“Grande peacock…we go?” Haroldo asked, hoping that I’d finally become bored with fish that generate small tips. I shrugged and nodded as he lifted the troll motor and fired up the outboard.
We sped along through a maze of flooded jungle before stopping next to a broad flat with standing trees in about fifteen feet of water. Haroldo jumped up to the bow, grabbed a casting rod with a hookless lure on it, and began plowing the coffee-colored water in hopes of raising a monster fish. I aggressively followed each cast with a seven-inch streamer, but with high water and scattered fish, our bait-and-switch program produced only a couple more small peacocks—and one large piranha. “Ahh-haaaaa,” Haroldo beamed, as he grabbed his net and motioned excitedly for me to steer the thrashing demon his direction, “graaaaaande pee-raaaaaaan-ya!”
He carefully wrapped his hand around my leader and hoisted the fish from the mesh. I was reaching for my camera when I saw the flash of steel and spatter of blood. With one seamless motion, Haroldo had sliced the piranha’s tail off and returned it to the river—still firmly attached to my leader. It flopped and bled on the surface for only a few seconds before its schoolmates rose from the depths and hacked it to a slimy froth. Haroldo watched, clapping his hands with delight before letting go with a sadistic laugh.
When the execution ended, and the bloodstain faded away, I stripped in my fly and found only a small piece of lip skin. “Wow,” I thought to myself, “tough neighborhood.”
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