Special birthdays, bonefish, permit and even the chance of a grand slam? Simon Cubbage heads to Belize.
It wasn't long after I had completely failed on my first good opportunity that we moved the boat. The failure was all my fault. The 18ft skiff had been well positioned and the fish was happy. Not feeding but not moving quickly. Wind slightly off my right shoulder wasn't ideal, but it wasn't strong. 50 feet I was told. The EP crab fly was heavy and anything but aerodynamic. It needs a bit of a snap to get it moving, especially with little line out. But it has to land softly. Or so I had been told many times. Well for once it landed softly. But the fish, which the guide had been screaming in my ear as being over 30, had long since disappeared towards the distant horizon.My first good shot at a large permit. Lined. Nerves. Adrenaline. Welcome to permit fishing.
So we moved the boat into water close to the reef with open ocean beyond and totally unprotected from the wind. The wind was a minimum of 20 knots and gusting a lot stronger and I knew casting for me was limited. Anything into the wind or with the wind mainly from my right was all but impossible. The boat if left to drift was covering ground far too quickly and in the wrong direction and the guide was working hard on the pole. I spotted fish first. Two fish. They looked big and very black over the turtle grass. The guide said 25 plus. I believed him. They came to settle down and start feeding over a large sandy patch. Moving from the turtle grass to the sand and back and getting their heads down. The water was too deep for tails to show but they were certainly large. The adrenaline pump started again.
As a shot became possible a shadow appeared over the sand. 5 feet long or more, like a stationary torpedo. We saw it simultaneously. I didn't have time to register the significance until the barracuda accelerated, launched itself from the water and travelled possibly 30 feet through the air. The two permit spooked. The barracuda went hungry. My chance had gone...or had it?
The barracuda disappeared and surprisingly the permit returned and seemed to settle. The boat somehow was positioned allowing a downwind cast with the wind over my left shoulder. Concentrating mainly on not getting the heavy fly in my neck I managed to overcome the nerves and deliver the heavy crab fly in the perfect spot in deepish water, a few feet in front of a pair of ostensibly happy fish. The lead fish turned a few degrees and went for the fly. And then hesitated, turned back and joined its partner. Reload. A quick strip and without a false cast the fly was back in the water. Unbelievably in the right place. Both fish turned and bore down on it. Competing. The lead fish got there first. All that was needed was a gentle crab like strip and the take was assured. The gentle crab like strip was followed by the lead fish, head down, inches away; and then the fish turned as if it was just teasing me. Disinterested in my offering both fish lazily moved on and out of range.
The previous day had seen me wading the flats. I had cast to and caught a few bones when a pair of small permit had appeared as if from nowhere. I made two good presentations which were disdainfully ignored. A couple of hours later I had a great chance at a single fish. Again a smaller fish but still 5lbs or maybe a bit more. The fish homed in on the fly which I seductively stripped back. The fish followed, and followed until the leader to fly knot was on the reel and there was about three feet of tippet between the fly and rod tip. Then it was gone, like a bullet. Why did it not take?
I had had casting opportunities over a few days at maybe three other fish, and had seen a few more but out of range. Opportunities have to be taken but the wind, the heavy flies, the adrenaline and most of all my inadequate skill all took their toll. So after six days' fishing I had to concede. I could catch bonefish but not permit.
But this was a fishing holiday to celebrate a big birthday. So I got a second chance. Extra days' fishing a few hundred miles down the coast.
Day 1 was my birthday. Accompanied by my long suffering wife (as it was my birthday) with Kindle and camera (just in case). Blustery, mixed cloud and sun. Scully Garbutt, the guide, was super optimistic. “Guaranteed permit”. Oh yeah. “Was I interested in anything else?” No. “Let's go catch you a permit.” Oh yeah.
Early on in the day we found fish. Not many but definitely permit tails. I had a few shots. Mainly inadequate on my part but they weren't spooked. Eventually everything aligned on a feeding fish. The crab fly landed close enough to be seen but didn't spook him. The stripping was at the right pace. The fish was following. Twice I felt a momentary slight heaviness. The crab hadn't dug into the mud - the fish had mouthed it. Both times I strip struck immediately and feel no resistance. These fish are quick! Then they were gone and the flat seemed devoid of life.
About four very frustrating hours later, with next to no fish seen in the interim and having moved the boat countless times, we found a single happy fish. Moving, feeding, settling, moving again but never in the same direction. The cast was good by my standards and possibly by the standards of experienced anglers. The crab settled in a couple of seconds just as the fish came onto it. Short gentle crab like strips. The line went heavy. Strip strike. Fish on. Rod high. Adrenaline overload.
I can't recall much of the fight. The photos indicate it lasted 12 minutes accompanied by constant instruction and encouragement from Scully. I remember the backing coming back through the rings and think the fish made two or three good runs. I was just so worried about losing it. Was the drag set too light? Or too heavy? It was a haze at the time, let alone now. But the fish was landed. And photographed. And measured. And tagged. 12 and half pounds. Do they fight? Not half.
And that was it. Happy birthday. One fish. My best day's fishing. It has to be up there. My first permit.
Day 2. Heavy rain first thing (my wife regretting saying she’d come along) then blustery and mixed cloud and sun. Same optimism from Scully; no - even more optimism. He mentioned the ‘S’ word. Repeatedly. “Let's go get the tarpon first” because they feed in the early mornings. The heavy rain as we motored didn't put him off. But en route we called at a flat where he expected to find permit. We did. One chance. Good cast. Correct strip. Fish follow. Fish take. Strip strike. I'm getting good at this. Or not. Fish off. Schoolboy error. Didn't set the hook properly. I'll blame the adrenaline again. Just too many things to remember and I reverted to habit - I had been catching bonefish on size 8 and 10 flies when setting the hook could not be heavy handed.
“No worries, let's go get that tarpon.” We motored for 15 minutes then stopped the boat and poled up a few hundred yards to a hole where there was about 12 feet of water. Intermediate line. My home-tied special tarpon fly (now with Scully being copied for future use). A few blind casts and then we saw a couple of fish roll. That adrenaline thing happened again. And then a partial take. I think. A definite heaviness but connected with nothing. Expectation now sky high. The casts a bit longer. The concentration a bit more. The heart pumping a lot harder.
I allowed the fly to sink a bit more and started to strip back. On the third or fourth strip the fish hit. An instant strip strike led to the fish becoming airborne simultaneously. I remembered to bow. This necessity came flooding back even though I hadn't caught a tarpon for a couple of years. Four more jumps, not so high out of the water as the fish had strayed into shallow water. “Only baby tarpon here” he had said. The 9 weight will be fine. It still takes time to land a 20lb plus fish on a 9 weight. But I was in control. Scully had the leader. Fish caught. Into the boat for a quick photo and then safely returned. Scully hadn't uttered a word from the hook up until he had the fish in his hands. “Well played” he said. Stark contrast to the permit yesterday. Seems like I might know something about this fishing lark after all.
“No time to stay here - we only need a bonefish and a permit now.” Optimism. I'm still shaking fifteen minutes later when we're five miles away entering a lagoon like area with a number of flats. “These are good permit flats” I'm told. “Let's get the permit then we can motor out to the reef where a bone is guaranteed. But that's a 90 minute run so we need that permit. Soon.”
The clock keeps ticking, we have had lunch, and the water surface has been dimpled by a few mullet and other baitfish. But no permit. Scully is still talking up the day. “No worries. Just one fish. Then one more fish and we've done it.” We both saw the fin at the same time. Not dark and crescent but shiny and opaque silver. Bonefish. And a good one too. It seemed that it had its head in a mangrove root. “No problem. Catch this one and the permit is guaranteed. But you need this one as it may be the only bone we see this side of the reef.”
Expert boat handling positioned the skiff quickly but stealthily a perfect 20 yards from the tail with the now light breeze over my left shoulder. “No time to change rods. Just go with the permit rod.” Two good casts close in front of the feeding fish produced no reaction. Head down and feeding hard. “No choice” I'm told. “Right on its nose.” Slightly too far and it will hit the fish. A foot beyond that and it's in the mangrove.
I'd like to say that the cast landed softly. But that's difficult with a leaded crab fly and flat water protected from the breeze by the mangroves. The fly landed close enough to be heard by the fish even with its head in the mud. And did it like it! But not for long as it seared off on a typical bonefish run as soon as I struck. I had no worries until the second run when the fish sped away leaving the line angled around the mangrove. Not a mangrove twig but a fairly substantial bush that wasn't going to yield. Scully immediately started to pole to change the angle. The fish had other ideas and seemed determined to complete a circle enclosing more substantial mangroves. “Give line, give line” I kept hearing but by then I had let everything go slack. The boat was poled following the line and slack taken in. I was on my knees trying to improve the angle and as I tightened the line around mangrove roots I could feel the fish kicking. More mangroves made it impossible to get the boat to follow the line any further and I was firmly told that I couldn't get in and wade. The mud was too soft and deep. After minutes that seemed like hours we spotted the leader to fly line joint and made for that. Scully got his hands on the leader and leaning at a dangerous angle, traced the line down to the fly where the fish was still attached. The bonefish was quickly boated. A solid fish of more than 5 lbs was photographed and back in the water very quickly. We didn't see another bonefish all day. Two down, one to go.
No permit were seen on this flat or the seemingly countless others we visited. 48 inches of rain in a month that normally sees eight inches had played havoc with the inshore fishery. Another effect of climate change. My permit the day before had been the first out of Punta Gorda in a month. My error early on of failing to set the hook was beginning to grow large in my head. Tales of a nearly slam were reverberating around my mind.
Scully never lost confidence. “We only need one fish” became “You've got 30 minutes. I know one last flat where there should be fish.” The light was going as he cut the motor and drifted. He poled for 20 minutes. Not a fin to be seen. No pushed water. A few needlefish were all that broke the surface. But pushed water then was seen. Not by me but by Scully, 200 plus yards away in the failing light. He poled the boat with renewed vigour setting a collision course on the solitary cruising fish. “This is it. One good cast.” Did he realise that I had to overcome the adrenaline?
When the fish was 40 yards away and moving towards and along the flank of the boat, I made a false cast. Smooth and easy, conquering my nerves that were making my muscles turn to jelly. Half a second later at 35 yards away the fish stopped and I aborted the cast. I stripped the line back furiously and by then the fish was 20 yards away but had changed direction and was moving away from the boat to my left at 45 degrees. “Oh no” is what I heard from Scully – or something not dissimilar. One chance. 25 yards of floating line was released with a short haul. The 16 foot leader turned over. The crab fly landed. I have no idea if it landed softly but I had hit the proverbial dinner plate at about the limit of my casting under pressure. The fish took the crab immediately. The strip strike was firm. Not too soft. Not too hard. I was calm. The adrenaline was under control - I’d done this before, remember.
The fish took off. My brain kicked in. This was the third fish. I played him just as gingerly as my first permit the day before. But I felt in control. He was well hooked and well away from trouble. Ten minutes later a fish of about 8 lbs was being photographed. Slam dunk. I was shell shocked.
I had been much congratulated at fantastic Belcampo Lodge the day before having caught my first permit. They went overboard for the slam, the second there this year. I am still smiling.
Day 3. Wall to wall sunshine. Very light winds. Wife having a pool and spa day. Any permit visible from miles away. I was expecting many shots at happy fish. But the guides know their fishery. Scully was not confident. He blamed my wife for not coming out.We saw two permit all day. One fish I got to follow before he turned his nose up in disdain. One cruising fish never came into range. That's permit fishing.
But I didn't really mind. My two best ever days fishing. Probably. With special thanks to Scully Garbutt and my wife who made it all possible.
© Simon Cubbage, December 2015
With the help of Aardvark McLeod, Simon Cubbage stayed at Turneffe Flats Lodge, Turneffe Atoll, Belize and Belcampo Lodge, Punta Gorda, Belize