Lord of the Flies

"That's part of the appeal," Marty explained. "You have to do your own research. No one around here knows anything about fishing for them." His interest in snakeheads began when he received a hot tip from Zaremba, one of his longtime guides. A peacock bass specialist who knew about Marty's record lust, Zaremba spotted the Southeast Asian natives in Broward County's C-100 canal system. While many fishermen feared the snakeheads — thinking the fish, which is similar to the mudfish and infamous for its ability to thrive in low-oxygen environments, would obliterate native species — Marty became excited.

The strategy behind this particular trip to the Pit — Marty has been here at least ten times in the past two years — was record protection. He was trying to strengthen two of his world records, which were eminently beatable. His prime competitors were not, in this case, Ratner, but two guys in Asia: Masahiro Oomiri, a fly-fishing guru in Japan; and Jean-François Helias, a Frenchman living in Thailand. "It's a trash fish here," Marty said wryly, "but a prized game fish in Thailand."

The Snake Pit is perhaps the quintessential example of the "ugly" school of record-breaking. It is a roughly 500-yard-long, 10-foot-wide drainage ditch in front of a condo complex and across the street from a Publix and a Papa John's. Marty, who has fished in plenty of postcard-beautiful spots around the globe, walked toward the litter-strewn pond, eyes widening. This was, for his purposes, among the most productive locales in South Florida: Two world records have come out of this ditch. "That's why it's the Snake Pit," he said excitedly.

The Arostegui record-breaking style is almost industrial in its efficiency. From research, Marty knows exactly what size fish is possible in the ditch, where they will be, and what line class he needs to win the record. In this case, he was ready with a spinning rod with an eight-pound test line. He wanted a fish that exceeded five pounds four ounces. "No records are accidental," he said.

Marty moved through the area methodically, targeting three or four logical spots, which happened to be clogged with trash. When he didn't see the right fish — he skipped several beefy peacock and largemouth bass — he moved on. When he did nab a snakehead, it was too small. He carefully returned the fish to its habitat — as he does with all of his catches — gathered his gear, and quickly moved out of the Pit.

Undeterred, he headed to his second favorite spot, a place he calls simply "Dunkin Donuts." As he drove down Atlantic Boulevard, Marty pointed to his GPS tracker, which highlighted bodies of water. "Look," he said excitedly, noting ponds and canals scattered among the strip malls and housing complexes of central Broward. "There could be snakeheads all over there."

Dunkin Donuts, a tiny pond behind the doughnut shop's parking lot, was basically a drive-by. A few quick casts, fifteen minutes, no records, and that was it. Marty didn't blame the locale, though. "I saw a big one," he said. It was bad luck — an iguana jumped into the pond just as he arrived. "That may have spooked them," he said.

The trip to Snakehead Land was seemingly a bust. "Skunked," Marty said, smiling. "You don't get world records every day."

But as he headed back toward Miami, he planned to make one final stop.

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The shocking news was revealed during the administrative phase of Marty's day. In addition to catching big fish, a would-be record-setter must prove he has caught a big fish. Marty takes his applications especially seriously: He submits a photo of the fish, a photo of himself with the catch on land, a sample of line, and a witness's signature. "If you're trying to do what I'm doing," he explained, "you don't want to leave any room for doubt."

The World Records Administration office on the third floor of the Hall of Fame building in Dania is a routine stop for a guy who collects records like baseball cards.

Marty filled out some forms and paid his fees ($35 for each record) for the nineteen applications from his Costa Rica trip. His son Martini picked up some junior records, as did his wife Roberta. As he talked about the fishing off Golfito, I asked Becky Reynolds, who runs the office, to check the standings and see how close Marty was. She tapped in to the IGFA database.

Then the shocker.

"Ratner," she said, was up by eighteen in December. He had 178, according to her. And Arostegui had 160. But Marty has thirteen pending and, she said, pointing to a package on the floor, six new applications. That would be 179. Reynolds smiled. "Marty, you'd be ahead by one."

Marty, only three feet away, did not respond. The man who has dedicated much of the past three years to catching Ratner did not even look up. He just kept filling out the forms.