Cuba's biggest bass tournament is often held on Lake Leonero

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Samuel informs me that there has been a change for tomorrow. The government promised 16 rowboats for the tournament but has delivered only eight. So the two-day event will now run over four days, the field alternating until everybody gets two full days on the water. In the United States, this would have provoked charges that the tournament was no longer fair. Not least among the reasons: An approaching cold front promises a difficult bite for whoever is on the water when it arrives.

But we are not in the United States, and so four days it will be. Actually, rowboats are quite a luxury, according to Samuel. "Most of our tournaments are done either wading or fishing from inner tubes."

Some of the men, he tells me, are market fishermen. They rise before dawn to bicycle to local lakes, spending all day kicking around the water. Eight or 10 hours later, they deflate their tubes and ride home carrying rod, tackle, fins, tube, and their catch. This sounds like it would be fun for a while. To do it day after day, to have to do it, might not be.

I look around the room and notice the oars in the corners. For this, the national championship, each team has to bring its own. One set with aluminum shafts leans against the wall, but the others are completely homemade, poles with splits of roughly shaped wood nailed or screwed to the shafts. Two pairs sport blades of corrugated aluminum, a common roofing material, that has been hammered more or less flat.

The mood in the room is relaxed and happy. Tomorrow, on the water, they will compete. But for now they are celebrating having made the cut and seeing old friends. Samuel says there are about 80,000 members of the Cuban Federation of Sport Fishing, the organization that sponsors tournaments, of which number he believes 30,000 are bass anglers.

"But this is the most important tournament in Cuba, because we believe bass are the hardest fish, the most sporting. It's a big honor to the winner." The tournament began in 1969, and this is the 25th time it has been held on Lake Leonero in rural Granma province. When the rum reaches me again, I take another swig, grimace, and pretend to suffer mild convulsions. "Ah," I finally gasp. "Que bueno!" They laugh. Maybe I'm okay after all.

Some of the rods, I notice, are rigged with neon-bright orange or yellow line. I ask Samuel if the bright line doesn't spook fish. "You don't understand," he says, smiling. "Here there is no learning curve. The first time a fish gets caught is also the last time." One guy suddenly discovers something beneath his bed and holds it up with a cry of exclamation. It's a coconut shell filled with flowers, bird feathers, colored stones, and a tangle of old fishing line. "Santeria!" he announces-"the Cuban folk religion that blends Christianity and African animistic beliefs, including the power of charms and spirits. Someone has put it there to jinx him. He deadpans that his skill is such that he will defy witchcraft. The room erupts in loud, friendly derision.