Double Haul: This is Ricardo, who ran the only motorized boat. The author and Samuel are seated toward the bow, and behind him he tows two noncompeting fishermen.

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"Sam-well!" calls a man sitting on his bunk when he catches sight of my host. A burly shirtless guy with a farmer's tan, still dripping from a shower, he waddles over to embrace Yera. The men are sitting in the room, passing around a bottle of rum. Everyone crowds about their old friend, who is regarded as perhaps the most knowledgeable bass fisherman in Cuba.

He introduces me all around, and I shake hard, callused hands. They are carpenters, security guards, and paper-mill workers. One is a local plastic surgeon, another a railroad engineer, another an artist. Special passes from the government allow them to be absent from work for the tournament. American anglers ready themselves for competition by studying the lake and fine-tuning their GPS settings. These guys have been strengthening their legs, backs, and especially their hands. The last thing the men want is blisters or fatigue slowing them down as they row to and from a spot that might hold a kicker fish on the three-bass stringer that each will weigh in.

I pass out beer and survey the room: eight beds with about 2 feet of hanger space in between, a bathroom off the end, a tiny porch outside. Some men have two rods, some just one, plus a little tackle box of some sort and, neatly ironed, the shirt and pants they will wear on the water. Some have an everyday ball cap and a special one with a fish on it for tournament finery. It strikes me that these guys, the top bass anglers in Cuba, have less gear than an average 10-year-old boy in the States.