That first ominous little tickle in the back of my throat came on the morning after a fairly raucous evening of hand-rolled cigars, butter-smooth rum and, of all things, the hideous mixture of vodka and Red Bull. It was one of those nights that, at my age, you only endure on a far-flung fishing trip away from the steady influence of someone who has your best interests at heart. I remember looking around the dark balcony of the flashy, noisy and generally chaotic nightclub and thinking to myself, “What the hell am I doing here?”

And then one of my fishing compadres put another pint glass of vodka in my hand and kind of splashed some Red Bull over the top of the beverage, spilling a good portion of it, and laughing as it all happened. “Here,” he said. “Drink this. This way, you won’t remember it tomorrow.”

The group of Texans we were with had been turned loose on the gorgeous little city we were galavanting across, not far from the bonefish and permit-laden flats we were slated to fish the next day. Even with fishing on tap, they didn’t appear to have my, or their own, best interests top of mind.

I have memories of that odd evening spent among people half my age, drinking that toxic concoction and trying like hell to convince our group to leave that cesspool and “find a real bar.” No dice. Needless to say, the next morning, my mouth tasted like the sticky bottom of a back-alley dumpster. And my head felt like I spent the night banging it against said garbage receptacle.

And there was that little tickle. Cigars, I told myself. It’s just the cigars.

It should have been my first clue, but after that night out, the cough wasn’t terribly alarming. Many of the 20 or so guys on the trip had sampled the cigars and several of us were sporting a regretful “ahem” now and then, as we climbed aboard the bus for the ride to our destination for the week and, if all went as planned, the chance to tie into bonefish and permit on gorgeous sand flats.

I covered my mouth as politely as I could, the stigma from the pandemic still alive and well when I’m among crowds. I thought back to the night before, a fresh dose of ibuprofen kicking in to knock the headache back. How many cigars? I remembered one, and, frankly, I remembered it being positively mild. And the rum, too. Some of the best I’ve ever sampled.

Nevertheless, the cough persisted in various stages of productivity, and I even felt mostly fine, if a bit on the green side. But, no. I couldn’t be sick. Not on a fishing trip. No way.

While things were slow at first, the island and its seemingly endless sand flats proved to be plenty fishy. Despite my less than ideal constitution at the time, I managed to fish through the cough that had evolved into something a bit more sinister. But then the body aches set in after the second day on the water, and on the third, after a morning on the water spent chasing bones and tying into a ferocious barracuda, I had to surrender. It literally pained me to hold my head up.

Just to be safe, I’d come off the water the previous two days and pasted on a grin to provide some sense of reassurance to my fishing buddies, who were relentless about me not staying out late and not drinking amazing more rum like my life depended on it. Instead, I quietly retreat to my room, where I’d close the curtains and assume the “I might be dying” fetal position. The logic was two-fold. First, I was miserable, and that’s what miserable guys do. Second, in the event that I’d picked up something noxious, the last thing I wanted to do was share it with the rest of the group. There’d be no denying who “patient zero” was.

Photo: Chad Shmukler.

That third day was the worst. Whatever I’d contracted made it nauseating to be on the skiff, even as the bones were playing ball and the permit were showing themselves on occasion. I’ve never in my life been seasick. But, as this bug bounced around my body, I just couldn’t be on the water any more. I remember wandering across the road from the marina to the hotel and just kind of wandering past the hotel staff and absolutely collapsing in bed.

Then, my phone buzzed. I weakly reached for it. It was a message from my girlfriend back home in Idaho.

“Just so you know,” the message began ominously, “both of Mattie’s kids have the flu and rhinovirus.”

Of course, the day before I left, the grandkids were at the house.

“Oh,” I replied. “Well, shit.”

“You’re not sick,” my roommate for the week said to me repeatedly. “Come on out to the pool. You’re missing it.”

It was true. By laying low and trying to do the right thing, I was missing a lot. While I refused to miss a day on the water, I was honestly OK with missing more cigars and less okay with missing more rum and beer. But, I told myself, this is the responsible thing to do.

What if I got somebody sick? And, judging from my symptoms, it wouldn’t just be sick. It would be siiiiccckkk. Fever. Chills. Cough. Snotty nose. Light-headedness. Digestive issues. I’ve been sick on far-flung fishing trips before, but it had been a while. And it’s absolute zero fun. It completely sucks to be bed-ridden while the rest of the world goes on about their fishing and their drinking. I just couldn’t hand this off to another guy who, just like me, didn’t want to miss out.

I’d make the occasional appearance, smile a bit, pretend to drink a beer while I sat two chairs away from anyone, and, at the first chance, I’d perform my best version of the Irish Goodbye.

The following morning, I waited for the crew to clear out from breakfast before I weakly, but with purpose, hit the dining room for sustenance. Again, not wanting to share what I was certain was now an officially communicable disease, I kept to myself as much as I could.

And, truth be told, after a miserable couple of days, I actually felt kind of human again. I was looking forward to going fishing, and not just doing it out of rote. My roommate, who’d been the one out painting the town with the rest of the group while I simultaneously shivered and sweated my way through the first few days, joined me on the boat that morning, and I noticed he was sporting a hollow little cough at the end of the day.

I gave him a look oozing with what I was certain was extreme sympathy and kind of an, “Oh, no” expression on my face.

“No,” he said. “No. I never get sick. It’s just the cigars from last night.”