Meanwhile, the fisherman reaches for one of our tiny catches and sticks a hook through the biggest of them. He tosses the live fish and corresponding buoy overboard, and the chum line immediately starts swimming around us.

After a few laps around the canoe, our chum line turns and beelines straight out into the gray horizon. My heart drops as I realize we’re going to have to chase him down eventually.

My mind wanders in my misery.

What had led me to this sordid state of affairs out at sea was undoubtedly my traveler ego. The day prior I had set out from my beachside hut to ask around the nearby town of Termales if anyone would take me fishing. I had been told before coming to Chocó that the tuna fishing was world-class. While I couldn’t confidently say I had sea legs, I was determined not to leave the Pacific narco-state without having attempted to catch an albacora.