Fishing Days are here!

Fishing in Belize is one of my favorite leisure time activities and in fact one of the reasons that I came down here. I've become expert at setting up fishing trips to the Belize Barrier Reef after cutting my teeth attempting various fishing methods in the wonderfully diverse fishing habitats that are available in a 7 mile radius of my front dock.
The Sittee River flows into the Caribbean Sea less than a mile to the south, providing a plethora of fishing opportunities both at the mouth and up the river. Incoming tides carry all types of the inner reef denizens like Snapper, Jacks and of course the namesake of my restaurant, the Barracuda Bar and Grill .
Up into the river and fishing the low mangroves form the river mouth upstream, you are likely to encounter monster Snook eager to hit soft baits or better yet, live bait. Also often under the mangrove overhangs are juvenile Tarpon, Mangrove Snapper, and Yellow Eyed Jacks. Through a cut in the mangroves, you can access Anderson Lagoon, home to Tarpon and Snook and also a great place to go on dark nights to see the phosphorescent glowing plankton that inhabit the lagoon,especially during the dry winter months when the salt content is high. There is nothing like a night time visit to Anderson Lagoon spotting crocodiles and Kinkajous while sipping a nice Chardonnay.

Coming out of the Anderson Lagoon Bar Mouth and heading south a mile, will bring you to Sapodilla Lagoon. At Sapodilla Lagoon at first light after a full moon phase, the Tarpon are voracious and hit anything that hits the water for about an hour after sunrise.

Trolling out to the reef and the inner reef is always a smorgasbord of fishing activity. Big Barracuda, King Mackerel, Jacks, Wahoo, and all varieties of Snapper are common catches along with the occasional Cobia. Once at the patch reef, you can change to some lighter gear and drop fish sardines for the smaller Yellow Tail and Silk Snapper, Grouper and amazing array of other fish. This is always great for kids as the action is almost omni-present and everyone on the boat can try at once. bring your snorkel gear and when it gets a little warm, jump in for some world class snorkeling .


Don't filet all those small snapper yet though, if its a calm day. you can head out through one of the cuts in the reef and find yourself drop fishing with larger gear with the live snapper in 200-400 feet of water where you never know what, or how big, of a fish you will catch.

Also with in this 7 mile radius of fantastically diversified fishing are the flats. World renown for its permit and bone fish, fly fisherman come from all over the world in hopes of getting the fly fishing grand slam in one trip. the Belizean Grand Slam consists of Bone Fish, Permit, Tarpon and Snook.

Come back to the Dock at Beaches and Dreams and ask to borrow one of our ultra light poles and cast out to the 2 O'clock position for grunts and small snapper that hang in the small patch of reef there and a full day of fishing is complete.


Well , almost complete,but not until you got a plate with pesto baked snapper filet over roasted vegetables and a glass of Pinot Grigio in front of you! From your fishing chef in Belize.....You'd Better Belize it!

Setting Back the Clock....and Moving Forward

For anyone who may not be aware, I am from Italian American decent. Both my parents arrived ont "The Boat" with thier parents as young children, making my siblings and I, 1st generation Italian -Americans. I was the youngest of six and my sister Annette recently sent me the following discertation which I relate to perfectly:

> The Italian Clan ~ > > I am sure for most second generation Italian American children who > grew up in the 40's, 50's & 60's there was a definite distinction > between us and them. We were Italians, everybody else, the Irish, the > Germans, the Polish, they were Americans. > > I was well into adulthood before I realized I was an > American. I had been born American and lived here all > my life, but Americans were people who ate peanut butter and jelly > sandwiches on mushy white bread. I had no animosity towards them, it's > just I thought ours was the better way with our bread man, egg man, > vegetable man, the chicken > man, to name a few of the peddlers who came to our > neighborhoods. We knew them, they knew us. > > Americans went to the A&P. It amazed me that some > friends and classmates on Thanksgiving and Christmas ate > only turkey with stuffing, potatoes, and cranberry sauce. We had > turkey, but only after antipasti, soup, lasagna, meatballs and salad! > > In case someone came in who didn't like turkey, we also > had a roast of beef. Soon after we were eating fruits, nuts, pastries > and homemade cookies sprinkled with little colored things. This is > where you learned to eat a seven course meal between noon and four > PM, how to handle hot chest nuts and put peaches in wine. Italians > live a romance with food. Sundays we would wake up to the smell of > garlic and onions frying in olive oil. We always had macaroni and > sauce (gravy). > > Sunday would not be Sunday without going to Church. We knew when we got home we'd find meatballs frying, and > nothing tasted better than newly cooked meatballs with crisp bread > dipped into a pot of hot gravy (not sauce). > > > > Another difference between > them and us was we had gardens. Not just with flowers, but tomatoes, > peppers, basil, lettuce and 'cucuzza'. Everybody had a grapevine and > fig tree. In the fall we drank homemade wine arguing over who made the > best. Those gardens thrived because we had something our American > friends didn't seem to have. We had Grandparents. > > It's not that they didn't have grandparents. > It's just they didn't live in the same house > or street. We ate with our grandparents, and God forbid we didn't > visit them 3 times a week. I can still remember my grandfather telling > us how he came to America when he was young, on the 'boat.' > > I'll never forget the holidays when the relatives would gather at my > grandparents' house, the women in the kitchen, the men in the living > room, the kids everywhere. I must have fifty cousins. My grandfather > sat in the middle of it all drinking his wine he was so > proud of his family and how well they had done. > > When my grandparents died, things began to change. Family gatherings > were fewer and something seemed to be missing. Although we did get > together usually at my mother's house, I always had the feeling > grandma and grandpa were there. > > Its understandable things change. We all have families of > our own and grandchildren of our own. Today we visit once in a while > or meet at wakes or weddings. Other things have also changed. The old > house my grandparents bought is now covered with aluminum siding. A > green lawn covers the soil that grew the tomatoes. There was no one to > cover the fig tree, so it died. > > The holidays have changed. We still make family > 'rounds' but somehow things have become more formal. > The great quantities of food we consumed, without any ill effects, are > not good for us anymore. Too much starch, too much cholesterol, too > many calories in the pastries. The difference between 'us' and 'them' > isn't so easily defined anymore, and I guess that's good. > > My grandparents were Italian-Italians; my parents were > Italian-Americans. I'm an American and proud of it, just as my > grandparents would want me to be. We are all Americans now...the > Irish, Germans, Polish, all U.S. citizens. > > But somehow I still feel a little bit Italian. Call it culture...call > it roots...I'm not sure what it is. All I do know is that my children, > grandchildren, nieces, and nephews, have been cheated out of a > wonderful piece of our heritage. >

Now, here I am in Belize, and the clock has been set back. Abundant tomatoes grow in my own garden. A second story balcony in a more protected area grows my herbs such as basil, dill oregeno and mint.
Two times a week the pineapple and lime guy comes. He's the grower. Another truck arrives with Francesco, another vegetable salesman. He's not the grower, but he travels around and buys from local farmers and brings a variety of fresh produce. I talk with the farmers and let them know what I'll buy. Now there are a few more lettuce growers and instead of going for the giant zuchini for weight, I can get smaller more delicate ones. The very fisherman I buy my fish from now know how I like my filets and actually what type of filets I like and we are on a first name basis. The Country Foods truck brings local eggs, of which all are fresh brown eggs (white eggs are illegal to sell here) and dried beans and flour produced in Spanish Lookout by the Mennonites.

The Dairy truck comes once a week as well, with cream, milk and yogurt. To me it is as close to the food as a chef can be without being the farmer himself, (which wouldn't give one enough time to be a chef). A local farm not 5 miles away now has a meat processing plant and I can go to the butcher himself and again give him my specifications on various cuts of Beef and Pork.

Another farm on the Hopkins road is now raising quality ducks, quail, lamb and Guinea Fowl and one only has to pick up the phone and order for a next day pick-up.

When a few of the fisherman go out to Glovers Reef, they know to bring me my Tuna and Wahoo whole, as I like to cut the filets myself and the palagics keep better that way after proper bleeding, perfect for a rare seared Albacore Tuna over spicy Bok Choi with ginger lime reduction sauce.

All in all, maybe its not the days of yesteryear for most people in the States, but here , the clock has been set back to a more direct interaction between chef and suppliers, and as a first generation Italian American- Belizean, I can only sit back in the evenings when the cool tradewinds blow and reflect on anther Culinary day of buying and cooking and sharing and enjoying and think that this is the way it should always be....close to the things that sustain us.........Belize it or not, its a step back in time, and in my opinion, a step in the right direction!

The Morning Fisherman

All year long, on the calmest of mornings, I arise to drink my Guatamalen Coffee and take my morning sunrise stroll, most commonly just out to the dock to look to see if any barracuda or rays might be lingering in the azure Caribbean Seas near shore.

Many mornings, especially when the sea is like glass, I watch as my neighbors from Hopkins Village prepare to fish as they have done for centuries.

The traditional ones still paddle thier dugouts out after casting thier nets for bait near the docks. After catching enough sprat to fish away the morning from thier dugouts they paddle into the sunrise with thier handlines in the bottom and a supply of palmetto leaves used for shading the catch.

The serenity of scene can only be described with photos as the fisherman shares the sea with pelicans and cormorants. Later, when he's back on shore cleaning his catch the frigate birds will signal to the villagers and savy resort chef's like myself that a fresh catch of snapper, grouper and barracuda is at hand. These are the same gentleman I buy my fish for such dishes as filet of snapper baked with pesto and blackened barracuda bites.

To observe the ritual in which my fresh catch is brought from sea to table is gratifying, we were all linked here not just to make a living, but to savor life. It made me feel just about as close to the food I serve as possible, until a recent trip to Dangriga to drop off some guests at the airport.

That's when another link in our intertwined lives near the sea revealed itself. When driving into town, over the 1st bridge, I looked up the river to see a gentleman, Mr. Fred Martinez, sitting in a partialy built dugout patiently chiseling the log which would later become the dugout. Another step in the process of catching fish, as the Garifuna have done for years. I will return to talk to Mr. Martinez as he was just one of those people I am drawn to. I asked him if I could photograph him and how long it took to build a large dugout like the one on which he was working.

He said yes I could take his picture if he could get a print to which I agreed readily.

How long would he be there working on the canoe?

About a month, and I'll be back. I printed him a copy and returned the next day to find Fred off at lunch somewhere, his chisel lay idle in the bottom of the canoe. I just stood there awhile, thinking of the canoe the old man had paddled out in the previous morning and thought about the lines that would lay in the bottom of this working boat, palmetto leaves and cast net at the ready. I must have been a sight to the Dangriga locals as I stood looking at a transformation ..from log to boat.....but I felt lucky to witness what is sure to become a dying art.

Since I had laminated the 8 X 10 glossy for him, I left it under his chisel and departed without seeing him, but I know he will be happy with his photo and I'll be back to take more.......You'd better Belize It!