, tailing, and rolling tarpon are abundant, and the action is explosive. Every tarpon we connected with launched three or four feet out of the water before crashing back down like a bank safe hitting the calm surface of a backyard pool.
After hooking, jumping, and battling one fish that we estimated to be more than 125 pounds, the 20-pound shock leader I was using separated with a resounding pop. As I stared at the fractured and twisted leader, the voice of one of my partners crackled from the walkie-talkie in my pocket.
“That looked like a big one, what happened?” he asked. Their boat bobbed just a hundred yards away in the rolling green swells of the Caribbean. “I just got smoked.”
Keeping It Simple
The road to fly-fishing adventure in this part of the world is not an easy one, nor is it punctuated at the end with wilderness luxury. The only outfitter in the area—a minimalist angling outpost known as Tarponville Lodge—is situated on the ragged jungle edge near the bare-bones town of Manzanillo. After a nearly fivehour drive from the capital of San José, the sand road dead-ends at a small lagoon stream that can be crossed by foot only. There it’s time to roll up your pants, throw your gear into a wheel barrel, and start down the trail. The smell of wet rain forest hangs heavy in the air, and howler monkeys roar nearby in the jungle canopy.
The owner, Jim DiBeradinis from Bozeman, Montana, purchased Tarponville Lodge and began training local fishermen in the nuances of guiding fly anglers in 2001. His hope was to help inject the local economy with the dollars he believed sport fisherman would spend to visit this unique fishery. By teaching the guides how to tie a few knots, build a shock leader, and the basics of marine conservation, Jim was able to create a strong bench of local guides to support his operation in a manner that was a win–win for the fishing camp and the village. All the guides spoke English, all showed up on time, and they fished us hard and were eager to try different strategies.
“One thing I was told a long time ago, and that I believe very strongly, is the importance of integrating the local community into this type of business,” says DiBeradinis. “When I first started fishing in Manzanillo, these guys who would take me out were subsistence fisherman—they dove for lobsters when the water was clear and hand-lined for snapper and jacks when it wasn’t. When we started fishing with fly tackle, we were going out in dugout canoes with 25 horsepower outboards. It was actually kind of scary out there on the water.”
Local economic development for the village was always something DiBeradinis wanted to integrate into the operations of the lodge. “In addition to fly fishing, one aspect I tried to promote to the guides was to start thinking like independent businessmen. With some of the income they’ve received from guiding they have been able to upgrade their boats and other gear. So far, things have been working out quite well for everyone.”
The lodge itself is braided into the fabric of Manzanillo—everything is nice and simple, but don’t expect four-star pampering. The two-story wood frame house, built by local carpenters, sits under a canopy of sea almond and coconut palm trees and is less than 100 yards from beach and a coral reef. After a five-minute walk through the jungle, we were on the water each day by 6 a.m., but the fishing schedule would vary depending on the ocean’s demeanor.
After being on the water for less than 45 minutes on our first day, we promptly ran into a large school of rolling tarpon and collectively lost our minds.
“Tarpon! Tarpon! Tarpon! Right there! In front of the boat!” I yelled. A large silver-and-black dorsal fin silently rose from the depths and slipped into the green water right before my eyes. It was less than 25 feet from the boat.
Mike put out a few casts and quietly stripped line. He quickly hooked a big one and successfully cleared his fly line. After two giant crashes and a few short seconds, the fish had peeled off more than 150 yards of backing. The tarpon was heading straight for the Sixaola and the big breakers at the river’s mouth. I noticed Mike’s knuckles bleeding as the fish began pulling us toward Panama.
“Dem fish smart,” said Carlos Arthurs matter-of-factly as he fired up the 60- horsepower Yamaha and prepared to chase down the tarpon. “Dey know what dey doin’. If he gets inside dem breakers you’re done. Game over, man.”
Mike fought the big tarpon for more than 40 minutes. At one point, the fish abruptly changed direction and headed back toward the boat. He was moving fast. Mike frantically reeled and then hand-stripped his line in an attempt to keep tension on him. Again the fish changed direction and headed out with a surge of power. Then, as quickly as the fight had started, it was over. Fish off.
On the Trail of Tarpon
Large schools of migratory tarpon arrive at the mouth of the Sixaola River at the beginning of March every year. They chase huge schools of sprat and roll in calm water through the end of May. You will most likely see them where the green of the Caribbean Sea meets the brown outflow of the Sixaola. The fish return again in September and October—this time, some believe, to spawn. Where the tarpon go for the other months of the year remains a local mystery.
“After May, dey just disappear. I think dey are going up north and maybe following de bait,” said Alberto “Peck” Taylor over cold Imperial cervezas at Maxi’s Bar, the only beach saloon in the quiet town of Manzanillo. “Then, dey show up in big schools in September again.”
Kathy Guindon, assistant research scientist for the Florida Fish and Wildlife Research Institute, concurs with a portion of the local theories. Kathy specializes in tarpon biology and behavior.
“Those larger fish you were hooking into could absolutely be heading north for the Yucatán, then into the Gulf of Mexico. Tarpon are a coastal species, and once they enter the Gulf of Mexico, they may choose to follow the depth and temperature contours and currents that lead them northward just off the coast of Texas. Or, they may venture into the Loop current and head to the eastern Gulf,” said Guindon. “Those big fish that you’re seeing in Costa Rica in March and April could be the same fish that anglers are going after here in Florida starting in June.”
Jerald S. Ault, a professor of marine biology and fisheries at the University of Miami, has worked on numerous field studies to track the migratory patterns of tarpon. He has tagged tarpon with satellite tracking devices in Florida, Mexico, and as far away as Trinidad. These devices are physically appended to the fish for a period of up to 60 days, and after a timed release they can be retrieved to capture scientific data. Each tracking device measures water depth, temperature, salinity, and most important, movement.
“The one thing that we have learned is that tarpon move farther and faster than anyone has previously thought. We have data that shows some of these fish can move more than 1,500 miles in a thirty- or forty-day period,” says Ault, who is using this tracking information for conservation efforts.
“The big fish arrive here in Florida seasonally and the question has always been: Where do they go before and after Florida?” Research now suggests that the same tarpon that anglers see in the Florida Keys likely spend part of their year as far away as Mexico, Nicaruaga, and Costa Rica. “There has never been real data until now, but there was a general sense or feeling from some of the seasoned anglers that the tarpon population was on the decline.”
Ault believes that the world’s tarpon habitat is extremely interconnected. Unfortunately, when we were on the water not far from Manzanillo, we saw a number of gill-net buoys. Our guides confirmed that fishermen from the nearby city of Limón were harvesting a number of species—including tarpon.
“The catch and kill practices happening in other parts of the world, specifically in Central and South America, absolutely impact the fish populations and sport fishing economies in the United States,” concludes Ault.
B-Plans
Be warned: The big-tarpon fishing out of Manzanillo can be quite variable depending on the tide and the size of the waves. We spent a good part of our time patrolling the waters looking for fish on the surface. When we could see fish rolling, we were hooking up, and when we didn’t, we were not. All the guides agreed that the seas are the calmest in the fall months.
Unless you want to spend your time blind-casting your arm off in big rolling water, you should plan to be flexible and willing to explore other areas and species. When the seas are high and the fish are down, you can take a short drive to Cahuita National Park and walk a tidal flat in search of bonefish and permit. Just a 30-minute drive from Manzanillo, past the sleepy surf town of Puerto Viejo, lies one of Costa Rica’s smallest yet most beautiful national treasures. A 20-minute walk along a sand path hugging the surf will take you past white-faced monkeys, sloths, and the eerie growl of howler monkeys. Cahuita is also home to a 240-hectare reef that is a favorite among snorklers. There are 35 species of coral and over a 100 different species of reef fish. Although Manzanillo is not marketed as a bonefish and permit fishery, we heard enough stories from the locals to know that these fish are resident.
Another B-plan if you can’t find the big tarpon on the open seas is tucked in the jungle just a half mile south from Punta Mona (Monkey Point). Gandoca Lagoon, accessible only by boat or foot, is filled with snook and juvenile tarpon gently rolling in the glass-flat brackish waterway at almost any hour of the day. Anglers can rent kayaks for $10 a day from a local vendor near Monkey Point, but you need to be hauled in by boat and picked up later. Nonetheless, the yaks offer the perfect vehicle to stalk these fish that hunker back in the quiet red mangroves.
As another side diversion, sneak yourself into Panama for some local beers served up in the back room of Mr. Peep’s stilted farmhouse, where 220 colognes ($0.44 US) will buy you a cold Soberano cerveza. But be wary of swarms of African bees on the open water and the ever-present threat of cresting 30-foot rogue swells that would make any big-wave surfer’s mouth salivate.
There are some places on this earth that are still waiting to be fully explored and figured out if you are willing to do some exploring with your rod tube. For now, Manzanillo is one of those places. The fishery and different options are still relatively uncharted. If things can go wrong with a tarpon on your hook, they will—that is what will keep bringing us back—searching for new water and new opportunities.
For more information, please contact Jim DiBerardinis, Tarponville Lodge | | |
