“I wish I had been there” is a familiar lament for many. It certainly applies to me with regards to the incident which follows.
In the camp’s early days, my father would travel to Ciudad Bolivar to pick up the month’s payroll. This was long before the bridges which now span the Caroní River and the multiple lane highways which came years later, during my lifetime, in fact.
Back in the 40s, the trip was very long and also required him to spend the night under the open sky, something he did not mind and did not consider dangerous, even though he carried the camp’s month’s pay, in cash. He was never threatened with theft.
On one of those trips my father was rewarded with a sight he often recalled: a black jaguar.
My father had a copy of Fauna Descriptiva de Venezuela, by Dr. Eduardo Röhl, published in 1949. As a child I would avidly thumb through that edition, pausing here and there to read more carefully when the subject especially struck my fancy.
I have my father’s copy with me and regarding the black jaguar it says that it “lives in the jungles of the Orinoco, [and] is a case of melanism”, meaning a genetic issue which causes the skin to hide the spots to greater or lesser degrees and highlight the black color. In Venezuela the terms jaguar or tigre are interchangeable, but all agree that the black version is rarely seen.
This comports with the Wikipedia article which affirms that black jaguars have been sighted throughout Central and South America, but rarely.
On one particular trip, late at night, my father was driving the stretch from Ciudad Bolívar to Puerto Ordaz, the confluence of the Caroní and Orinoco rivers, grateful for a full moon by which he might see the outline of a tree under which he could spend the night.
However, the moonlight rewarded him with a more dramatic sight that night. The landscape was clear even though it was late at night. The brush and sandy loam had the grayish, yellowish hue so common to a full moon. And then he sensed something to his immediate left, outside the driver’s door and open window.
It was black and it was running like a gazelle parallel to the car on the left side of the road. It seemed as if the perfectly formed, graceful creature were racing the car. My father could see the light of the moon reflected off the jaguar’s shiny black coat. The sight was mesmerizing. He kept looking, while quickly glancing to the road, as it ran and ran and ran. And then it swerved to its left and disappeared in the thickets and brush.
My father slowed the car and looked through his open window hoping to see the animal one more time. But, of course, he did not.
The jaguar is a nomadic creature with no fixed pathways for his nocturnal journeys. Its prey ranges from the clumsy Chigüire to tree-based monkeys of all kinds. During Humboldt’s years of discovery, the jaguar was the greatest enemy of the river turtles in Venezuela, which, by the time I left the country in the 70s, were often seen but nothing close to the abundance described by the great explorer.
I was blessed with a happy childhood. Part of what enabled that blessing was having a mother and father who did not allow a complaining spirit in the home and who were astute enough to remind us of our blessings and daily provision, not least of which was food on our table every day.
I tended towards a bit of “shyness” but my parents did not allow me to shrink away from social events or gatherings; on the contrary, they pushed me into them, which sort of “forced” me to swim or sink. And I am grateful, because to this day gregariousness is not my strong suit; nevertheless, I remember my parents’ and now “force” myself, instead of relying on mother or father to do so.
Ada Barnes, née Rodriguez, was born September 30, 1930, in Upata, Estado Bolívar, in the interior regions of Venezuela. Her home was typical of the era and the region: a rustic, colonial type structure, meaning a front door and heavy wood casement window facing the dirt street. Beyond the door was a small rectangular receiving room. Farther on, an entryway led into an open hallway which led to the kitchen, and beyond it, a larger garden area with fruit trees, chickens, turtles, and pigs.
My mother’s earliest memory was of the men who would be hired to come and slaughter a pig for food. It was a very loud affair and she would run as far away as she could within the house, find a corner, and stop her ears. That memory stayed with her to the end.
She had formal schooling through the third or sixth grade (I heard both versions and was never able to confirm either), however, her grammar was impeccable and her handwriting, beautiful. After a secretarial course, she was hired by the Bethlehem Steel and worked in San Félix until she met and married my father who also worked at Bethlehem, known to all as he who “nos pagaba todas las semanas (he paid us every week)”, as an elderly friend recently wrote to me. But he was better known outside the company as a wonderful baseball player and manager who skippered his rag tag team into Double A championships. Mom was his biggest fan.
They moved to El Pao and our family grew to four children: two girls, Brenda and Elaine, and two boys, Ronny, the youngest of the four, and me, the firstborn.
In that time and era, our parents’ friends were also our friends. So, I remember with great fondness, Mr. and Mrs. Berán and Ninoska, and their patriarch, Mr. Axmacher, and matriarch, Mrs. Panchita. Also, the Belafonti’s and Jackson’s, Carmen Luisa, who was also my godmother (Madrina), Mario Pérez and his wife, Oladys, Paco, who ran the camp gasoline station, and also Sr. Medina, Dad’s mechanic, and Mercedes, his wife, and Mr. John Tuohy and his wife, Clara, and Mr. Giliberti and his wife, Lucila, and Charles Abaffy with whom my father had a hilarious, continual repartee, Mr. and Mrs. Ivanosky from Russia. Those are the names that come up immediately, and more and more also are making their way from my memory banks, but I must stop. The point is that all these folks were adults who, later in my life, were also my friends and advisors. My parents’ friends were my friends. Practically all are gone now. But my gratitude remains.
In 1978, I had planned a 3-week vacation to Venezuela. My plans were detailed and efficient — I had packed lots of experiences into that period of time. Or so I thought.
Then I shared my plans with my mother, who immediately thrust a list — a multi-page list — of names with telephone numbers into my hand. She insisted that I visit each and every one of the people on her list.
“How can I fit these visits into my plans?!” I asked, with a bit of exasperation.
“You must”, was the simple reply.
And I did. I visited every single family or person — with only ONE exception, and that was because the husband was ill and the wife was indisposed, or so they told me over the phone. Later, as I dutifully reported my obedience to her, when I came to the one couple whom I had failed to visit, my mother smiled, “Well, at least you called them. They cannot say they were ignored. And I am not surprised at their refusal. Life has many people like that, but you must not be like them.”
So, she figured they’d tell me to hit the road and still she included them in her list! That’s my mother.
I must say, of all the trips or vacations in my life, including spots in exotic places of the earth, that 1978 trip, jam-packed with visits to friends and family, was among the most memorable because it was focused on people — men, women, and children who meant very much to my parents and to me.
Not too many young men can boast unapologetically that their mother planned their exotic vacation. I am proud to say that my mother planned mine on that occasion, and it turned out to be among the most memorable of all. And it was a lesson that has remained with me to this day: what endures are the personal relationships — friends, family, dear ones — more so than the spectacular sights or experiences. Life is short, too short. But we were created to live forever. In the Lord, friendships, family, brethren will live on. And we will see them again.
My mother widowed on October 9, 1982. She had no interest in remarrying and remained a widow until her own entrance into glory on September 6, 2023, 24 days shy of her 93rd birthday.
The last weeks of her life as she steadily weakened, the last thing to go was her mind. She remembered me immediately each time she saw me or upon hearing my voice. But not only me: it was the same with her other three children, and her grandchildren, and even her great-grandchildren. She was alert, even when appearing to be asleep. At times she’d exclaim, “Me duele el cuerpo“, or “¿Qué me pasa?“, or at the end of a prayer or the reading of Scripture, with great effort, she’d say, “Amén” or she’d be able to utter, “Dios te bendiga“.
Such utterances became more difficult and infrequent.
Shortly before her passing, we received a visit from Carmen Herminia, one of our childhood friends whom we had not seen for over four decades. It is difficult for me to describe that joyful occasion, other than to say that it was impactful to my mother, who by that time could not speak. She had tears of joy as Carmen Herminia played voice mail messages from several ladies from the church in El Pao and as she heard them express their gratitude to my mother and to my father for their years of service there and their impact on their lives and their consistent reflection of love and devotion to the Triune God and the Christian faith. We sang hymns and prayed and Mami was content.
In addition to her husband, Charles, her parents, Julio Rodriguez and Eleana Pérez also preceded her in death. She is survived by her children, Richard M. Barnes (Lillian), Brenda E. Barnes, Elaine M. Childs (Christopher), and Ronald M. Barnes (Heather); 21 grandchildren; 15 great-grandchildren; many nieces, nephews, and extended family.
She is the last of the fathers, mothers, aunts, and uncles with whom we grew up. My sadness is deep, but so is my gratitude. She died midst her children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren.
Thank you, Mom.
This is not Upata; however, structure on the far left offers an idea; my mother’s birthplace front facade was a single door and casement window in a space slightly wider than what is seen above just left of the utility pole.
This gives a clearer idea; however the above is far “nicer” and beautified for contemporary consumption.
From left: Aunt Sarah, Uncle Wichy, Father, Mother, Miami, Florida, circa 1956. Mom was the last surviving member of that generation in our family.
Mother and Father, September 25, 1957
A day where most but not all her children and grandchildren visited. She talked and smiled much.
Mom received children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren. The photo does not reflect her gestures and smiles, but they were there. She was content.
Company towns in petroleum or mining camps in Venezuela, like El Pao, had hospitals and doctors who tended employees and their families. Recently, I was prompted to think a bit about my childhood experiences and interactions with doctors and the hospital. My experience was primarily in El Pao, but also encompassed an annual check up with a doctor in Miami. I suspect my parents just wanted to sort of double check by getting a second opinion to confirm that all was well.
As I’ve told my children over the years and now tell my three youngest who are still at home, we have been blessed with good health. It is far too easy to take this blessing for granted. One should never do so.
Whenever we had to see a doctor (anemia, parasites, fevers, tonsillitis, broken collar bone, sudden nausea), depending on the urgency, we either rushed in as an emergency or made an appointment. In any case, Dr. Hernandez [a composite name serving for several doctors whose faces I can still recall and none of whose names was “Hernández”] would examine the patient and tell my parents what he had noticed and his treatment including any medicines he’d prescribe.
On one occasion, when I was about 6 or 7 years old, I was accompanying my father as he travelled with the company baseball team to play in Ciudad Bolivar, on the Orinoco River. This was before the bridges across the Caroní River were built and crossings were by ferry, making the trip much longer than it was by the time I left Venezuela.
About 40 minutes after the river crossing, the team stopped at El Kilómetro 70, a major highway intersection with a large, popular diner and gas station. I told my father to go ahead, that I’d wait for him in the pickup. I did not tell him that I was feeling very poorly because I did not want him to send me back and so cause me to miss the ballgame.
However, “Cero”, the water boy who was one of the friendliest and kindest men I have ever known, had decided to come out and look in the pickup, “¿Te pasa algo?“
I had been curled up, not thinking anyone would see me. He startled me but even so I could not move quickly as I was in pain and, as I recall, had nausea.
He turned away and in a minute my father was opening the door and after a brief discussion he along with Cero decided to drive on ahead of the team to Ciudad Bolivar where we had friends. Regardless, this would take less time than to travel back to El Pao, river crossing and all.
My father drove to our friends, the Graziani’s, who immediately took us to their family doctor who attended me promptly. I don’t recall what he did, but I do remember that by the time we left his office, I was hungry and at Mrs. Graziani’s house she served me the most delicious pumpkin soup ever. And I was not partial to soup. I have been blessed with the opportunity to travel to many different parts of the world. Whenever a restaurant had pumpkin soup, I’d order just to see if it equalled my childhood memory. Of course, none ever has.
My father told me later that Cero had come inside “El Kilómetro 70” and had told him that my color was not good. That caused my father to look at me more carefully when he came out to the pickup. He was impressed with and appreciative of Cero’s perceptions.
I think my father was able get to the game in time that day, but I had to stay with the Graziani’s. However, by then, I was content. I do remember his telling us our team had won.
Medicine and doctor care was very personal then. My father paid the doctor and thanked him. In El Pao, the doctors were paid by the company. In Miami, as I recall, medical costs were a bit less simple because those were paid by the company’s medical insurance; however, care and interactions were far more personal and direct than they are today.
These thoughts were prompted by the chapter, “The Crisis in Medicine” in the book, The Sensate Culture, to which I’ve alluded in an earlier post.
My intention was to write a brief review of that chapter here, but then I remembered Cero, and it is impossible not to pay tribute to him first. Unfortunately, I do not remember his real name and my mother does not remember either. However, in his case, the nickname was purposefully the exact opposite of the man’s worth. He was respected and admired and was easy to laugh with.
After leaving Venezuela, between college studies and early career hustle and bustle, I eventually forgot about Cero. Then came the expropriations of the oil and ore enterprises in Venezuela under the first administration of Carlos Andrés Pérez and many Americans and their spouses, including my parents, left the country.
The year was 1976 and unbeknownst to my father, word had spread of his imminent departure, and the veterans of the mining camp baseball team, which my father had shepherded to AA ranking and championships, agreed to come from all points of the country and surprise him with a veterans game. Newspapers covered the event but I’ve lost the clippings.
However, several men, including Cero, did not get word of the event.
About a month later, my father and mother, along with my little brother, had begun their trek out of the country. Their first stop was Maiquetía, the international airport which serves Caracas, where they were to spend the night and then head back to the airport the next morning. As they waited for their luggage, Cero saw them and ran to them. They embraced and laughed — it had been more than a decade since Cero had left El Pao and they had lost touch.
After asking about the rest of the family and being told that everyone is fine, Cero said, “I remember that you usually took your vacation in September. I see you now are taking it in the springtime?”
“Well, this is not a trip for vacation; we are leaving the country.”
Tears welled in Cero’s eyes, and they talked for a long time. But what I remember most from my parents’ narrative of the event was something he said amongst all the words, “Please don’t leave, Charles. This is your country. You are loved here. Don’t leave.”
I still choke up when I recall that; and I had not recalled in many years.
They embraced and parted company one last time.
Cero was worth millions.
Multi-year AA Champions. My father is in front row, far left. Cero is not pictured.
Sopa de auyama (calabaza). Hard to beat a childhood memory.
I do not remember her first name, if I ever knew it, that is. Back then, for us youngsters, it was strictly “Mr.” and “Mrs.” and “Miss”.
But I do remember her.
She was from New Mexico. And boy did she resent Florida’s having “stolen” their state motto, “The Sunshine State”, from New Mexico! She said she could prove the theft too! Although I never asked her for evidence.
Once, after I handed in a picture project on hygiene, she called me to her desk and, remaining seated, gently began explaining why she thought I had missed the point. I had drawn a picture of a refrigerator. Through the open door, one could see the shelves labeled with the names of the items that belonged on each: eggs, milk, soft drinks, butter, and so forth.
“The fact that some of these items may be misplaced, does not affect cleanliness,” she said.
“Oh, I know. What I was showing was that if you leave the refrigerator door open, food can spoil,” I replied, silently wondering what items I had drawn so poorly that she thought they were misplaced!
She looked up at me as I stood with a genuine look of surprise that she would not have understood the intention of having drawn an open refrigerator door. Then she leaned back on her chair and laughed.
“Ah! I see. OK. Yours is a valid observation. Leaving the refrigerator door open is not good. You can go back to your desk.”
That same year, we took a field trip to the Orinoco to explore the Bethlehem Steel port facilities. That was one of my most memorable school trips, though, if you ask me why, I wouldn’t be able to tell you even if my life depended on it. I remember boarding the van, riding there, searching around the port, and riding back. Maybe I so enjoyed the camaraderie with my fellow classmates that the trip just floods my memory banks with good thoughts.
And then there was that night that some hooligans (my friends) did some mischief at the club. I don’t recall the mischief, but boy do I recall the tongue-lashing Mrs. Miller gave the class the following morning! I recall that because I had no idea what she was talking about.
It must have shown on my face because she snapped at me, “Ricky, don’t act like you don’t know! You were part of the gang!”
I was crestfallen. One of my friends noticed it and demurely raised her hand to say, “Mrs. Miller, it is true that Ricky was not a part of the ruckus. He was there at the beginning but left soon after the trouble started.”
My dejection was replaced by white hot anger! My “friend” was lying, and she knew it. I was not there at all. But she obviously was! She even smirked at me — when Mrs. Miller wasn’t looking, that is.
I am chuckling and laughing as I write this. What was so important to me at the moment, is now a childish memory. Actually, it became a good memory, for which I thank both Mrs. Miller and my friend.
A year later, I myself became a hooligan one afternoon when several of us, hunting for bats, managed to fall through the club ceiling causing quite a mess on the tables, chairs, and floor below. I’d never before (or since) seen so much guano rain down. And the company executives who just happened to be inspecting the premises that very day were also impressed with the bat droppings and the shocked kids hanging from or watching down from the now very visible attic. Our daze in trying to figure out how to clean up the mess was extremely short-lived, as we were peremptorily instructed to go. Immediately! We quickly obeyed.
So, Mrs. Miller’s rebuke was well deserved, even if it was a year too early! As the film noir puts it: “The postman always rings twice”.
My work took me to New Mexico often in recent years. It is one of those places that pull at you, like Venezuela. The West does that to many of us. I thought of her often during those trips.
I think Mrs. Miller was in El Pao only one school year. At least that’s what I remember.
But for some reason I do remember her. And I appreciate her.
Field trip to the port. My friend, Jimmy Shingler is at left. Mrs. Miller is to his left, second row. I am just in front of her in front row. My liar friend is also in the photo. But I won’t tell! (Photo courtesy of James Shingler) Another photo from that trip (Photo courtesy of James Shingler) The Orinoco River (Photo courtesy of James Shingler) Madeline and Eileen, two young ladies from El Pao, circa 1967. The club is in the background. (Photo courtesy of Caroní Contini) New Mexico sunset Bat guano in the attic. Not pretty. It’s even worse on the furniture.
Childhood memories are notoriously deceptive. I had a friend who painted his childhood with broad, black strokes. Gothic does not come close to describing his lurid remembrances. Years later, talking with other members of his family or with his friends, I came to see his memory wasn’t totally fair. From all appearances and recollections of others who had no reason to misrepresent, his childhood was not so terrible.
On the other hand, I’ve known someone, a decent fellow, whose recollections are of wonderful, funny, and happy times of childhood. Yet, in that case, I know, for a fact, having lived nearby and in “real time”, that all was not well. But his remembrances were of broad rose strokes and I certainly would not attempt to convince him otherwise.
I cannot objectively say where I fall in that spectrum but my recollections are happy and when talking with my mother and parents’ friends, as well as perusing old correspondence, it appears my memory is not far off the mark. Anecdotes are for the most part confirmed or, when modified, never beyond recognition.
One of those reminiscences is of my father and the Venezuelan cachicamo.
As brief background: when my father was a young man, before he went to Venezuela, he was a member of a team of agents who worked for the United States army. In those days, the early 40s, part of their training was on the Harvey Firestone (founder of Firestone Tire and Rubber Company) property in Miami Beach, Florida. About a decade later, the Firestone estate would serve as construction headquarters during the building of the famous Fontainebleau Hotel until the estate was torn down to make way for the hotel’s famous gardens and pool.
Early in the mornings, his fellow agents would see my father go out on the water where he’d start tossing jelly fish out of the way to make room for a morning swim. Henceforth, they called him “Tarzan”.
A few years later he worked for the Bethlehem Steel Company in Venezuela, first in Palúa for a few years and then El Pao for the rest of his career at the company. While in Palúa my father would sometimes dive off the ore bridge into the Orinoco River below. This was an astonishing feat not only to his fellow employees but to the many locals who’d gather along the shore to watch him. His “Tarzan” nickname was well earned.
When I was about 8 or 9 years old, I recall a trip with my father to the American Consulate in Puerto La Cruz, on the north coast of the country. This was, for me, an exciting drive, usually overnight, including a ferry crossing over the Orinoco River, endless miles on the Venezuelan Llanos, dizzying heights on the mountain ranges hugging the spectacular coastline, and astonishing views of some of the most beautiful beaches in the world.
(Although Puerto La Cruz is in the state of Anzoátegui, it borders the state of Sucre and that is where many of my memories reside, principally due to that state’s magnificent beaches.)
About two hours after ferrying across the Orinoco, we saw a cachicamo scurrying across the highway. My father slammed on the brakes, pulled off the road, disembarked and ran after the critter. I remember a car whizzing past but not so fast that I could not discern its driver and passengers looking at my father, first in wonderment and then in howling laughter, which, of course, I could not hear.
He caught the creature and placed him in a box he had on the back seat floor. We continued on our journey. And heard loud scratching, which we at first assumed was that of the bored animal doodling the inside of the box. Then as a car passed us the driver blew his horn to catch our attention. As we looked over he signaled to our rear. We looked to find the cachicamo now against the back window scurrying back and forth. It had to have jumped up there only a second or two prior. We stopped, opened the door and shooed the beast out. We then inspected the damage his scratching had done. We had picked him up in the Llanos and kicked him out in the high mountains. Hope he did OK.
Back in El Pao, on another occasion, my father again jumped out of the car to catch another cachicamo. This time critter and human both slid, scratched, and rolled down a steep embankment at the foot of which my father grabbed the animal and carried it back up the jungle hill, slipping, sliding, falling, but not letting his prey escape.
The cachicamo, like the armadillo, has little hair and can weigh over 20 pounds and measure 5 feet long (see photo below). Whoever attempts to catch it must be very much aware of its long and devastating claws. (The Venezuela Cachicamo Gigante is another story altogether which will be for another day.) This large rodent eats ants, worms, larvae, and also meat. And, yes, folks eat it: they tell us it tastes like chicken, beef, rabbit, and pork. I’m not sure I understand how it can taste like all those meats, nor, at this remove, am I aiming to find out.
Mr. and Mrs. H, good friends of my parents had told my father that they would be happy to prepare any cachicamo he’d bring them. So he dutifully slaughtered the critter and took it up the hill to them and they made plans for dinner later that week.
For some reason I was up that night when my parents returned from their dinner at Mr. and Mrs. H’s home. As my father tossed his suit coat on the sofa, he said with a hint of exasperation, “Remind me to never again catch a cachicamo!” To which my mother replied, “Oh, sure. You’re a new man.”
The next morning I was regaled with the story.
As they drove up the hill to Mr. and Mrs. H’s home the night before, my father was in eager anticipation of the Venezuelan dish that the lady of the house was preparing from the game he had caught that week. They parked the car, walked up the front steps, and knocked. Mr. H exuberantly opened the door and, with great alacrity, ushered them in while endlessly chatting on how happy Mrs. H was in preparing and cooking that night’s pièce de résistance: Cachicamo on the Shell.
What Mr. H did not seem to notice was the stench that had greeted my progenitors when the front door had opened. “What is that smell?” they had both thought but could not ask out loud just then.
Mrs. H came out through the swinging kitchen door in high spirits and pulled them in to observe the final touches on that night’s cuisine. To their horror, they realized the fetid aroma originated from the cooking area.
But, again, they said nothing.
The stew of cachicamo, who by now was the object of silent maledictions from my mother, was placed, in all its glory, heaping hot, and in its shell, at the center of the table. And all were joyously served therefrom.
My father bravely ate his full dish. An act of courage and manliness which, after leaving, my mother rebuked: “If you knew that smell came from our main course, why on earth would you eat it so quickly and thereby give opportunity to be offered more?! Not even Tarzan eat so fast?”
“Oh, Charles! I can see you really like this! Here, have some more!” Mrs. H had exclaimed heartily and joyfully over my father’s courteous demurrals. But his “Oh, no thank you’s!” were too late: she slopped another heap of local color on his plate and he, having been taught since childhood to always eat what is served, dutifully and painfully ate the whole thing.
My parents’ theory, most reasonable, is that Mrs. H had neglected to have the shell properly boiled. Not to put too fine a point on this, the cachicamo being a rodent, the smell that greeted the visitors that night was that of a dead rat.
Many years have passed since that event. Even now, as I write this, I smile and even chuckle, holding the loud laughter in.
As a family, that became one of our favorite stories. I shared it with my youngest sons just three days ago as we drove to church. They too howled with laughter.
Thank you, father and mother, for a happy childhood.
Harvey S. Firestone (1868-1938). His Miami Beach estate, later the Fontainebleau, is in the background Fontainebleau Hotel today Cachicamo (very similar to the Texas armadillo) Bethlehem Steel port of Palúa. Camp housing in the foreground. Note the ore bridge to the right. As a young man, my father used to dive off that bridge to the astonishment of both his fellow employees and the locals. By the way, I confirmed this as a young adult by asking a number of folks in El Pao, San Félix, and Palúa. La Chalana (ferry). This is actually the ferry which used to cross the Caroní River from San Félix to Puerto Ordaz. I was unable to find a photo of the San Félix ferry crossing the Orinoco River for that era. But the setting was very similar to the above. This is the “chalana” currently in use in San Félix on the Orinoco. I am told that to get to it is a very difficult journey on a heavily deteriorated road full of holes and trash and sewage. Despite this, many still use this means to travel between the states of Bolivar and Monagas. One of the numerous beaches along the Sucre coastline (north coast of eastern Venezuela) My father and I on the Orinoco River bound for Puerto De Hierro, circa 1962. My father and his catch, a Sábalo. This species is found both in the coastal ocean waters as well as far inland on major rivers, such as the Orinoco. The Sábalo can grow up to 8 feet and weigh as much as 330 pounds.
