I took the skiff farther into the biosphere than Bucky had taken me. I simply sat in silence in the boat, drifting along and listening to nothing and seeing everything.
The speed nap was unexpected. I was supposed to be fishing. I woke to a thumping against the hull. I had drifted onto a flat. I had run aground. I sat up immediately, searching the bottom of the boat for holes, but saw none. Looking over the side, I realized I was hung up on an underwater hill at the edge of a long flat that I didn’t recognize.
I got out to push the boat off the bottom, and two small lemon sharks buzzed by at lightning speed. Like a gymnast, I launched myself back into the boat. The sharks were not after me; they were hunting a school of shad that moved like one gray shadow over the bottom.
I discovered the source of the loud knocking on the bottom—it was the hard, pointed top of a conch shell, which I managed to dislodge and set myself free to float again.
I looked around and did not recognize a single landmark that Bucky had shown me. I was lost. The sun was listing to the west, and the water was being sucked off the flat by the waning moon. I sat there pondering my situation. Though I really didn’t want to, I had no choice but to use the radio Bucky had given me to call for help.
I was just about to reach in my fishing bag when the setting sun came out from behind a drifting cumulus cloud. In the shadows moving rapidly across the water, a ray of light reflected like a Boy Scout signal mirror off the forked tail of a giant permit. It was a hundred yards above the boat, cruising down the flat, dining on small crustaceans, and heading right for me. I dropped the radio and picked up my fly rod. I might be spending the night donating blood to a squadron of mosquitoes, but a shot at a fish that size was well worth the consequences.
Stepping like a shorebird to reduce the noise of my feet, I eased myself out of the boat and maneuvered my body and rod to within casting distance of the big fish. I was already hyperventilating and made myself stop and take several deep breaths. The fish was just zigzagging up the flat, enjoying his appetizers.
I suddenly had a complete lack of confidence in my casting ability and thought about chucking the rod and just diving on the fish and wrestling it into the boat, but I managed to gather my wits, and the next thing I knew, the rod was moving back and forth above my right shoulder, and the line was feeding out.
Somehow I dropped the fly right where Bucky had told me. “You want to bring out the jack in a permit.”
The crab fly plopped into the water right on the nose of the fish, and it swirled on the fly and tracked it across the bottom. I quickly ran my fingers over the gecko charm hanging around my neck and then began to strip, like Bucky had taught me. I somehow resisted the temptation to set the hook, and my patience and luck paid off when I suddenly felt the tension on the line in my left hand.
I gently raised my rod toward the sky, holding the line tight, and then I set the hook.
Immediately, the fish headed instinctively for deep water, which lay around the mangrove-covered point to the south. I held the pressure on the rapidly departing line and could only hold the rod and feel the surge of the powerful fish in my arms and my heart. The first run took nearly all three hundred yards of backing from my reel before I got a turn.
Thirty minutes and six more runs later, I was finally able to steer the exhausted fish to within reaching distance. The big eye of the fish stayed glued on me as I unhooked the creature and began to resuscitate him by holding on to his black tail and moving him back and forth over the bottom until he regained his strength and swam away from my grip. As I watched him depart, I was grinning like a Cheshire cat. At that moment I just let out a howl so big that I know Johnny Red Dust and my dad could hear it up in heaven.
I listened for the echo of my voice over the water and almost had a heart attack when not an echo but a bloodcurdling howl came from right behind me. I turned around, and I was ten feet from an Indian who was wearing only Nike shorts and a leather belt with a .45 automatic strapped to it. I immediately dropped my fly rod and reached for the sky.
The Indian burst out laughing. “That is not the way to treat an expensive fly rod,” he said. “Put your hands down, my friend. The gun is for protection only. You must be the cowboy.” He stuck the bamboo spear he was holding into the sandy bottom and walked through the shallows toward me. “Bucky sent me out here to find you.”
“Are you Ix-Nay?” I asked.
“I am Ix-Nay.”
“Tully Mars,” I said, extending my hand.
“I know.” He grabbed it. “That was a nice fish you caught there. I think you’ll be a good teacher.”
Ix-Nay had one of those natural smiles that revealed a large gap between his front teeth. He was five foot four inches of lean muscle that had never seen a gym, and he moved through the water like a bird. “You know,” he said, “what amazes me about fly-fishing is how you can fool such cautious creatures with just hair, glue, and feathers. It is like magic.”
“That it is,” I said. I seemed to have gathered my composure back and was relaxing a little. I picked up my fly rod from the bottom and was reeling in the line, wondering if Johnny Red Dust had sent Ix-Nay, but my newfound serenity was instantly extinguished when I looked up to see Ix-Nay now standing at point-blank range with the .45 in his hand.
The gun exploded. Seconds later, I felt my chest for a bullet hole and waited for the pain to set in, but nothing happened.
I saw Ix-Nay looking to the right of where I had just been standing. I followed his gaze to the ten-foot crocodile scurrying toward the shore. It was obvious by the wake behind him that the big croc had been cruising up the trail of muddy footprints I had made while fighting my fish.
“Time to go home, Cowboy,” Ix-Nay said and hopped in the skiff. “You drive, and I’ll point.”
For the next week, Ix-Nay and I lived up to mutual promises we made on that first day we met. I taught him to fly-fish, and he taught me about Crocodile Rock. I learned just about as much from him about the land where I had chosen to live as he did about casting and tying knots. At the end of the week, we did a review with Bucky, and he pronounced us flats guides. It was one day before our first customers were due to arrive, and we celebrated our phony-baloney jobs at the Fat Iguana.
The lodge opened up on time, the fishermen arrived, and we went right to work. It was obvious from the start that we had overtrained. Most of our first clients hailed from the Rocky Mountains and had come south to escape the cold as much as to catch fish. There is a big difference between the streams of Wyoming, Idaho, and Montana and the flats of Ascension Bay. Fortunately, both Ix-Nay and I had become quick learners in the art of casting into the wind, and the fishing gods smiled on the lodge itself, for when the biosphere came into existence, net fishing was banned, and as a result, the large concentration of bonefish gave us plenty of targets within the range of thirty feet.
Most of our clients caught fish. That pleasure, along with the cocktail hour in the tree house, our incredible Mayan chef, and a night or two in town at the Fat Iguana, made Lost Boys an instant hit. Our first clients went back to the Rockies with snapshots of themselves with sunburned faces and big bonefish in their hands. Business boomed.
Bucky’s finger healed up, and he came back to work. He immediately started training two more local guides.
When Ix-Nay and I weren’t fishing or exploring the inner sanctum of the biosphere, Ix-Nay was teaching me about the world of the Mayans. Bucky Norman may have taught me to fish the flats, but it was Ix-Nay who would show me the road to Xibalba.
Mr. Twain was quite happy in his bamboo corral, and things couldn’t have been better. But that was all about to change.
8
One Man’s Cathedral
Flats fishermen are an odd bunch. They have to be because the location of their catch is so remote. Fishing to most folks is as simple as a can of worms and a pole, or dropping a baited hook over the side of a bridge, but to the flats fanatic, it usually means traveling. The cre
atures they seek are difficult to catch because they live in such hard-to-find places. One of our customers, a very successful businessman from the Midwest who owns a major-league baseball team and an airplane-manufacturing plant in Kansas, summed it up. “Tully,” he told me, “when I was younger, I would travel like Indiana Jones to find fishing spots. I lived in sleeping bags, ate lizards, drank Skin-So-Soft, and would wade into a pool of sulfuric acid if you told me bonefish were in it. Now, when I go fishing, I don’t want to be more than an hour away from lemon veal, and I want to sleep on cotton sheets in an air-conditioned room. That’s why I came to Lost Boys.”
Bucky understood the idea of marketing creature comforts in the boondocks better than anyone, and that is why Lost Boys was an instant success. In addition to offering four-star-caliber lodging and food, Bucky taught Ix-Nay and me that our job was not only to train our guides as mere guides but also to turn them into teachers and pals.
It didn’t take long for the story of the Lost Boys lodge to go spinning off the Yucatán Coast like an advancing hurricane. It churned its way quickly and effectively through the marinas, cocktail parties, boardrooms, and tackle shops of the world of saltwater anglers. That first winter, not only was the lodge full, but guests began arriving on large yachts and in private planes and helicopters.
Mr. Twain had to start sharing his favorite little open grazing pasture with a makeshift landing pad in the barley field. So it didn’t come as that much of a shock when Bucky informed us that a party of fishermen from Birmingham, Alabama, would be arriving by seaplane. What was odd was that they had booked the entire lodge for a full week, and there were just three anglers. So, at five p.m. on the appointed arrival date, I was perched in the tree house with my binoculars, scanning the horizon. I heard the distant rumble of engines and pointed my lenses in the direction of the sound.
At first, I couldn’t believe my eyes. The seaplane was pink. The color immediately reminded me of Thelma Barston and her pink poodle assault on the Wild West, but it wasn’t like Thelma to announce her arrival in such a manner. If she was still after me, she would come in the night when I was least expecting it.
The closer the plane got, the more clearly I could make out the fuselage. The bright coloring was in fact a painting of a giant flamingo running the entire length of the fuselage and spreading out on the underside of the wings.
If you choose to fly in a pink plane, you are either crazy or have a deep-seated desire to be noticed. The plane was now clearly visible to the staff of the camp, and they were all headed to the dock with cameras. As pink as she was, it was still remarkably graceful when the craft glided to a landing in the channel, framed in the rays of the sun over Crocodile Rock. It reminded me of one of those old travel posters that I had seen in a shop in Key West.
As the plane idled over to the dock, I scurried down from the tree house and joined the crowd. Ix-Nay was trying out his new Nikon camera to capture this Kodak moment.
“What do you know about these people?” I asked Bucky as we stood by to grab the lines and aid with the docking of the seaplane.
“There are three guests and two pilots. They registered under the name Smith, and they wired a cashier’s check from a New York bank and paid in advance for a full week for the whole lodge.”
“Maybe they’re movie stars,” Ix-Nay said.
“Pot dealers are more likely to be flats fanatics than movie stars,” I told him. “Do you know any movie stars who fish?” I asked Bucky.
“Does Tom Brokaw count?” Bucky said. “He came down here right before you got here, and I fished with him for a day. It’s a real treat when you meet somebody you’ve heard about, and he’s a nice guy.”
“But Tom Brokaw would never arrive in a pink plane,” Ix-Nay added.
“You’ve got that right,” Bucky said.
The pilot skillfully used the wind to nudge the nose of the plane toward the dock as the copilot disappeared from his seat, then hopped out of the forward hatch with a dock line that he tossed my way. The pilot cut the engines, and the plane drifted over to the dock. Bucky held the tail off, and I secured the bowline to a cleat.
The copilot was already on the dock, hustling back to open the cabin door, and we followed. When it popped open, a beautiful woman appeared and said, “Hello, Cowboy.” It was like being hit in the face with a hand grenade. For there, framed by the sea and the sky, was not a movie star, Tom Brokaw, or Thelma Barston. It was Donna Kay Dunbar.
I had not laid eyes on Donna Kay in more than a year, since before the ill-fated weekend when I had stood her up in Belize City. Three months later I had sent her a lame excuse note, but she had never answered me, and she had good reason. More than twelve months ago, I had invited her to rendezvous with me by sending her a winning lottery ticket worth ten grand and the closest thing to a love letter I’ve ever written. But the nearer I came to meeting up with her, the colder my cowboy feet became. Like any warm-blooded American male terrified of commitment, I’d conveniently stumbled into a mishap that had made it impossible for me to show up. After I sent the note, I never followed up on it, and although I had mixed emotions because I truly did care about her, it was easiest to shove the whole experience into a black hole at the back of my mind labeled CLOSE ENCOUNTERS OF THE INTIMACY KIND. I figured I had blown it big-time with Donna Kay, and I had never expected to hear from her again, much less see her. Now she was standing two feet from me, pointing a video camera at my face.
All I could do was wave like a football player on the sidelines, uncomfortably introduce her to Bucky and Ix-Nay, and ask myself why she was here. Bucky raised his eyebrows and gave me a curious look, while Ix-Nay just grinned.
Donna Kay was radiant and seemed more as if she were returning from a vacation than embarking on one. She wore a pair of exotic drawstring pants covered with African animals. Her sleeveless shirt matched the Caribbean blue of the waters behind her and revealed her lean, tan arms. She had a canvas bag draped over one shoulder, and her blond ponytail poked out the back of a St. Louis Cardinals baseball cap. As her feet hit the dock, her hands cupped my face, and she gave me a soft, sweet kiss on the lips. She smelled of orange blossoms, and I closed my eyes and just enjoyed the taste of her lipstick and the citrus aroma.
When I opened my eyes, two men were standing next to her. The older of the two was twice Donna Kay’s age and was a walking outfitter mail-order catalog ad. He was dressed in bright green fishing pants and a pink outfitter shirt, and his island attire was topped off with a pair of dark sunglasses in a turtle-shell frame. A white silk bandanna was tied snugly around his head.
The other man was half his size and age and wore one of those long muslin shirts over a pair of white pants. He handed a silk handkerchief to the larger man, who was sweating profusely. It was not hard to figure out who the couple was.
“Tully, I would like you to meet Sammy Raye Coconuts . . . my boss. And this is his chief of staff, Del Mundo.”
Sammy Raye shook my hand and gave me an immigration-officer scan. “I’ve heard a lot about you, Cowboy,” he said in a thick southern drawl with a slight lisp.
I didn’t have a clue how to reply.
Bucky walked over to Sammy. “Hello, Mr. Coconuts. I’m Bucky Norman, the owner. Welcome to Lost Boys.” He extended his hand.
Sammy shook it, and a big smile lit up his sweaty face. “The pleasure’s all mine,” Sammy said, clearly excited. “This place looks incredible—just like your brochure. How’s the fishing and the air conditioners?”
“They are humming like a temple full of Buddhist monks,” I said.
Del Mundo shot me a glance.
“It should be a great fishing week,” Bucky said. “The wind is down, and no storms on the horizon. Will your pilots be joining us for dinner?”
“Yes, sir. This here is the copilot, Drake.”
The man now standing next to Del Mundo tipped his hat.
“And Will is in the plane somewhere,” Sammy added nonchalantly.
A voice echoed from the front of the plane through the pink aluminum hull. “Nice to meet y’all,” he drawled as a hand appeared in the hatch and waved. “Sammy, I’ll be a little while. I need to check the fuel pump,” Will said, and his hand disappeared back into the forward compartment.
Drake, Ix-Nay, and I loaded ourselves up with duffel bags and fly-rod cases and headed up the dock.
“Well, let me show you around,” Bucky said.
“Donna Kay tells me you are quite the fisherman,” Sammy said to me.
“I think she might have me confused with my boss,” I said.
“Sammy Raye just started taking up the sport,” Donna Kay added.
I did my best attempt at hospitable talk. “Well, you’ve come to the right place.”
“Mr. Twain!” Donna Kay yelled out as she spotted him in the pasture. She ran down the dock.
“Del Mundo will tell you where the bags go,” Sammy Raye said to us. Then he stepped quicker to keep up with Bucky. “So, let’s talk fish, Bucky,” he said, and they left us behind and headed to the lodge.
I directed Del Mundo to Sammy’s cottage and stopped to watch Donna Kay petting Mr. Twain. She seemed a hell of a lot happier to see my horse than me. I had a sick, nervous feeling in the pit of my stomach, like the way you feel when you’re a kid and you’ve just been caught lying to the nuns. I figured it was going to be an interesting week at the Lost Boys lodge, but I had no idea just how interesting it would get.
The landing of the pink plane and the arrival of Sammy Raye Coconuts had caused about as much excitement to the staff and locals who had gathered at the shore as does that infamous Mexican celebration the Day of the Dead, but soon the plane melted into the backdrop of life in the tropics. Sammy Raye had gone to his cottage, and Bucky was working on the outboard on his skiff. The delicious scent of dinner preparation drifted out of the kitchen, and on the porch, Sammy Raye and Ix-Nay were busy tying permit flies for the morning run. Del Mundo was practicing yoga on the beach, and I was trying to figure out what they were all doing here. I was nervous.