My eyes were locked on a fly that looked like a green apple gumball. The bright green contrasted with the murky brown water as it bounced and drifted with the current.

I couldn't believe where I was. We were floating down Costa Rica's Sarapiquí River in a small whitewater raft, with an oar station in the middle and fishing seats fashioned onto each end. Lush tropical vegetation lined the banks, and the occasional Class II rapid snuck up on us around a bend.

Costa Rica is known for its world-class saltwater trophy fishing, but we wanted a different experience. We wanted to be on a jungle river fishing machaca.

The day hadn't exactly started on pura vida time. Our guide was delayed when a road unexpectedly closed, something that happens from time to time in Costa Rica. I tried to embrace the country's relaxed philosophy, but after checking my watch for the fourth time, I realized my relaxation components might be missing. Eventually, Wilmer arrived with a smile on his face and a raft in tow, genuinely excited to spend the day on a river he had grown up fishing. He was an awesome guide and what a privilege to go with someone who was so connected to the river.

Machaca are a freshwater cousin of the piranha—and yes, the teeth on these things are crazy. They predominantly eat fruit that falls from riverside trees, so you fish with a round green floating fly, slapping it onto the water to mimic the sound of fruit dropping.

The machaca swarm-feed, creating explosive strikes and plenty of action. But they also have hard jaws and spit the fly quickly, which means you have to set the hook almost instantly. They're known for their acrobatic fights too, launching themselves into the air in an effort to throw the hook. Even experienced anglers miss plenty. That's part of the challenge and part of the fun.

After about fifteen minutes on the river and a few missed bites, Cait hooked into a fish.

I hooked my shirt.

A few minutes later, Cait landed another machaca.

I hooked the raft.

I'm still learning to fly fish, and my fears about casting from such a small vessel were completely warranted. The moment I saw the raft, I knew the odds of hooking myself, the guide, or Cait were alarmingly high. And yes—yes, I did manage to hook myself. Wilmer, had to duck more than once to avoid sharing the experience.

Meanwhile, Cait was catching fish.

She even landed the fish of the day. The reel screamed as the fish surged downstream before launching itself into the air. My own tally, excluding myself, the raft, and a few innocent trees, remained stubbornly at zero.

Thankfully, Wilmer was an excellent teacher. He coached me through better hook sets and helped me understand the timing. The great thing about machaca is that they give you plenty of opportunities to learn.

Halfway through the trip, we pulled over to switch fishing spots, drink an Imperial, and eat fresh pineapple. It wasn't a bad way to spend an afternoon.

Then something changed.

A machaca exploded on my fly and tore downstream. For the first time all day, I reacted without thinking. The cast, the strike, the hook set, and the fight all seemed to happen naturally.

And somewhere on that river—floating beneath a canopy of tropical trees while listening to the distant calls of howler monkeys (howler monkeys! on a fishing trip!)—something clicked.

I found the rhythm of fly fishing and fell in love with it for the first time.

I finally understood what people mean when they talk about the spirituality of it. The rhythm of the cast. The feel of the line loading and unrolling. The connection between angler, river, and fish. The concentration required to be fully present.

It was magical.

By the end of the day, I had caught far more machacas than I had snagged myself, although the margin was narrower than I'd like to admit. Cait and I each landed close to a dozen fish.

But the fish aren't what I remember most.

What stayed with me was finally understanding why people become obsessed with fly fishing. Not because of the numbers or even the fish themselves, but because of the way it forces you to slow down and pay attention. For a few hours, there was nothing to think about except the next cast, the next drift, and the possibility of a fish rising to a floating green gumball.

Somewhere between the howler monkeys, fresh pineapple, and a fish that finally stayed on the line, I got it.

And that's what I carried home from the Sarapiquí River.