Mexico’s Yucatan Peninsula supports one of the best fisheries in the world, if you know where to look. Overshadowed by the nightlife of Cancun and Playa del Carmen, Mexico harbors more than just a few Señor Frog's. A four-hour drive from the Airport lies a small village with a population of around 300: Xcalak. Xcalak remains a time capsule, with many of the homes primarily dependent on solar power, generators, and rainwater collection. Trapped in time, Xcalak is one of Mexico’s last hidden gems, not a refuge for people, but an oasis por la Palometa. Dependent on two things, permit and the travelers who come to fish for them. It wasn’t until recently that the people of Xcalak realized these elusive fish were worth more alive than dead.
The weekly forecast called for rainfall topping out at about 2.2 inches a day, gale-force winds, and eventually Hurricane Iota, trapping the team for almost a week. Glued to our respective barstools we drank away the days, each our own meteorologist with only two hot topics: weather and fishing. We shared stories with the locals and learned of the history of this mythical place. Canals we had run through days earlier were supposedly built by the Mayans. Giant 2-ton boulders made up the walls of Belize’s “Mayan cut.” Stories of ancient aliens and Mayan folklore led to a discussion of Ronald Scheepstra, a 49-year-old man who had vanished off the face of the earth in Xcalak, circa 2009. Not a trace was left of his body or any of his belongings. The locals believe he either faked his own death or was abducted by a greater power. Spooky to think I was sitting on the same stool he had just 11 years ago.
Come Thursday, a window presented itself. A few hours of light along with intermittent rainstorms. In desperation, we called the guides and set up for an early morning departure. Myself and Matt Pourbaix, a Florida-based fly fishing guide otherwise known as the “Biscayne Bandit,'' met our guide Julio out on the pier. We slipped into his 23 ft panga powered by a 40 Yamaha enduro, a global favorite and practically indestructible outfit. We ripped off racing the clock and the clouds to get into the back bays of Mexico and Belize before the next system of harsh weather forced our fold. We spotted a few bones at our first spot but were run off by harsh weather. We anchored up and hunkered down as is often commonplace in the tropics. Instead of running from storms, most of the Xcalak guides prefer to stake out up against the mangroves and wait out each short band of rain. However, the intensity of this tropical depression was different. The rain was so thick we didn’t have time to seek refuge along the overgrown mangrove shorelines. We were forced to anchor in place. Julio, Matt, and I tucked our heads as rain poured through our waterlogged rain gear, yearning for the warmth of that barstool and regretting our uncalculated decision to go for a boat ride.
All of the sudden I found myself concussed. Sparks flew from the bow, the life jackets under the casting platform were ablaze, and the air smelled of an industrial fire. Embers burned through my neoprene rain jacket and my brain paused for 10 seconds, shell-shocked. We had been struck by lightning. The grab bar on the front of the boat acted as a lightning rod. The electricity traveled down the bar arching at the metal plates that fixed it to the hull. The 90-degree welds at the bottom of the lean-against had broke open. The bar itself was a burnt orange that only 300 million volts could have painted. I vividly remember the owner of the lodge saying that most guides didn’t speak much English, and everyone alike had struggled throughout the week to effectively communicate with their guides. But when Matt yelled “Let’s get the fuck out of here!”, Julio understood perfectly. Visibility was 3 ft, while rain and wind snaked along the small bay. We couldn’t leave, we couldn’t even see. We huddled on the floor of the panga until the rain passed. “Friends for life” was the first thing I said to Matt. Although we had met only a few days ago, we were now brothers. After the strike, a strange form of euphoria ensued. We both acknowledged we felt enlightened, light on our feet, and clear in our minds. Dodging death is invigorating, and potentially addicting. We had been warned by Chaac, and he had spared us, just this once. The strike would change our luck.
The following day the sun returned; all was back to normal. The group was able to finally feed a few permit on the ocean side and even a few oversized snook. The days were long and sun-filled. The crab flies we had perfected tying in the rain were sailing around, permit tails were everywhere, and abundant schools of bonefish picked through every flat.
The lightning strike was just a reminder that we are ants on this earth. We try to control everything, our tackle, our destination, and our retrieves, but in the end, it is not up to us. You can control where your fly lands, but everything else... Everything else might just be left up to the Mayans.