Rosa met us at the end of the road leading to her sprawling hacienda. Her American husband, Randy, was out at sea, and as she prepared a shrimp lunch for me, I listened to her tales of fishing trips she and Randy had taken around the Caribbean, as she pointed out trophies for prize catches and framed, sun-blotched photos of jumbo tarpon. I was the only guest that evening, and later, after showing me to my modest room, she led me to another down the hall. It was spacious, with a sweeping view of the bay. This is where President Daniel Ortega stays overnight, before heading out on fishing expeditions with Randy, Rosa told me with a wry smile.

I woke early to sunny skies and headed for the harbor to board a panga, an outboard-powered fishing boat, for the Pearl Lagoon, but ended up having to wait, inexplicably, two hours before we shoved off. Weighted down with far too many passengers, and mounds of frayed baggage and ice chests packed with beer and food, we zipped through canals and sluices for an hour before I could see a kaleidoscope of thatched-roof bungalows on the shore.

Rosa had told me to ask for Casa Ulrich at Pearl Lagoon, and after a local at the harbor pointed me in the right direction, I found the proprietor, Fred, dozing on a hammock. After his wife woke him, and I introduced myself and asked about tours of the area, he looked at his watch and then said that he had bad news for me: The last boat back to Bluefields would be in a few hours, allowing too little time to visit the Pearl Cays, as I’d hoped. But there was the lagoon, Fred told me, and he’d lend me his kayak. After pushing out, I dodged divebombing albatrosses and watched fishing boats and pangas ply the bayous. When I returned to Fred’s pier, he offered me garlic-sautéed lobster, chuckling that he hoped he could compensate for the slippery logistics of visiting Pearl Lagoon.

As I ate and Fred sipped beer, he pointed across the water at half-constructed stilt huts in anticipation of more tourists. Among the half-dozen canal routes drawn up through the years, he then told me, at least two would have touched the Caribbean just south of here, which could potentially mean more visitors.

If you want to imagine what the canal could bring, look no further than Panama, where its canal’s locks are being expanded to increase capacity. Panama City, with its glistening skyscrapers, is a towering reminder of the canal’s significance to world trade. The creation of the Panama Canal predates what we think of as ecotourism, but now that such a thing exists, Panama is known for its biodiversity in some parts. Its Caribbean coast offers surprisingly vibrant sights for scuba divers, and the country is home to 17 national parks. But it isn’t Costa Rica. Its residents didn’t forfeit a massive freshwater lake in exchange for a bustling economy either.

Regardless, the prospect of Nicaragua’s canal perhaps provides the best reason to visit the country now, adding drama to what might otherwise be a pretty postcard tour of the tropics. I think of this when I recall my lunch with Enoc on Ometepe, when he pointed to the lake and at the Isla de Quiste, and beyond, two ferries shuttling between the island and the mainland. I took a long moment to absorb the dreamlike view, noticing the particularly tranquil waters stretching toward the horizon.