I’m fortunate to be able to fish many places and to chase a wide variety of species. Whereas once I was a bass-only snob, now I spend a lot of time and effort chasing new highs. My favorite fish is usually “the next one,” but at the same time each year there’s always a particular specimen or two that stands out. In 2019, for example, it was my trophy payara from the Rio Juruena in Brazil, while last year it was a PB smallmouth from Northern Michigan. The latter fish wasn’t quite as exotic, but was every bit as meaningful.

In 2022, I’ve been to Lake El Salto (twice), Guatemala, the Keys, Lake of the Woods, Table Rock and Panama, and I’ve had some memorable battles at each of them, but the single fish that stands out the most was my last fish in the Gulf of Chiriquí – which happened to be my first Cubera Snapper.

I’d been mildly obsessed with the Cuberas since before the first of our three trips to Sport Fish Panama Island Lodge. I’m not sure if it was their gap-toothed smile, their bright red coloration, their slow-growth rates or their reputation for being muscled brawlers – or perhaps some combination of all of the above. Nevertheless, while I was consistently around them, I never got my shot. On our first trip last year my friends Dale Steele and Elliott Stark had a Cubera double, but I was in the other boat that day. The one day I made an effort to catch one, it just wasn’t happening. We found some huge “hooks” on the graph in known spots, but with the exception of one halfhearted bite we couldn’t get one to commit. When we returned in November, we spent the lion’s share of our time on tuna, and I believe Derek Geddings of Oklahoma was the only one to connect on a Cubera. Again, I was not on that boat on that day.

Elliott Stark and Dale Steele with two cubera snapper Coiba Panama

I continued to obsess in the ensuing 12 months. I watched videos, read articles, and daydreamed about the toothy critters. Things seemed to be setting up well – from the first full day, members of our group caught several of them. I was even in the boat some of those times, but it was never “my turn,” or I wasn’t closest to the right rod. I didn’t despair, but it also became a running joke, to the point that Carl Vicars planned to take a picture with the caption of “Everyone who caught a Cubera raise your hand” – everyone else with their arms up, and me with mine pinned to the side.

On our final day we headed to the Islas Ladrones area to search for a variety of species, including Cuberas. It was a rough ride to get there, and rained on us nearly-continuously. We dropped live baits and chunks of yellowfin down into the craggy rocks, and shortly thereafter the clicker on the one closest to me started screaming. I put my thumb on the spool lightly, let it run for a four-count, and pushed it to strike. Then I started reeling like a madman until the circle hook grabbed and the heavy rod doubled over. I must’ve given him a second too long to move away with the bait, because after five seconds of fighting the fish I could feel him get buried in some sort of rocky cave. The fish was clearly still there, but unmovable and sawing away at the line. Finally that 100-pound fluorocarbon broke. I figured that might be my last chance.

Fortunately, after a few more strikes from other species, I got another chance. This time I was still patient with the lever, but might’ve clicked it to strike a second sooner. The fish, which was about 30 pounds, bulldogged and ran and surged and pretty much kicked my ass, but I had the last laugh. Captain Juan moved the boat out to where it was 110 feet deep and I took my time, played it carefully and forcefully, and didn’t flip out when I saw that first flash of red in the water. By that time I’d taken out my revenge – I was in control and easily led the fish into the net.

When it hit the deck of the World Cat, I acted like a 10 year old kid. I pumped my first, let out a war cry and could not stop smiling. Last fish of the trip for me, and honestly I could’ve caught nothing else the entire time and still would’ve been thrilled. I’ve gotten to the point in Panama where I enjoy watching others go to battle as much as I like catching fish myself. Still, there are a few that I want to catch myself.

If I’d caught a Cubera on the first trip, or on the first day of this trip, it wouldn’t have meant as much. The built-up anticipation, the fear that it would be another year until I got another shot, and the memory of that big bastard that sawed me off, all made it that much sweeter when I got the job done. Now I need to find a new target.