Extreme Fishing (5 page)

As we settle down to sleep I imagine I’m in my bed at home in Surrey with Vanya. My son Taylor’s tucked up in his room, safe and sound, and I have clean sheets and Siberian
goose-down pillows and . . . suddenly my dream is interrupted by a loud rumble. Half asleep, I come to and find both of the guys are now snoring heavily and I am stuck in between them, and the
armadillo and bananas are having a very negative effect on the camp. I wake them up.

‘Ross, George, you both have to go. I can’t sleep with you.
You
snore like a bush pig and
you
have a bottom like Bhopal.’

They willingly rush off to nearby accommodation with running water and proper beds. I resist and I snuggle down as best I can on the hard floor.
I’m not doing a Bear Grylls and skipping
off to the nearest five-star
, I think.
I want an authentic experience.

What is it they say? Be careful what you wish for . . .

Thud! Something hits the roof. Thud! What on earth? I search outside with the flashlight. The hut is under a bloody mango tree. Thud! I look closer. A monkey is throwing the mangos
on
purpose
! I go back into the hut. The monkey starts pelting the roof with mangos – it’s like throwing-out time on Saturday night in Newcastle. Eventually the monkey gets bored and
decides to make loud calls instead. I do breathing exercises to relax my frazzled mind and slowly I start to drift off again . . .
Zzz!
– a mosquito flies past my ear.
Zzz!
Then
a cockerel starts cock-a-bloody-doodle-doing every twenty seconds . . . and it’s only 1 a.m. Dogs are barking, ants and mosquitoes are biting me, birds are tweeting – all that’s
missing is a bloody brass band. I am in the seventh circle of hell – get me back to room 25! I would rather read
Martin Chuzzlewit
surrounded by tajalines crabs for eternity than stand
this for another night. I desperately need sleep.

Sadly, I get none. The next morning my face is creased and blotchy like a wanton hussy’s bed. I tell Ross I need to phone my son, Taylor, as it’s his eighth birthday. He tells me the
only phone in the area is three miles up a mountain. I give him a Mel Gibson snarl and get jogging.

‘Tay? It’s Dad. Yes, it’s really me – come on, it hasn’t been that long! Happy birthday, little man. Are you all right? Me? I’m fine. Well, actually I’m
not. [Cue tears] Daddy hasn’t slept for three days and I look terrible and that’s every actor’s nightmare and they gave me this leaf to chew which made my mouth go numb and
I’ve been attacked by monkeys, crabs and mosquitoes and . . . [sniff] I killed an armadillo . . .’

At this point Taylor hands the phone to his mother.

‘What’s wrong?’ she asks.

‘I’m sorry, I’m a bad father. Tell him I love him.’

This was meant to be all about my little boy and his birthday but the conversation became all about me, my utter exhaustion and obsession with my career. I drag my sorry self back down the hill.
I must do better as a dad.

I pull myself together and embark on a five-kilometre hike with the Maleku through the jungle to catch the elusive machaca. After losing Alex’s fish in such a humiliating
fashion, I am determined I’m going to hook one of these veggie fish and keep it, maybe even frame it. On the way, tribesman Oscar shows me a poisonous frog that can kill you stone dead,
bullet ants (among the largest on the planet) that will put you in A&E for a few days, and a beautiful chameleon that thankfully is benign. I look at this amazing creature and say to camera,
‘Out of all the colours in its repertoire, vibrant yellows and greens – he chooses a dull shade of brown.’

The Costa Rican soundman, Alberto, pipes up: ‘Stop! I can’t hear anything.’

This is unsurprising as he has insisted on taking a forty-foot cable attached to the camera everywhere we have ventured, land or sea. Most other soundmen are usually connected by wireless
because of the dangerous type of terrain but not Alberto, he’s old-school. Earlier on today, after getting caught in the undergrowth, he fell down a steep slope taking the cameraman, Tim,
with him. We stop filming to assess the extent of the problem.

‘Is any of it useful or shall we film that piece again?’ asks Ross.

The sound guy replies, ‘Well, sometimes I hear and sometimes I don’t.’

Ross: ‘So did you hear any of what Robson just said?’

Sound: ‘Sometimes I hear and sometimes I don’t.’

Ross: ‘Has this happened on any other occasion whilst we’ve been filming?’

Sound: ‘Sometimes.’

Ross (now losing it): ‘So are you telling me that sometimes you couldn’t hear Robson on the boat, or with the tribe or river fishing?’

Sound: ‘Sometimes I hear.’

Robson: ‘Are you kidding me? Why didn’t you tell anyone?’

Sound: ‘You are a bad man, Robson, shouting at me! The people will hear you sometimes.’

And thus the soundman became known as ‘Sometimes’. We later found out that much of the sound was poor quality but we manage to muddle through.

We trundle on through the forest. Morale is rock-bottom until, through the trees, we see the sparkling Río Venado. We hurry through to the water’s edge. It’s nice to get out
into the open air; the forest is hot and oppressive whereas the water is clear, cool and about ten feet across. For the first time since arriving, I feel back in my comfort zone; being on the
riverbank somehow restores my equilibrium.

We are using methods the tribe have relied on for1,200 years and today our bait is the machaca’s favourite food, figs. I sniff the fruit.

‘Smells very nice. Can we eat it?’ I ask.

Tribesman Oscar nods. ‘It’s nice.’

I take a bite. The fig is hard and tastes terrible, all sour and musty like grandma’s tights. I spit it out. Oscar and the other lads chuckle.

I take my line with a hook baited with the horrible fruit and throw it into the middle of the river, using the minnow-drop method that Alex and I had previously tried. I suppose this could be
called a fruit-drop – and anyone attempting it in the northeast would be called a reet bloody fruit-drop.

‘I’m in! I’m in! Please let that be a fish! Yes. Yes! YES!’ After a decent fight I reel in a machaca and I get the name right on camera – back of the net! The fish,
known as
Hiki Maleku
by the tribe, has an impressive set of razor-sharp teeth like its Amazon relative, the piranha. Its scales are silvery and tinged with green, probably from eating its
five a day, unlike its crazy carnivore cousin.
Perhaps that’s why one species of piranha is red-bellied, from all the blood
, I muse. I land a second fish and am thrilled. Oscar and his
mate have had an unsuccessful day but are pleased that my two modest fish have made me hysterically happy. They laugh at my crazy behaviour. ‘La Pura Vida!’ I shout.

In spite of the arduous five-kilometre trek back to the village, I am still buoyant, and I am beginning to feel fitter and more sure-footed. Back at camp, we smoke the fish and
serve it with – you’ve guessed it – bananas. The bananas are rank but the fish is lovely and tastes a bit like grouper, with big meaty flakes and a light texture. The machaca is
such a healthy, powerful fish, mainly because it is constantly swimming against a strong current. It’s no wonder the Maleku tribe are such healthy people, both physically and mentally. They
enjoy a natural stress-free life and a good diet: the Omega-3-rich fish, coupled with mineral-rich bananas and a good two-hour yomp to find your food, is a winning combination. Not to mention their
iron-rich armadillo – it really does tick all the boxes.

Sailfish

My journey in Costa Rica is almost over but I am returning to the Pacific to have one last outing with Jesse Baletti and Steve Starbuck, in search of the fastest ocean
predator on the planet. We meet at Playa Flamingo and head out on Jesse’s boat. Hopefully this time we will manage to hook a legendary sailfish.

The midday sun beats down, making the waves shine. We’ve been at sea for nearly five hours now and nothing has been attracted to the lures, but all the signs are positive: the birds are
scattered over the water, the dolphins are feeding, and, with the gentle sea breeze, the temperature is perfect. This is my last chance to catch this majestic billfish but I am realistic.

Suddenly the line explodes off the outrigger.
Perhaps it’s another tuna
, I think. I harness up and take the rod from Steve. I’ve been taught all the basics of what to do but
in reality, when you see the bend in the rod, all you can do is hang on for dear life. Whatever is on the end of the line is packing thirty pounds of tension on the reel. This is power – the
clutch is fully on and the line is still zinging out as the fish takes off at full speed. It strips over 250 metres of line. Jesus Christ! As I play the fish, my muscles burn and I remind myself
that it wasn’t long ago men were fishing such creatures with hand lines. The chance of this being my ultimate prize is still remote, though. This ocean is teeming with all manner of fish. It
really could be any number of species on the end of the line.

As I slowly lift and deliberately wind, the fish torpedoes out of water about 100 metres from the boat. Whoosh! It
is
a sailfish. I can’t believe it! The sail is just visible and it
jumps two or three times before diving back under the water, where the battle continues.

Jesse shouts over from the helm: ‘All right, keep your line tight, keep it tight. It’s about a hundred-and-twenty-, hundred-and-thirty-pound fish.’

I am trying to keep my cool.

‘What kind of line have we got on here?’

‘Ahh, you got a forty on there,’ says Steve in his Carolina drawl.

‘This is not salmon fishing,’ I say, straining. ‘He is just holding and I can’t do anything. Ha, right, come on . . . oooh, yes, he’s starting to run again. Whoa!
Gotta run, run, run, keep reeling, Robson, keep reeling. Ah, man, he’s coming up, keep the line tight, keep winding – this is when it’s dangerous.’

I decide to take it nice and easy with this fish, it’s a once-in-a-lifetime catch and I don’t want to blow it. He is near the boat, about ten feet away, and I can see his sail a
metre from the surface.

Suddenly the long, slender creature flies across the crest of a wave, his navy and purple sail at full mast, iridescent like taffeta in the sunshine. The fish is dark blue on top with a bistre
and silvery underside, and he has a spear like a marlin. But his sail – his sail is sublime.

After fifty minutes of playing the fish, Steve pulls the line to the side of the boat. He bills the fish and hauls the tired creature onto the side of the boat. He unhooks its mouth and unfurls
its now-pitch-black sail. I hold the fish with Steve and touch the silky sail and slippery skin. Its Ancient Greek name is
Istiophorus platypterus
, which means ‘to carry a sail’.
The incredibly complex hydrodynamic design makes this billfish capable of extraordinary bursts of speed, the fastest in the ocean.

Steve tags the fish in order to help marine biologists understand more about these incredible creatures. He returns it to the salty waters holding it by the bill allowing oxygen back in the
gills, and when it is strong enough he lets go.

What a baptism of fire. How on earth am I going to top that? I fly back to the UK, safe in the knowledge that in Costa Rica we have made a great show.

Post-Production Meeting One Month Later.

Hamish looks me straight in the eye.

‘Robson, you look good, the episode’s fine, but the voiceover’s shite. It sounds like your balls are up your ass. Give it some passion, some grunt.’

I am astonished. How dare he? Hamish looks at the editor.

‘Well, what do you think?’

‘Truthfully? It’s quite boring.’

‘Boring? It’s fucking soporific!’ adds Hamish.

I storm out of the editing studio, squeaking a few insults back at him and racking my brain for the definition of soporific. I google it and loathe Hamish even more. But you know what, he was
right. The voiceover
is
terrible. I had felt I had improved so much in Costa Rica and was beginning to grasp what I was meant to be doing, but in the end I dropped the ball before the final
touchdown.

November 2008, Series 2

Who’d have thought it? The four episodes of Series 1 prove to be a hit for Channel 5 and a second series is commissioned. And this time we’ve got eight
episodes to play with.

I pack my suitcase, mentally preparing to leave my wife and son again. People who travel a lot on business, especially soldiers, will know this feeling – the wrench of
leaving your nest and familiar surroundings, to face the unknown. As I lay out my three holdalls, the sense of adventure is palpable.

I spy Taylor out of the corner of my eye. Packing is a ritual I usually do on my own but this time Taylor wants to be with me. The first holdall is for thermals, fleeces and puffa jackets. The
second for all types of footwear, from Arctic boots to trainers. The third is for my smalls, socks, shirts, jeans and pictures of my family – something I always take with me.

‘Tay, tell me something about Canada,’ I say.

‘Um, there are lots of black bears and polar bears and grizzly bears,’ he says, growling.

I always ask him to find out some interesting and unusual facts about the places I’m about to visit; each one I use in the show is worth a quid. It’s a nice little earner for
him.

‘Very good. And did you know Canada is from the Native American word
kanata
, which means “village” or “settlement”? No? Well, now you do.’

He rolls his eyes at me and leaps onto the bed like a salmon.

I say my goodbyes and hug Vanya. The long absences are not easy for her. Then I turn to Taylor, who has been holding it together well.

‘It’s all right, Tay. I’m coming back. I will think about you every second of every day, and even though I’m away I will never ever leave you. I will kiss your picture
goodnight every night until I return. Will you do the same for me?’