The Tarpon Chronicles By Ken Anderberg The memories, and the quest, started in Cuba, at Guantanamo Bay, where an 11-year-old boy enjoyed life on a Caribbean island. Palm trees. Jungles to explore. Ocean breezes. Constantly warm weather. An ocean and all its treasures. A young boy’s paradise. And, in one instance, a young boy’s agony. Those thoughts crept into my excited brain almost as soon as the tarpon leapt from the surf. Drowsy from the midday sun and bored with the lack of action at the other end of my line, the fish awoke me abruptly, grabbing my large greenback, making a quick run and then exploding above the surface when it realized there was sharp metal piecing its tough jaws. At right, the author battles his tarpon on the beach at Longboat Key. “Oh, my God,” or something similar blurted out, at the top of my lungs. A tarpon this close to the beach, while not unheard of, had me momentarily shaken. The fish made another run, and then leapt from the shallow water again. He took that bait in two feet of water, I thought to myself as I gathered my wits, listened to the song of the drag and realized my lifelong dream was there in front of me–if only I wouldn’t panic. Looks like he’s hooked pretty good, I confided to my fears, so I just need to be calm and wear him out. It was then that I looked at my tackle and knew I had to not only be good at playing this fish but a bit of luck wouldn’t hurt, either. My Penn reel and graphite 6 ½-foot St. Croix rod were fine for fish up to the 20-pound range, as was even the 12-pound Trilene spooled to the brim, but the 60-pounder now testing my skill and tackle was in a different class of adversary. If he ran to the Gulf of Mexico, could I stop him with only 140 yards of line? With the fight under way, my thoughts went back to Cuba, of the days I would fish from the floating dock behind our house. We lived on a peninsula, with a small oval bay on either side loaded with all manner of tropical sea creatures. We would routinely catch snapper, bonefish and jack from the docks, all the while fishing with hand lines of 10-pound test monofilament. The school of tarpon seemed to always be lurking in the two bays, just three or four mid-range fish. They looked like monsters to an 11-year-old, and in my mind have increased in size over the years, but in reality they were probable in the 60- to 80-pound class. Just about the size I was battling now on a Longboat Key beach in southwest Florida. Those Cuba tarpon have dogged me for decades, particularly one incident. I had already caught a small baitfish and was swimming it out in the deep water in front of the dock, hoping the tarpon were in the area. When one picked up the bait and roared off to the middle of the bay, I was ready, having been steeled and tutored by numerous failings previously. This time, I told my young self, I know what to do. This time the fish is mine. That long-ago monster lunged into its aerial acrobats three times before I was able to turn it around, eventually bringing it close enough to the dock to attempt to net it. That idea seems ludicrous now, but a boy does not often see the impossibility of the task, only the optimistic outcome. As the fish swam closer, the 50 yards of hand line that had been used on its run fell to the dock’s deck, under foot for both me and my younger brother, who was wielding a net that had no chance of holding such a fish. Nevertheless, Duane poked it into the water in the opening of the dock’s rail and attempted to scoop up a fish that was at least as big as he was. Now, any experienced angler knows that such a fish will have another run in it when confronted by the sight of a net, boat or people. This one was no different. It left like a freight train, the fallen line zinging back out into the bay. Until, that is, it snapped. To this day, I do not know whether it was my foot or Duane’s that was on the line, causing it to break. And causing my heart to break. I never had another shot at those Cuban tarpon, but here I was, decades later, finally with a chance for redemption for an 11-year-old boy with unfulfilled dreams. The tarpon I had always chased was finally within my grasp, if only I could conquer my fears and the inadequate tackle I was using. At least, I thought, I might be able to wear him down if he stays parallel to the beach. My tarpon jumped again. And again. Six times in total. Each jump was both exhilarating and worrisome. Would he spit out the hook? Break the line? My rod doubled over and I hoped for the best as fish and fisherman battled for 30 minutes. Within minutes of the hookup, people on the beach took notice of the guy with the rod buckled over. A tourist staying in one of the beach houses, probably a guy from Minnesota, ambled over to see what was on the line. He had been fishing the same area all week and reported hooking a couple of sting rays. “That’s fighting like two sting rays I had on,” Mr. Minnesota offers as a way of helping me identify my fish. “It’s a tarpon,” I responded. “He’s already jumped twice.” Mr. Minnesota didn’t seem to believe me. The fish ended Mr. Minnesota’s doubt when it jumped a third time. As we worked up the beach following the tarpon, Mr. Minnesota continued to offer advice. “You’re running out of line,” he warned. “Might have to tighten the drag.” “Lots of line left,” I retorted, probably somewhat irritatingly at that point. Mr. Minnesota giggled, as he did several times while he stayed virtually at my elbow. But not even this distraction was enough to make me waver from what I perceived as my one shot at fulfilling my tarpon quest. I had tried the traditional method of tarpon fishing the two previous years, hiring a guide to take me out and chase the schools of huge fish as they gulped air on the surface 200 yards from the shoreline. All that got me, however, was seasick and less a small fortune. A crowd was forming as I fought my tarpon, letting out a collective gasp with each jump of the fish. “What kind of fish does he have on,” a woman probably from Ontario asked. “A tarpon,” someone answered. The fish jumped again and Mrs. Ontario exclaimed, “That’s a big fish.” My tarpon was tiring, or so it seemed. Despite a number of short, powerful runs, I was able to bull him close to shore. He was clearly visible in the shallow water, barely one foot deep, with his dorsal fin protruding from the surf. “You’ve got him now,” said Mr. Minnesota, who only 10 minutes ago didn’t think I had a chance of catching this fish. “Not yet,” I replied. “He’s got another run left in him.” Well, when that fish saw the crowd of people watching this spectacle, he decided to make me a prophet. And there was no way I could stop him. Zing went the line, the Penn reel spinning like there was no drag. The fish surfaced again, 80 yards away but now too tired to jump. Now, I’m pretty well schooled in how to fight bigger fish, but this one was different. Even after a half hour, he was too strong to turn around or drag back from such a distance. But he stopped again, rose to catch some air, and opened up the opportunity to maybe work him back in again. I started hauling back on the rod again, frantically cranking the reel as I walked toward the surf. Maybe I still have a chance, I thought with the boyish optimism of years ago. “He’s taking all your line,” Mr. Minnesota reminded me. This time, he was right, as the metallic gold of the spool began to show through the remaining threads of mono that remained. “Can’t take another run like that one,” I told myself out loud. Mr. Minnesota giggled again. Right about then, out of the corner of my eye, I noticed disaster coming up the beach–in the form of a jet skier on a direct line with my fish and my line. “He’s going to cut my line,” I said to Mr. Minnesota, who somehow thought that waving his arms wildly would stop the noisemaker. Mr. Jet Skier never even noticed us, buzzing right over my line and just feet from my tarpon. That was about it for the fish. First this hook in its mouth, then all the fighting, then all those people gawking at him and now being buzzed by a jet ski. Time to head for Mexico. Off he went. Having no choice, I cranked down on the drag. The rod bent even more and I just held on, wondering when the end would come. It came quickly, the line breaking at the leader connection. I stared at the water 140 yards away, and said a silent goodbye to my tarpon. As I reeled in 140 yards of line and walked the 100 yards back to the beach, I remembered Cuba, and that boy who tackled more than he could handle, just as I had done this day. This time, the fish was better than the fisherman, or at least better than his tackle. But this time, the fisherman’s heart was not broken, only thrilled to have engaged in such a battle with such a fish.