Honduran Coffee
By: Scott Allen
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Photo By: Genevieve Chin-Schaepe
My first night’s sleep in Guanaja was deep. The type of sleep I strive for during my summer breaks. Seven or so hours, waking up in the same position I fell asleep, and with minimal drool on my pillowcase. I peeled off the blankets, shuffled around to find my clothes, and took care of my morning routine. I then quietly slipped out the door so as to not wake my roommate, Charlie. The warm air filled my lungs, and the sweet smells of the island were an invitation to explore. My short steps grew in stride as I walked towards the lodge. I skipped every other stair as I made my way to the top. Having scouted the coffee station the night prior, I wasted no time. I quickly scanned the selection of upside-down mugs resting on the table next to the percolator and picked the most attractive of the bunch (I believe this makes the coffee taste better). I then poured my first cup of Honduran coffee.
My first sip was bliss. I was met with a rich aroma and a smooth start that commanded my attention. The chocolatey and fruity notes complemented each other delicately, devoid of any bitter aftertaste. It was a perfect sip of coffee. The perfect start to the day.
Looking out to the marina, I began to get my bearings from the lodge. I gazed out over the pangas, the seafoam blue that matched our huts, trying to envision the day ahead. I let myself daydream about catching a fish. “The skunks out of the boat,” I’d say after releasing my first saltwater fish. I appreciated that it would take a great deal of beginner's luck. After all, I had committed to going down to Guanaja understanding I may leave without touching a fish. But like the start to any fishing trip, the possibility of fish is like a first date- you think they will be “the one”, with plenty of opportunity for disappointment.
As the white ceramic bottom of my mug became visible through my coffee, I warmed it up with another hefty pour and walked out onto the grounds. On my way to the marina, the wind rushed through the thick brush and trees, and branches bounced softly against the wooden fence. Dirtbikes and Vespas cruised by beyond the lodge wall. I stepped up on the dock to gain a vantage point of the pangas. Standing on one of them was a man with a mop in his hands.
The brim of his camouflage hat hid his eyes, and I could only make out his broad smile as he looked up from the boat. His name was Baxter. Baxter’s warm demeanor was an invitation to stay while he finished his work, and I accepted. He told me stories of the island, its history, and its quirks, but primarily Baxter shared the island's beauty. If Guanaja ever needed someone to represent the kindness and compassion of the locals on the island, Baxter would make an ideal ambassador for the position. We entered the conversation as strangers, and we parted as friends. I realized that after this conversation, catching a fish would just be a bonus. No matter what was to come, it had already been a day well spent.
My first sip was bliss. I was met with a rich aroma and a smooth start that commanded my attention. The chocolatey and fruity notes complemented each other delicately, devoid of any bitter aftertaste. It was a perfect sip of coffee. The perfect start to the day.
Looking out to the marina, I began to get my bearings from the lodge. I gazed out over the pangas, the seafoam blue that matched our huts, trying to envision the day ahead. I let myself daydream about catching a fish. “The skunks out of the boat,” I’d say after releasing my first saltwater fish. I appreciated that it would take a great deal of beginner's luck. After all, I had committed to going down to Guanaja understanding I may leave without touching a fish. But like the start to any fishing trip, the possibility of fish is like a first date- you think they will be “the one”, with plenty of opportunity for disappointment.
As the white ceramic bottom of my mug became visible through my coffee, I warmed it up with another hefty pour and walked out onto the grounds. On my way to the marina, the wind rushed through the thick brush and trees, and branches bounced softly against the wooden fence. Dirtbikes and Vespas cruised by beyond the lodge wall. I stepped up on the dock to gain a vantage point of the pangas. Standing on one of them was a man with a mop in his hands.
The brim of his camouflage hat hid his eyes, and I could only make out his broad smile as he looked up from the boat. His name was Baxter. Baxter’s warm demeanor was an invitation to stay while he finished his work, and I accepted. He told me stories of the island, its history, and its quirks, but primarily Baxter shared the island's beauty. If Guanaja ever needed someone to represent the kindness and compassion of the locals on the island, Baxter would make an ideal ambassador for the position. We entered the conversation as strangers, and we parted as friends. I realized that after this conversation, catching a fish would just be a bonus. No matter what was to come, it had already been a day well spent.
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Photo by: Knox Kronenberg
Each day, on paper, looks the same except for the evening program. It’s no surprise to walk up to the lodge for breakfast and see “7:00 am-2:00 pm: Fishing” with the boat pairings of the day written on the whiteboard on the wall. Beyond that, very little was predictable. The guides, the weather, and of course, the tide and the fish keep each day unique. From wading flats to poling through mangroves, the only constant is the pursuit of Bonefish, Permit, and Tarpon.
Each guide has his unique style and approach to fishing. Some are partial to certain flats and flies, and some prefer fishing from the panga or targeting different species at different times. But what’s more, is how they like to fish. While I haven’t come across a guide in Guanaja, or the US for that matter, who doesn’t enjoy a good laugh, I haven’t met any guide who tells quite as many jokes as Edwin. I couldn’t retell any of them myself because I can’t do justice for some, and others, because they went over my head. There were also a few of which I never heard the punch line because Edwin had sighted a fish halfway through telling it, although he may have just forgotten the punchline himself and didn’t want us to know. Edwin keeps his anglers light, enhancing the passing of the hours between spotting fish.
Photo by: Charlie Meier
Being on the boat with Kendell and Kevin is a different experience. They are brothers who share a love for fishing and sharing it with others. Still, smiles and laughter fill the panga and flats we fish, but they share their philosophy of fishing in a manner that applies to all aspects of life. “Spook him or hook him,” Kendell told me the first time I met him. He has an intimate understanding of what happens when a Permit appears on the flats. He tries to prepare the anglers for the experience, to embrace the possibility of failure.
The Permit. The Ghost of the Flats– The Queen. The moment she’s nearby, an inexplicable rush of anxiety, adrenaline, and excitement takes over. Things start to go wrong. All of this, before you even cast. The sun feels hotter, the rod feels foreign, and you forget the fly is even in your hand. Suddenly your brain can’t compute the difference between 30 feet and 30 inches. It’s almost fun– if you enjoy losing all motor functions for a few seconds. Once you’ve collected yourself, the game begins.
Days with a fly rod in my hand were full of lessons, as were the mornings with a cup of coffee. Like a fly in the water, my coffee pulled me towards new conversations. A warm smile was enough to engage in deep, meaningful conversations. Lorena, who helps run the lodge, told me stories of growing up on the island. She told me about her boys, her hobbies, and her friends. “Thank god for fly fish,” she said. Not just for the jobs it provides, but for the community it creates. Another day, I sat with Walter, the head of security, who shared the blessing of the natural springs that provide clean drinking water to the whole island and the story of Hurricane Mitch. No, I had not caught anything, but in my search for a fish, I had found so much more.
The Permit. The Ghost of the Flats– The Queen. The moment she’s nearby, an inexplicable rush of anxiety, adrenaline, and excitement takes over. Things start to go wrong. All of this, before you even cast. The sun feels hotter, the rod feels foreign, and you forget the fly is even in your hand. Suddenly your brain can’t compute the difference between 30 feet and 30 inches. It’s almost fun– if you enjoy losing all motor functions for a few seconds. Once you’ve collected yourself, the game begins.
Days with a fly rod in my hand were full of lessons, as were the mornings with a cup of coffee. Like a fly in the water, my coffee pulled me towards new conversations. A warm smile was enough to engage in deep, meaningful conversations. Lorena, who helps run the lodge, told me stories of growing up on the island. She told me about her boys, her hobbies, and her friends. “Thank god for fly fish,” she said. Not just for the jobs it provides, but for the community it creates. Another day, I sat with Walter, the head of security, who shared the blessing of the natural springs that provide clean drinking water to the whole island and the story of Hurricane Mitch. No, I had not caught anything, but in my search for a fish, I had found so much more.
Photo by: Knox Kronenberg
Mornings had become as predictable as the schedule. My worry about leaving Guanaja without having caught a fish increased with each passing day, but was assuaged through conversations with my new friends on the island. The height of this anxiety came on the penultimate day. Charlie and Edwin were on the Panga with me, telling me it was the day to catch my first fish. We puttered out of the marina. I was confident I wouldn’t make the mistakes I had made all week.
I did.
Edwin and I scanned for bonefish as we waded the flat. I had finally learned to spot fish, although frequently, they weren’t the fish we were looking for. As I softened my eyes, trying to detect nervous water, Edwin pointed and said, “permit.” I dropped my fly and lifted my rod when my brain computed what he said. The slack in my line dragged in the water ever so perfectly as to catch the hook of my fly. By the time I realized what had happened, it was too late.
I did.
Edwin and I scanned for bonefish as we waded the flat. I had finally learned to spot fish, although frequently, they weren’t the fish we were looking for. As I softened my eyes, trying to detect nervous water, Edwin pointed and said, “permit.” I dropped my fly and lifted my rod when my brain computed what he said. The slack in my line dragged in the water ever so perfectly as to catch the hook of my fly. By the time I realized what had happened, it was too late.
By this point in the week, I had made a few decent shots and even hooked a bonefish on two occasions. All ending in catastrophic ways, I was able to laugh them off. Foolish mistakes or lines wrapped on coral were all forgivable errors. I was new to this, after all. But when that permit, a mere 15 feet away, turned and darted away, I couldn’t muster any laughter. I had blown it. The day ended without another shot, and as I stepped onto the dock, I knew it was over.
On the final morning, as storm clouds threatened on the horizon, a feeling of resolve and acceptance filled the air. I was destined to leave without a fish but with a greater understanding of gratitude and friendship. My trip felt complete, and I had no qualms about leaving early the following morning. One of the students, Jackson, and I had decided to fish together that day, and I was glad. Edwin’s brother, Bryan, was our guide for the first time that week. Along with him was Henry, a 17-year-old aspiring guide. As we ferried to our first flat, my anxiety dissipated. “What are you looking for my brother?” Bryan asked me. “Anything that swims” I told him through a smile. Based on the days prior, I suspected a bonefish would be most attainable.
On the final morning, as storm clouds threatened on the horizon, a feeling of resolve and acceptance filled the air. I was destined to leave without a fish but with a greater understanding of gratitude and friendship. My trip felt complete, and I had no qualms about leaving early the following morning. One of the students, Jackson, and I had decided to fish together that day, and I was glad. Edwin’s brother, Bryan, was our guide for the first time that week. Along with him was Henry, a 17-year-old aspiring guide. As we ferried to our first flat, my anxiety dissipated. “What are you looking for my brother?” Bryan asked me. “Anything that swims” I told him through a smile. Based on the days prior, I suspected a bonefish would be most attainable.
Photo by: Scott Allen
Bryan grinned, “a bonefish? No. For you, I think a permit, my friend.” After a morning of teamwork and high-caliber fishing from Jackson, I took my spot on the Yeti cooler. As we poled flats, I worked to spot fish. “Fish!” I’d say, pointing to the distance. “Jacks” Bryan would reply. We continued this dance for an hour. “Boxfish.” “Blue Runners.” Bryan would say as gestured towards the confused water. Each time my heart would drop thinking we had found our target, only to find it wasn’t what we were after. We moved slowly through a flat heavily populated with mangroves. Man O’ War on branches, so still, I didn’t notice them at first. Clouds had settled in reducing the glare on the water. “Bonefish,” I said confidently pointing at a tail to my 9 O’clock. Bryan agreed it was worth checking out.
Delicately, we wove deeper into the mangroves. As we slowed, I saw the tail. “Drop it right on him,” Bryan told me. “Hook him or spook him” echoed in my mind. The fish was only 20 feet away, and I knew I had to make my shot count. I dropped it right behind its tail. Nothing happened. Again, my spawning shrimp plopped into the water. “Bump bump, bump bump” I played my strip cadence in my head. The fish still faced away. My third shot triggered a response. The tail flipped around, and on my third strip, I was tight. I set. And set again. I lifted my rod and suddenly it was on. In a frenzy of tangled line and logs, I could hear Bryan and Henry yelling “that’s a permit!”- Something they had known but “forgot” to mention as I made my casts.
Delicately, we wove deeper into the mangroves. As we slowed, I saw the tail. “Drop it right on him,” Bryan told me. “Hook him or spook him” echoed in my mind. The fish was only 20 feet away, and I knew I had to make my shot count. I dropped it right behind its tail. Nothing happened. Again, my spawning shrimp plopped into the water. “Bump bump, bump bump” I played my strip cadence in my head. The fish still faced away. My third shot triggered a response. The tail flipped around, and on my third strip, I was tight. I set. And set again. I lifted my rod and suddenly it was on. In a frenzy of tangled line and logs, I could hear Bryan and Henry yelling “that’s a permit!”- Something they had known but “forgot” to mention as I made my casts.
Photo By: Genevieve Chin-Schaepe
Within seconds I was to my backing, my line pointing off the front of the panga, and the fish was tearing off to the left. I had wrapped around a log. Henry jumped out to clear the line, and I was tight again. Just then, the permit ran towards a mangrove and within seconds my line went slack. The “that is a permit” yells from behind me became “that was a permit.” I swatted my line in the water and I bent in half in devastation. Suddenly Jackson and Henry began to shout again. I looked up to see the wake of the permit running to open water. I was still hooked up. I pressed the fighting butt back into my waist and the fight was back on. After several runs and minutes that felt like hours, we landed the permit.
High fives and hugs were shared over indistinguishable yelling and laughter. We had caught the ghost. A moment was shared between the four of us. Shaky hands took timely photos, and we let that beautiful fish head home, just as Jackson and I would do the next morning.
As we finished packing on the morning of our departure, as we said our goodbyes to the staff and guides I was filled with profound gratitude and sadness for the week. I snuck up to the lodge for one last cup of coffee and say goodbye to Lorena. As if she knew I was coming, she was standing on the steps, with a fresh bag of coffee—another gift from the island.
Eventually, the chronic itch of my sand flea bites subsided and began to heal. And one day, the memories of a screaming reel and the joys of catching that fish might fade into the background of my memory. But the desire to drink coffee with my friends in Guanaja will burn deeply until the next time I am fortunate enough to set foot on that beautiful island.
Scott Allen is a Pittsburgh, PA native that now lives in Denver, CO.
He has been teaching high school literature for the past five years, and guides and fishes for trout all summer long. He is passionate about exploring the world through new experiences in the outdoors and through literature. Having spent his first week in Guanaja in 2022, he cannot wait to go back and work with next year's students!
High fives and hugs were shared over indistinguishable yelling and laughter. We had caught the ghost. A moment was shared between the four of us. Shaky hands took timely photos, and we let that beautiful fish head home, just as Jackson and I would do the next morning.
As we finished packing on the morning of our departure, as we said our goodbyes to the staff and guides I was filled with profound gratitude and sadness for the week. I snuck up to the lodge for one last cup of coffee and say goodbye to Lorena. As if she knew I was coming, she was standing on the steps, with a fresh bag of coffee—another gift from the island.
Eventually, the chronic itch of my sand flea bites subsided and began to heal. And one day, the memories of a screaming reel and the joys of catching that fish might fade into the background of my memory. But the desire to drink coffee with my friends in Guanaja will burn deeply until the next time I am fortunate enough to set foot on that beautiful island.
Scott Allen is a Pittsburgh, PA native that now lives in Denver, CO.
He has been teaching high school literature for the past five years, and guides and fishes for trout all summer long. He is passionate about exploring the world through new experiences in the outdoors and through literature. Having spent his first week in Guanaja in 2022, he cannot wait to go back and work with next year's students!