Gold fever.

It is about eight o'clock, the swell coming from the south, lifts our tiny panga, outfitted with a not entirely reliable appearing outboard engine smoothly up and down. It is calm and there is no wind, all we recognize is the up and down of the boat when we look at the distant horizon. We are on the Pacific, along the coast of Oaxaca. The fresh morning temperatures fade with the upcoming sun and  start turning into the heat of the day. My arms are resting from a battle with a medium size yellowfin tuna. We got lucky right after we left the Puerto Angel and got into a school of those torpedoes, well known for their speed they can generate. Now we are gently trolling, looking for birds in the sky, a sure sign for the presence of feeding fish. " Alli, mira, un arbol", the captain calls all of a sudden, and I am looking in the direction he points. I see a large tree, forked, about thirty feet long and about twenty inch in diameter, the best shelter for traveling fish in the open sea, shadow for the quarry and magnet for the predator. And bang! The action starts. A jerk on the trolling line which serves as food source for the captain, causes the first workout. A dorado is leaping six feet high out of the water and Tatscho, so the name of our captain, offers me to haul it in. So I hand him my fly rod, grab his line and start playing the fish on the hand line. Memories of Ernest Hemingway's famous novel come to my mind. Suddenly I hear a very well known noise. What did Tatscho - no - a fish must have taken the popper fly, which I had floating in the water, ready to cast, when I passed the rod over, and is now trying to escape with fifty miles an hour, causing the reel to spin at fourthousand rpm. Tatscho is looking at my rod as if it was Neptune's spear and doesn't have any clue at all what to do with it. His expression tells me that he had no experience. Immediately I hand him the handline and take the pole, trying to keep my fingers away from the screaming reel. The fish wins another hundred yards of line until I can manage to tighten the drag and get it under control. Then the run stops, and I start pumping, the line disappearing in the deep blue water. What could it be? Time lapses, and slowly, yard for yard, I gain back line but another run pulls it all back off the reel and into the deep. I keep pumping, the rod bent, the tip somewhere under the boat and for more than twenty minutes I see nothing but barely the handle of my pole. "Amazing how much such a rod can resist" I am thinking by myself, and I keep pumping. After a while I think seeing a silver shimmer, deep down in the water. Then, the rear end of my fly line already in the guides, my opponent tests the tippet from his side, zzzzzzzt, and once again I see nothing but the backing disappearing in the blue deep. Two more times this scenario is repeated until we finally see the fish, a tuna, about fifty pounds. The imagination of catching bigger fish is very difficult because my biceps and my back hurt like hell. Finally we land the fish with Tatscho's artful grip on it's tail. Exhausted but proud of the battle I won, I think twice if we should keep fishing. "Go!" I think by myself. That tree in the water is a unique chance. So we look for it again and while we approach I can spot little shadows under it. Little baitfish looking for the shade. We are about eighty feet apart when I cast my self tied popper, which looks a little torn after the fight with the tuna. It lands just about five feet in front of the log. With the rod I give it a couple of little jerks, just to cause some bubbles and "swoosh!" The fly disappears in a splash of water. I try to set the hook but the fish did it already for me - "zzzzzzt"! A dorado, about thirty pounds, leaps about six feet into the air. I try to keep the line tight and under control but the mahi-mahi just goes wild, changing directions faster than I can follow with my eyes, diving, leaping, less than a  hundred feet from the boat. Now it changes direction again and heads toward me and under the boat. I have to change to the other side. Thinking is impossible. I react by instinct, everything just happens too fast. The runs go sideways and cause the backing making a singing noise. One more change of direction and I feel how the dolphin heads for another leap. And there it comes, I count two seconds before it hits the water again. Slowly I start thinking again and get things under control. Two, three more short runs and then I have the fish by the boat. Tatscho knows his business, and skillfully he grabs the dorado and lifts it into the boat. Thirty pounds of fighting power, accompanied by an endless amount of gorgeous shimmering colors lie in front of me, and I turn very awe inspired.  "Cerveza" I say to the captain, making a very clear gesture, to show that I long for a cool drink. I look back at the tree. "Shall we.... no, satisfaction needs to have a limit" I think by myself, feeling like a king. It was a wonderful flyfishing day!