When Hurricane Rafael blasted through Cuba merely days before our arrival, knocking out power in Havana and flooding streets like a bad disaster movie, you’d think it might dampen our spirits. Rather, it set the tone for a wild ride of fly-fishing, questionable nicknames, and more Cuban rum and cigars than should be legal. This is the story of Clark (a.k.a. “Vaca”), James (“Camello”), Steve (“Leche”), Hank (“Aaron”), Jonathan (“Jonathan”), and Teddy (“Reary”), plus a cast of characters that only a Hemingway novel—or Cuba—could produce.
The first night was spent stumbling around a candlelit Parque Central Hotel lobby in Havana, cursing Rafael’s lingering tantrums and trying not to trip over our overladen luggage. But the lights came back on, the brightest of which was in the form of Moro - self-named “Leny Kravitz” who looks astonishingly like the Red Sox’ hall of fame slinger Pedro Martinez. Moro arrived outside the hotel lobby as if he raided the movie set of ‘Boys in the Hood’. Moro or ‘Lenny’ became our friend as well as our one-day Cuban sensei, taking us not to the sanitized tourist traps those on the government doll want you to see, but rather into the gritty, uncomfortable, beautiful soul of Havana.
By day we wandered peeling streets bursting with music, and gawked at crumbling colonial architecture and questioned the sanitary compliance of New Havana’s municipal hospital that appeared closed for lunch. By night, Moro unleashed the full Cuban experience: endless cigars purchased from the underworld along with seemingly gallons of rum, and enough stories about life under Castro to fill a book. None of us wanted to leave the city after that whirlwind—but the fish were waiting.
The Georgiana, our floating home in Ciénaga de Zapata, was an unexpected jewel. Each of us had our own cabin with ensuite head, and the boat’s crew treated us like Cuban royalty. The food, thanks to Chef Juni, was as excessive as it was delicious. Over-preparing seemed to be Juni’s religion, and we were happy converts.
The hostess, Lily, was only on her third trip aboard the Georgiana but carried herself with the poise of someone who’d been doing this for years. Captain Frank, perpetually puffing on an endless cigarette, handled the yacht like a maestro—except when he was laughing at our jokes. And Jose, the mechanic, somehow kept everything running (barring the ice machine) despite our group’s best attempts to break everything else. Strikingly, we were never without ice - a minor miracle seeing as we were moored in the southern Cuban tropics many miles (or Cuban kilometers) from anything resembling the temperature of cold.
Merely days prior, hurricane Rafael had dumped over 14 inches of rain on the Zapata swamp, turning parts of the clear Caribbean into something resembling an immense spilled cranberry juice cocktail. Bonefish and permit seemed unimpressed by this new color scheme but still made appearances. Shots at permit came and went, with none landed, but bonefish kept our lines tight. Some of the bonefish were of notable size to boot!
All in all, the real stars of the trip were the baby tarpon. These acrobatic slabs of silver, ranged from 5 to 30 pounds, put on a daily show. One banner day saw 'Vaca' and Jonathan lose count somewhere north of 22 tarpon. If you’ve never seen a tarpon leap into the air like a glittery acrobat, let me tell you—it never gets old.
Even after the first-rate guides Esteban, Marco, and Gaby brought us back to the Georgiana in proper American Dolphin Skiffs, each afternoon, the fishing didn’t stop. Under the yacht’s lights, shrimp schools gathered, drawing more baby tarpon right to our doorstep. We cast lines from the back of the boat until the early hours, fueled by even more 7-year Havana Club, foot-long Cohiba Robustos, and that insatiable urge for “just one more cast.”
Every group trip seems to bring with it a running joke, and ours was the endless fun we had with nicknames. James earned “Camello” (Camel) for the astounding amount of water he was able to consume each day, while Clark has been called “Vaca” (Cow)— a name he pretends to hate but secretly has embraced for a number of years now. Steve was called “Leche (Milk) for reasons that still defy logic. While Hank “Aaron” knows little about mid-twentieth century baseball but swore he’d show us a copy of his birth certificate when we returned stateside. Jonathan was aptly nicknamed “Jonathan” because, why not? And, Teddy quickly became “Reary” for some vague reason having to do with the new ownership duo of a Mexican restaurant in Colorado.
The highlight? The now-legendary “Camel Tow” knuckle bump, complete with growling camel noises. If we had an image it would look something like a camel-laden skijoring event in the sand-dunes outside Cairo. The ‘secret handshake; might not translate in writing, but trust me—it was comedy gold! To add more chuckles to the already laugh-heavy crusade, ‘Leche’ couldn’t stop pointing out the terns—a type of bird that soared over the flats. This led to a running inside joke about “terns” vs. “turns” and other grammatically incorrect homonyms that none of us will even try to explain because, frankly, it wasn’t that funny.
When we weren’t fishing, eating, or butchering the Spanish language, we were jumping off the Georgiana’s top deck like kids on summer break. The salty Caribbean washed away the day’s heat—and, occasionally, the memory of yet another missed permit shot.
Aside from the tarpon and bonefish, the Zapata flats offered a smorgasbord of species: horse-eyed jacks, jack crevalle, yellowtail jacks, mutton, snapper, blue runners, barracuda, cubera snapper, and even a few hound-fish (large needlefish that have apparently learned to scavenge scraps by following hungry permit). Every fish brought a new burst of excitement, a few expletives, and at least one groan-worthy pun from ‘Leche’. The fishing was as vibrant and unpredictable as the group itself.
As our week aboard the Georgiana came to an end, it hit us—we hadn’t just been on a fishing trip; we’d stumbled into a Cuban fever dream of unpredictable weather, questionable nicknames, and tarpon so feisty they should come with a warning label. Cuba gave us everything we didn’t know we needed: the beauty of 'new Havana', flats the color of iced coffee, a crew that treated us like VIPs—despite our antics, and enough rum-fueled laughter to make our stomachs ache (and probably the crew’s patience wear thin). On our final evening, toast went up, glasses sloshing with the last of the 7-year. We saluted the fish that got away, the tarpon that didn’t, and the friends crazy enough to join us. Then, as the Georgiana’s lights dimmed and the terns circled one last time turning toward something immensely better, we couldn’t help but ask—who’s in for the next trip?
Because this wasn’t just a fishing trip; it was a chapter in a story we’ll never stop telling. As our man Moro, the Lenny Kravitz of Havana, might croon: “This is the real Cuba—part museum, part madness, and always, always calling you back.