A Jurubida Colombia Salt Water Fishing Day

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The As yet Resting Fishing Town of Jurubida

First light broke around 5:30 am. Without precedent for days, there wasn't beating precipitation, strange for the Choco, quite possibly of the wettest district on the planet. All things considered, a languid pink gleam started filling in the eastern sky over the rainforest behind the as yet dozing fishing town of Jurubida on Colombia's Pacific coast. Practically all the anglers had since a long time ago conquered the influxes of the approaching tide and went out into the arms of the Pacific Sea. Now and again anglers like Heriberto*, never return, secured in the ocean's hug for eternity. His better half actually sits tight right up to the present day for news that won't probably ever come. The ocean could do without to surrender its insider facts, you see.

Skimming across the coated surface of the Jurubida Waterway, I looked over at the straightforward houses that lined the shore. They were for the most part wood and Cana Brava development, normal of the district. The materials were generally modest, promptly accessible and the most climate safe of the districts almost forty feet of downpour yearly.

Searching for an Entry through the Waves

My neighbor and nearby fishing guide, Pepe slid the wooden send off to and fro across the shallows of the approaching waves, left and right, searching for an entry through the waves to the vast ocean. Stopping the detachable for a couple of moments at a certain point, he then unexpectedly choked up, getting through a low-riding wave front and we were liberated from the approaching tide's invasion. Not over ten minutes across the blue green waters low expands, we dropped in 40 lb. test mono savaging custom made tempered steel spoons with wire pioneers for saw-toothed Sierra. It didn't take long for the principal association which brutally yanked Pepe's arm in reverse, halfway twirling him around in charge. He pulled in the main hit of the day hand-over-hand, swinging the silver stogie molded hunter into our 16-foot privately cut wooden send off. About six fish later the activity eased back and we continued on, circumnavigating the gathering of morrows a little more than two miles off Jurubida's coastline. The a large number of maritime birds that occupied Morrow Pelau whined loudly at our unsettling influence flying low across the waters where they personally fished.

We moored thirty minutes after the fact on an undersea plain around 60 feet down.

Base Looking for Meandering Schools

"Lets base fish for wandering schools" I proposed.

Pepe hesitantly concurred. Were it dependent upon him, we'd savage the entire excursion Gay hotel cartagena. Be that as it may, gas costs had shot up and a day of savaging would be an expensive one. Better, I thought, to savage between fishing spots, then let my Penn reel take care of its responsibilities. There were really three of us in the send off, Pepe's mid twenties child was likewise along for the Afternoon. Quiet from birth, he had a communication through signing framework worked out so nearly everybody in the town "comprehended" him when he "talked".

We really wanted some lure, so we jigged light lines with three dropper snares twenty feet or so down. Results were prompt and we pulled four inch long baitfish in by twos and threes for the following hour. Then, at that point, obviously seeing the upheaval, hunter schools of long-snouted Champeta moved in and we were presently pulling in eatable game fish. Then it got significantly more tomfoolery as saw-toothed Sierra currently moved in after the Champeta and other baitfish. These would in general be more modest than we regularly found savaging, however were a container measured pound or two pounds. We braved the whirlwinds of activity and respites for multiple extra hours prior to continuing on, savaging to the following several spots. Yelled discussions with different anglers directed us to a huge swale of mishmash hunters and other game fish.

My Penn Reel Sings

My Penn reel sang as something else snatched my terrified live baitfish. My pole tip bowed until it almost contacted the water.

"What is that?" asked Pepe.

I battled the fish to the surface and Pepe's child whistled in awe. The fat, three-foot long caramel-shaded eel astounded me as well. Fatter than my lower arm, it was feeling foul for sure.

"We need to kill it immediately" cautioned Pepe in his fervor.

In addition to the fact that it was a line-tangling hazard, yet the teeth made it extremely perilous to be securely sailed without first dispatching the animal with two or three speedy cleaver hits to serve the spine simply behind the head. The cool, feeling less eyes didn't express anything of its viewpoints or expectations, even in the afterlife. I'd no sooner stowed it and once again cast when its much bigger mate again set my reel to singing.

Later activity with respect to all got us in excess of 50 fish, including a few wonderful yellow-finned "Bobos", before we called it an early day and gone to port. At this point it was almost 11:00 am and the sun was beginning to cause significant damage. It never obfuscated up the entire morning and the tropical sun can sear you like a piece of bacon if you don't watch out. By 11:30 were back in Jurubida, fish split among the three of us and fish-cleaning, for a new fish lunch, was at that point in progress. We had delighted in one more effective, ordinary fishing day in the tropical waters off Colombia's Pacific coast. The district is one of overflow in its broad assortment of greenery, fauna and ocean life. I walked victoriously into the kitchen yet was held back. They were all over the place.