Where I Am: A Fish Story

How facing my fears on the Pacific Ocean and landing the fish of a lifetime lead to greater clarity and inner peace.

Originally written for and published on She-Explores.com, August 2020.

It was like looking into a meteor shower: Ethereal streaks of silver and aqua darting through the dark blue of a hundred feet of Panamanian ocean. I stared over the side of my kayak, my slice of plastic bobbing and swaying in the Pacific swell. The schooling fish were beautiful, but suddenly I felt uneasy. This was the deepest I’d been.

My hands moistened inside their sun gloves as I gripped my fishing rod, a 20-inch bonito bouncing on the end of my line as bait. I picked up my gaze and set it on my Garmin fish finder, taking note of the activity it marked below. Jacks, I thought. I’d caught several already that day – dense, muscular, angry fish. I could jig for these if I wanted, but my bonito gave me a chance at something better. I looked back at the water.

That’s when I saw it – a dorsal fin slicing momentarily through the waves fifteen feet to my right. I’d encountered sharks already. Maybe it was my headspace, but this one felt bigger. I looked around for the nearest kayaker from my group and saw a few silhouettes 100 yards toward shore. Mouth drying, I peddled toward them. Each time the water swelled around me and my kayak settled into a trough, the other kayakers fell out of sight. I pushed images from my mind of my kayak being shark-week’d like a baby seal. That’s ridiculous, I told myself.

Still, the thought zinged through my knees.

I bowed my head against a gust of wind that whipped spray off the waves and nearly tipped me like it did another that morning. The buzz in my knees crept upward, first to my gut and then to my head. More wind. It felt as though the earth was closing in on me. “I’m safe,” I said aloud. I am safe.

Tears welled in my eyes as I continued to pedal. I’d been here three days already, and I’d been doing so well. Inhale—exhale.I am safe, I am safe. I am safe. Slowly I began feeling my breath steady out, my heart settle into its normal rhythm as I approached the other kayakers. I was safe.

But still, but still. I couldn’t help but ask myself what in God’s name I was doing here.

I didn’t think much when I booked a weeklong solo trip to Panama. It was a few months away, and even though life was hectic, I’d figure it out. I’d be traveling alone to Panama City where I’d have a day to myself. Then I’d meet a group of anglers I didn’t know, and we’d be bussed to a kayak fishing community six hours southwest on the rural Azuero Peninsula. There, we’d have five days to fish from kayaks in search of some of the coolest saltwater fish the world has to offer.

I’ve never identified as a fisherman, but I had been recreationally sportfishing for about six seasons and had gotten pretty “into it” over the last couple years. I’d picked up kayak fishing about six months earlier and had gained a newfound confidence after successfully landing and releasing a few muskies alone from my new vessel – the biggest and baddest fish of my home state of Minnesota. When a brief acquaintance recommended I check out this trip in Panama, I was all in.

For years I’d wanted to catch a Roosterfish, a pez gallo, the great Pacific beauties marked by their powerful build, vivid tiger stripes and giant “comb” – a spikey dorsal fin that’s somewhere between a grandiose crown and a funky mohawk. Plus, I’d very recently started documenting my outdoor adventures on YouTube as a career, and I felt this was a great chance to tell stories of everything and everyone I’d encounter. But more than all this, I was excited about the opportunity to visit a new place, a new culture. I looked forward to stretching myself, both on the water and on land. This would be an adventure, and I’d be ready.

— 

The night before the trip, I parked at a Best Buy to pick up a few extra GoPro batteries. I called a close friend from the car. Somewhere in the conversation, I began spewing my to-do list along with all the reasons I was not ready for this trip.

“I’m so not prepared,” I pleaded.

“You’ll be fine,” he said.

“But Central America alone?”

“You’ve traveled alone before.”

“But sharks, man, the ocean! It’s my biggest phobia!”

“And you’re the biggest badass I know for doing this.”

“But what if something bad happens? Really bad?”

“It won’t.”

“But why am I even doing this?”

“Because you want to and you can.”

“But when will I ever just be able to BEHOME?”

I heard the words spill from my mouth as though I was listening to someone else say them, but I knew what they meant. It wasn’t just that my career had me traveling nonstop, usually alone or with strangers. I was thirty. Three decades. I’d had a couple careers, a few homes, and a big failed relationship in which I was dumped out of the blue a couple months before my wedding. My friends were married. And my siblings. Everyone had kids and dogs and homes complete with a crackling fire and a home-cooked meal around a big table. Or so it felt. And here was me: stressed, busy and alone, embarking on a trip that scared the crap out of me.

Was I really supposed to be traveling alone? Fishing so much? Was it really my purpose to be sharing stories on the Internet? Was any of this what I was meant to be doing?

Eighteen hours later, there I was, wiping drool off my chin as our captain told us we were approaching our destination. I opened the window shade and saw a dense, gray sky. A few minutes later, as our plane trembled through the cloud cover, the gray began to dissipate. Then it broke altogether revealing the ocean below, peppered with hundreds of cargo ships and a few stray islands. In the backdrop – a tropical stretch of oceanfront and a glistening line of skyscrapers. After a dizzying few months, it hit me: Panama City.

I – am – here. I giggled.

After a thrilling day and night in the city, during which I walked new streets, dined on Panamanian cuisine, and bonded with several new friends, both local and from around the world, I met our group. We boarded a bus, crossed the Panama Canal, and headed south through mountains and farmland to a long stretch of beach that would be our home.  

By the time I checked for scorpions with a flashlight and crawled into my bunk that night, I was high on adventure. The history, the landscape, the fresh fish dinners. The people I’d met, stories I’d heard, connections I’d already made. I was giddy, and it was only the start. 

 —

The first few days proved tough. I was thrilled to be there, and the group was fantastic. But unseasonably heavy wind made the fishing extraordinarily challenging, and no one from the group had yet landed a big Roosterfish, which most of us hoped for most. It was a story that had replayed itself for me all year. Random, inexplicable weather patterns or occurrences tanking the fishing. I couldn’t help but wonder if the universe was telling me something. Certainly, I was beginning to worry I wouldn’t get a shot at a truly notable fish.

On the up side, I was feeling braver than expected on the water. Most the time I was too focused – and everything too beautiful – for my heart to hold any space for fear. I had landed several species that were cool in their own right, and I was enjoying my time on the water and off, despite the tough fishing and physical strain.

The second half of the trip arrived, and I found myself pedaling away from a rogue dorsal fin, having just felt utterly panicky for the first time all week. But I willed myself to calm down. I’d soon land a big, brawny African Pompano on an artificial jig, my most exhilarating catch yet and my third tough fight of the day.

The three guys in the panga, the help boat, came over to take the pompano to save for dinner. I thanked the fish as they put it in their cooler. They passed me the live moonfish they’d just caught – great bait for Roosterfish.

“Go get yourself a gallo,” said Rob, the one American guide on board.  

“I’m on it!” I gave a thumbs up.

“And watch those rocks,” he said.   

I looked toward shore at the ragged outcropping I’d been avoiding all day – a hundred feet long but only a few feet above the water’s surface. A wave pushed in, a mass of water bulging into the sky before breaking in a menacing, white storm. 

I looped a circle hook through the mouth of the moonfish and let it out on 30 feet of line. I began pedaling slowly toward a break line where I’d marked some large fish earlier that morning.

Thirty minutes later, I heard it.

Tick – tick – tick.

The clicker on my reel began to scream. Something had taken my moonfish. I picked up my VHF radio. Tick – tick – tick. The rhythm grew faster with beat of my heart.  

“It’s Natalie. Something’s peeling my line,” I said to the radio. And then I did it: forced the drag lever to high to set the hook.

“Repeat?” I heard through the radio.

But there was no responding.

My rod immediately bent over from the pressure. I squeezed it with both hands, trembling and aching to just hold on. Whatever ate my moonfish now cruised through the water, taking me on a sleigh ride fast enough to pull a skier. And it was headed…straight for the rocks.

The panga closed in fifty feet to my right.

“What do I do about the rocks?” I called.

“You’re alright for now,” Rob shouted.

But the fish was picking up speed.

“You guys, the rocks!”

“Pump it! You have to pump it hard!” yelled the other guide Kevin through a smooth Honduran accent.

I rocketed the rod upward, reeled down, rocketed upward, reeled down. I was making progress. Cheers echoed from the panga.

With each pull, I groaned. Sweat dripped from my forehead and stung my eyes.  My biceps quivered. My shoulders and abs and glutes ached. The pressure unlike anything I’d felt before.

Suddenly the fish changed directions. It darted away from the rocks and headed toward open water. I’d later learn the panga’s captain Richard had driven between the fish and the rocks, revving the motor to scare it away. A brilliant, possibly life-saving move. But I was too focused to notice.

For many minutes the war waged on, my hands and arms and body aching like never before. I struggled to keep my rod oriented toward the bow of the kayak and to manage my rudder so the fish wouldn’t tip me, but it was everything I could do to just hold on.  

I groaned, I sighed, I laughed out of bafflement and exhaustion. But I was winning. I could feel the fish was just a few yards out now.

Then, it took a dive. Suddenly all the pressure yanked straight down beneath my kayak, and my rod planted itself on the gunnel. I tried with all my might to raise it up, but the force was just too strong. This was bad. But I had a thought. I pressed my fingers against the lever that controlled my reel’s drag. I intended to back it off just a millimeter to buy me the release I’d need to regain control. It budged, but in an instant the force ripped it fully loose. My line splayed everywhere in a giant, tangled bird’s nest around my reel.

My heart sank.

After nearly fifteen minutes of my life’s greatest fight, I had lost all pressure on the fish. I grabbed the line and began – hand over hand – pulling up the slack. It was a reckless move, I knew it.

The panga banged against my kayak.

“Throw me the line,” Kevin yelled.

I did as he asked and began trying to sort out the mess around my reel.

“I think it’s still there,” I yelled.

“It’s here! I can see it,” called Kevin.

“Cuidado, amigo,” Rob said. Though Kevin was wearing gloves, the force of the line could easily burn him, or much worse. But the fish was right beneath the boat now.

“I see it. I see color!” Kevin yelled.

“It looks like a Rooster. It looks like a big Rooster,” Rob called, his voice somewhere between a shout and a laugh. “This is cra-ha-ha-hazy!”

“Is it really?” My heart was racing.

“It’s huge. I see it!” called Kevin. And then, in one heroic swing, he hoisted a four-foot specimen of prime Pacific Roosterfish out of the sea.

“That, Nattie, is a FISH!”

 “OH – MY – GOSH!” I could barely get the words out. “I love you guys!”

I flung my arms in the air and let out a wail. I was overcome with exhausted laughter. We all were.

A blurred minute later I’d have the biggest fish of my life thrashing on my lap, water flying from its vivid white, charcoal and purple stripes, its black and green comb brushing against my face. This was not just a Roosterfish. Not just a big Roosterfish. But a trophy-sized, lifetime pez gallo. My cheeks ached from smiling.

After a few quick photos, we released the healthy fish back into the ocean. Rob, Kevin and Richard gave me high fives and then left me to soak in the moment. As the panga drifted away, I took a deep breath and raised my palms toward the sky in thanks.

Suddenly it hit me. Tears streamed down my face. I gasped. I smiled. I sobbed. It had been a challenging year. A challenging several years, actually. Full of plenty of good, but marred by uncertainty, fear, loneliness, and countless things inexplicably not working out. Again today, everything that could have gone wrong, very nearly went wrong. But they didn’t. Today, somehow, it all…just…worked.   

 —

On the last night of the trip, several members from the group gathered on the beach. I sat on a piece of driftwood, Kevin to my left, Rob to my right, Richard standing nearby. The three of them felt like best friends. In a way the whole group did. Bellies full of mackerel ceviche and Panamanian lager, we pointed out constellations and watched for shooting stars. I actually don’t remember the sky so well. I remember we were something like seven people born in six different countries, and despite that wealth of cultural conversation fodder, we talked about space aliens, adventure stories, and peeing from kayaks. I remember laughing. I remember feeling connected, safe and certain. Mostly I remember feeling very much alive. 

I didn’t quite understand then what brought me to Panama. I didn’t know if my new career was the right move, or why my life partner seemed to be eluding me. I didn’t know why I’d been putting so much time into solo trips and solo fishing, and I certainly had no idea where my life was headed next. But right here, in this moment, I knew I was exactly where I was meant to be. And that was enough. 

Check out the YouTube video from this epic catch - Click Here!