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“Meet Edmundo at the palm tree. 6am. Black and yellow boat.” The sun is yet to rise on the small Ecuadorian fishing town that is Mompiche. Which is where I find myself, stood beside what I can only hope is ‘the’ palm tree. Waves crashing to the shore, thoughts of my pending doom washing away with them. From the moment I arrived on the Ecuadorian coast I had a vision of myself fishing with locals, wicker hat and all. A seemingly impossible dream for a solo traveller whose Spanish makes ‘Dora the Explorer’ look like a linguist. But travel does funny things to one’s comfort zone. And mine’s been pushed about as far as the date on my return ticket home. So I wait patiently for a fisherman or fisherwoman until I see a man lurking in the shadows. My mind starts to race, concocting my demise: “I’m going to literally get fed to the fishes” More dramatic. “They’ll rob me blind, gringo cap and all” More... “I’ll be taken captive and forced to salsa in nothing but a fishing net” …too far. My murderer is, in fact, Luis, the 16-year-old apprentice of today’s captain Carlos, who appears just moments later. If I could say “what happened to Edmundo? in Spanish” I would. But sometimes not being able to speak the language leaves the things that don’t need to be said just so. The three of us walk to the boat, black and yellow as instructed, I almost scream “Hallelujah” as we push her out to sea. I’m excited, but I can’t shake the nervousness I feel. Sharing this modest fishing boat with two complete strangers whom I can’t even converse with. We exchange awkward smiles, a glance here or there. Each of us trying to work out how to make do with this situation I created. We reach the open ocean as the heavens open. Carlos kindly offers me a plastic sheet to keep dry. We lay the nets and I start to feel at home, reminiscing back to afternoons spent bonding with my grandad on a lake in the English countryside called 'Bobs'. Surely I can find a way to bond with these guys too? The answer comes in the form of a word I was hoping not to use, ayuda, meaning help. But not in the context I first thought. I offer to help lay the nets and Luis shows me what to do with boundless enthusiasm. Smiling cheekily as I clumsily throw the nets in the water. The ice is breaking and it’s remarkable the warmness I feel without saying a thing. How we giggle at nothingness, bonding over the experience, the irony. Local fishermen humouring a curious tourist looking for a ‘real’ travel experience. I emphasize ‘real’ as I’ve heard it time and again “oh yeah, but have you been to <insert name of unknown destination>?” This is about as real as it gets and it doesn’t cost a thing. By the time we pull up the nets, we’ve all gone crazy. Or "muy loco" as Carlos says while singing and dancing around the boat. I’m shouting pescado” every time I see a fish. Luis giggles at the mayhem. In just a few hours with limited conversation I feel I really know these men. I know who they are, their values, their energy. I know them like I’ve known them for years. And they no me. So when we head back to shore I’m a little sad to see the experience come to an end and I can’t help but ask myself “would a tourist be met with same generosity in England?” I can’t imagine welcoming a stranger into my life for a day. Nor a business allowing it, without the proper paperwork. And with that thought we say goodbye. I turn my back... “Emma, ¿quieres volver en una hora?” Oh, um, Google translate.