Dem Bones, Dem Sly Bones

At the far edge of the flat the water is only calf deep. Sea urchins stud the marl and coral bottom, their black spines wavering in the wash. The odd shark or barracuda sinuates toward us now and then, hunting as we are, but turns away when it catches sight of our legs. "What dat is?" asks Larry as a shadow moves toward us. "Dat's a cuda—cotch him!" I flip a jig across the small barracuda's path, and he hits it. After a brief flurry against the minimal drag of my eight-pound line, he comes exhausted to the rod. Larry grabs him by the gills, holds him up in the fading light and then punches him square between the eyes. The cuda shudders and dies. "Two mo' like dat," says Larry through his gap-toothed grin, "and I got me suppah." He sticks the fish head down into the hip pocket of his shorts. I wonder briefly what would happen if the cuda was merely kayoed by Larry's punch, and it came to and began chomping. Though the fish only weighs some three pounds, about a third of that was teeth.

"You eat those things?" I ask him. "I thought they were poisonous, that they carry a disease called ciguatera that makes your hair and teeth fall out and blinds you to boot."

"Not dese cudas," says Larry. "I loves 'em fried fo' suppah. How you tells if dey poison, you cuts off a bit and throws it to de chickens or to de wee wee ants. If dey don' eat it, you don' eat it. But dey always eats it."

Lots of luck, I think.

Midday. We are staked out on a long narrow flat under the cliffs of Pulpit Rock on the north side of Roat�n, a flat the shape and consistency of a giant fingernail clipping. Massive thunderheads are building to the east—we can see the dirty white sheets of rain beneath them—but here it is dead calm and hot. We chug away at bottles of ice-cold Salva Vida, an excellent Honduran beer that indeed proves a lifesaver in this sultry weather. Nothing moves on the flat except the ubiquitous small barracuda. Larry badgers us into catching a few for his suppah. They are more fun on the fly rod than on spinning tackle, but still no great shakes. Kepler peers through his muslin mask, silent for the most part, like the weather, but now and then proclaiming the presence of fins and tails we cannot see. Nor do the fish that bear them ever appear on the flat. But the rain does.

In a sibilant, slashing rush it is upon us, rain as hard and strong as BB shot, cold with the sea wind behind it. We have already stripped to our shorts, securing our shirts and trousers in a big wooden chest to keep them dry during the downpour, and the pelting of the rain is like a monstrous needle shower. Before the blow passes we are all shivering as violently as ever we did on an Adirondack deer stand in late November or in a Chesapeake duck blind in the January sleet. Then the thunderhead is gone and the sun pounds down again. Welcome warmth. But still no bones.

Toward dark one night Larry and I check out a tiny flat east of Helene. To the south the mile-high peaks of the Honduran mainland loom above the horizon. We study them for a long moment, then wade onto the flat, sinking ankle deep in the muck and the slimy turtle grass. The fish are there. A small school is tailing just ahead of us. least a white and yellow jig to the nearest fish. It lands just as the bonefish drops its head to suck up an unwary crablet. Then I feel the fish hit, hook up and take off—all in a single motion, it seems. The fish streaks straight off toward Larry, runs right between his legs as he grins foolishly and hops clear of the line. Then the fish turns and runs toward me. I crank-like mad, picking up the line. The fish veers off and struggles weakly, rolling on its side not 10 feet from where I stand. I walk up slowly and reach down to release it. Free it steadies itself and then eases out toward the safety of the deep water.

"Mistah Bill always let dem fish go," says Larry later. "We eat 'em."

"Eat bonefish? I thought they had too many bones."

"You can get de bones out of 'em easy. Jus' crack de spine up near de head and give a big yank on de tail. Dey's good suppah, but not so good as dat fried cuda. You know why dey's so few bone here right now? De folks here been nettin' 'em. Over on de mainland de folks is all Catholic, and dey eats a lot of salt fish on Good Friday. We nets up all de fish we can get and salts 'em down and sells 'em to de mainland. A man can net fish for two months a year, and earn enough so he don' have to work no mo' dat year. Dat's why de bone is scarce right now."