“Cat foot soft but he scratch bad.”—Guyanese wisdom

“Now! Get in! Get in! Now!”

Donkey Dick made his move. It was time to get wet. Time to do the science, and, if shit didn’t blow up completely, time to push the buttons and make the pictures. He barely made a sound slipping over the gunwale and into the warm black tea. The creature rolled and flexed its tail, sending a pillow-soft jackhammer that pressured Donkey Dick off his feet and into a backstroke. The waves wobbled the boat and sent rollers sloshing to the shore.

Shun Alvin, the guide, was in the water now, too, whisper-shouting orders—bossing Donkey, coaching the angler, cursing the fish, reminding himself to keep away from the tail, to not get caught in the jumble of underwater roots, to keep the goddamn line from tangling, or wrapping, or fouling, which would break rods, sever fingertips and lose this impossible fish. “C’mon, get in!” He was waving at me now. “Get in the water. C’mon!”

The lake water was like heavy Jell-O set in slow motion, but warm—like a boggy, vaporous sauna towel. The bottom was a maze of grabby mangrove snags and sunken logs. Piranha whirled around. The sudden commotion jolted caimans from their man-eating dreams. But the head—I had to get up by the fish’s head. I dog-paddled around Donkey and used Shun’s shoulder to pull myself beside the fish. Shun had him by the belly. Donkey kept getting pummeled by the tail. I tried to get my arms under, but she bucked again. Donkey disappeared under the tea, leaving just his cap. I was in up to my armpits and the shove bullied me backward. Effortless power. I swam back, found a toehold and bear-hugged the fish. Shit was blowing up and I had some sort of job to do, even though this fish was saying, “No fucking way.”

 Finally we had her. Sorta. Shun ran a tape measure over her back and around her belly while Donkey and I pulled her to our chests. Her head was in my arms. It was as large as a horse’s, and she had soft, hazel eyes that seemed sad and gentle. I swear she nuzzled me as I held her. It’s always strange—and inevitable—to have affectionate feelings for a fish you’ve just caught. She looked sweet, kind and, of course, vulnerable—but her size made the scene feel like a sci-fi film. As if we were sticking probes into a crash-landed alien.

 When it was over, the fish taped out at 83.5 inches—almost 7 feet long. Its girth was 43.5 inches giving it an approximate weight somewhere around 280 pounds. It was a guesstimate, but she was probably about 15 years old. The telemetry tool beeped and Shun announced that the fish had a chip. He read the stats from the tool’s display. Time of day: 8:36 a.m. Fish ID number: 966622. Sex: female.

Shun went elbow-deep into the fish’s mouth. That seemed unwise. The fly came out. There were a few more pictures and then the fish disappeared into the lake, her day off to a lousy start.

Back in the boat, more details surfaced. Shun announced, according to the chip, the fish had been previously caught in 2016. She’d been fooled some 55 miles upstream by a well-known adventure angler named Tim Brune. Back then, this fish was a little under 5-and-a-half feet long and weighed about 120 pounds. This is unlikely news to hear about a fish you’ve just been embracing in an ink-black lagoon in the middle of the Guyanese jungle. But flyfishing is a truly strange sport.

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