I am up early, 4:30 AM, the last day at El Pescador. I could fish for bonefish, and I love bonefish, catching as many as I have time for, but I’m starting to understand things about flats fly fishing. When the King is holding court, you attend.
Tomas, my guide for the day, is waiting for me before the sun breaks over the horizon. “I should have told you last night to leave at 4” he says. I think a 5 AM push off is pretty good, especially in the light of it being the last day of my honeymoon. My wife is in bed, asleep I hope and I’m off to hunt tarpon between Ambergris and the mainland. As we get into the panga to depart the air is still, the water calm, the silence loud. It is pure smoothness as we slide through the water, heading West.
Soon, our first stop. A mangrove island full of bird calls. The sun is just emerging, but is hidden behind a wall of gray. Clouds coming from the East have stalled with no more wind to carry them. One massive cloud sits above us, seemingly forgetting its race across the sky, content to look down on Ambergris, on us.
Stillness
The water, still and unmoving, reflecting the grey underbelly of this huge cloud, is indistinguishable from sky. We try to peer into sheets of cold, grey steel.
We wait and watch for rolling fish. There is only stillness and birdsong.
Reel up and run.
The cloud has not moved. The air is still. The sun is climbing. The water still impenetrable. The fish hidden.
Reel up and run. This time all the way to the mainland where the same story is told. We have not seen a fish.
We run back to the East and find a break in the clouds, but the glare on the water is still difficult, still like trying to see through polished steel.
Totally still.
The air remains static and while we finally have the lights on I now grasp the other disadvantage of a windless day on the water. The heat. It is hot. Really hot. I try to find even an inch or two of shade from the low gunwales on the bow of the panga to provide respite to my baking feet. The light blue deck is molten.
“Gulp.”
Tarpon breaking. We see them. They are in range and I make the cast, landing the light 3/0 bunny 3 feet in front of the lead fish. He charges, inhales, I strike viciously and the fish bolts into the air. I bow, the fish lands and the fly parts company with the fish, excused.
Damn.
“We’ll get the next one in the boat” says Tomas.
He’s wrong.
The next one I won’t see in the glare and I’ll put the fly right on his head. He’ll bolt.
The next one is too close to the boat to cast to.
The next one is 30 feet too far away.
The next one isn’t interested.
The next one I line.
The next one I can’t see and again put the fly on his head, which he is not keen on.
As we search for fish the wind is an absent player, but in place of the wind is the heat. It is smothering, intense heat. I have sweat dripping down the backs of my legs. My shirt is soaked. My feet, even through my polarized lenses, look bright, fire red. I feel like I am losing gallons of water a minute, but I’m hesitant to take my eyes off the water to get more fluids. I don’t want to miss the King.
The next fish I spot just as Tomas is about to point it out. I say “Tarpon, 12 o’clock” and point my rod. Tomas says “yes!” A school of 5, maybe 7, heading right at us. I cast, a good cast, and the lead fish charges the fly and crushes it. I strip set, feel the fish and then, inexplicably, sweep the rod. The fly is out, but the fly is still in play. I strip again and the second fish charges. I set. I feel the fish. I set again. The fish leaps in the air. I bow. I still have the fish. I start to think about getting the fish on the reel, getting ready for the battle. The fish jumps again and I bow and the fly… it unbuttons.
Tomas has no complaints. He says I did everything right, on the second fish.
Tomas does not say we’ll get the next one in the boat.
The next fish I cast behind.
The next fish comes with a gang and follows, chases the fly too close to the boat, but the school is still there. I cast in the middle of the milling fish and one smashes the bunny before I can get ready. The chance is gone and so are the fish.
There is no next fish. I realize if we actually find another fish I wouldn’t have the time to fight it. The trip is done, the honeymoon is about to be too, but this was a good day. I got my shots and I just didn’t convert. This is why we play the game.
A beautiful, wonderful, windless day in Belize.
“If it were easy, everyone would do it” says Tomas.
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- If you liked the story above, check out these stories below
- Buccaneers and Bones - the Trailer (1.000)
- Grand Slam Reflections... The Tarpon (1.000)
- Obligitory - A look back at 2012 (1.000)
Tags: Belize, El Pescador, fly fishing, no wind, Tarpon
As somebody who guides for tarpon exclusively in the spring, this sounds like typical tarpon behavior. We’ll have days where we jump 15, 16, 20 fish, and a day sandwiched in between like you just described. Like I always say, though, sure beats sitting at a desk!
I wasn’t upset about the day. It felt like a good day’s work, really. I had never been out on such a windless day, so that was new. I had my shots, I just didn’t take them as I could have.
It’s not easy, and I think, every fly fisherman would do it if they had the chance. I would. I’ve not fished for tarpon, but have had days like this with other species. It’s all good, you got some to eat, and for gosh sakes, you were in Belize. What could be better than that?
Perfect: “If it were easy, everyone would do it” says Tomas.
I’m to the point where I’m satisfied to just jump them. It’s easy to think about how you’re going to have the perfect strip set, how you’re going to clear your line, how you’re going to bow when they jump, how you’re going to play the fish. Unless you’re a seasoned veteran with many fish under your belt, everything you’ve been playing in your mind goes out the window when you finally feel the solidarity of that fish and all hell breaks lose. I kind of prefer it that way, I’m glad I feel like a scared puppy when watching a 100# fish at the end of my line break the water otherwise it might not be as much fun. Nice report!
This sounds very familiar to me! As my guide has often told me, “Tarpon fishing is the Super Bowl of fly fishing.” Perhaps that is why I frequently seem to fumble the ball!
Great recap Bjorn, thanks. That is the stuff that keeps us coming back for more. Are you sure those hooks were sharp? ; )
Thanks. The hooks were sharp, but their mouths were hard. It’s life. It was a good day.
Great tarpon report. Sounds like you saw plenty of fish and jumped two and had your heart rate red lined a couple times. Hard to say that wasn’t fun. I will say that it sounds like your hooks weren’t sharp enough. If you got good strip sets on them and the hook comes out that easy it probably wasn’t as sharp as you might think. Martin McCord, famous Belizean guide now deceased rest-his-soul, showed me the difference between what I thought was a sharp Mustad and what he called sharp. Made all the difference in the world ever since.
[…] Stromsness gracefully writes of his honeymoon trip to Belize, and how there is not always a next one. Because as guide Tomas says, “If it were easy, everyone would do […]