Tough Love

I’ve been thrown out of bars. I’ve been thrown out of school. I’ve been thrown out of the house. But I’d never been thrown off a skiff before.

Bring it in. Put on your boots. You’re walkin’ back.

To be honest, I probably deserved it. (I typically come by my expulsions righteously.) I’d blown shot after shot. Torrie had busted his ass to find us fish and I’d screwed it up time and time again.

Eleven o’clock. Eleven! You’re lookin’ nine! Square up on the boat, mon.
Put it in front of the fish. He don’t eat out his tail.
I said forty feet. That’s [pick any number less than forty].
You don't see those fish? There’s ten of them!
No. You’re OTHER right!

So he dropped me off and he left me. Pushed off with Jason on the bow and headed out into the sprawling flat, instructing me to walk the edge of the mangroves with the sun at my back and keep going. He’d pick me up on that far point, a mile or so out. Maybe.

It had been frustrating, fumbling all those opportunities. Bad line management, poor accommodation for wind, poor fundamentals. I’d stood on the bow at the ready and took deep centering breaths to calm the inner tension but the moment Torrie said “fifty feet, twelve o’clock, moving left,” the yips came tumbling out. And it’s not like I hadn’t done this before. No this-is-my-first-time excuses. I just sucked.

But this humiliation was uncalled for. This being left to slog along, alone, was unjust. It wasn’t right. Yeah, I’d disappointed myself and I felt guilty about disappointing the guide, but this? I walked and felt pissy about it.

But it’s hard to stay mad in the islands, wading along firm sands on a bluebird day in crystalline, emerald-green, shin-deep water. A light breeze filling your nose with the hint of salt and promise. A fly rod in your hand. There’s a reason that the islands are so relaxed. It’s in the air.

The flats seeped in, replacing everything else. The ripple of wind and the reflection of sun made the waters dance and the feeling of isolation comforted me. My tensions slipped away, left in the blue mud trail that extended behind me. All that mattered was the next waft of breeze, the next breath, the next passing cloud. The call of birds and the hush of slow steps in shallow water. I gave in to the place, in to the peace, completely.

They appeared in my peripheral vision. I saw them, not because I was looking for them, but because I wasn’t looking for anything and they were something. Anomalies. Subtle wrinkles in the fabric of the flat. Movement slightly askew from everything else. Two of them.

And before I thought too much about how it happened, my drag was singing and I soon held one of the pair in my hand. A splinter of silver, chipped from the flats, reflecting everything in each perfect mirrored scale. Wet lightning. And as quickly as it had arrived it slipped back into the warm salt, paused for a heartbeat at my feet, and was gone.

Take that, Torrie. I don’t need no stinkin' guide. I can do it myself.

But, I had to admit, I had done everything he’d said. Read the fish as they approached. Put myself and my line in a position to act. Moved the fly when it needed to be moved, stopped it when it needed to be stopped. Closed the deal. I’d been listening. I’d been thinking. But I’d been trying too hard.

So I smiled and waded on, soaking up the day and nicking a fish here and there, each almost as an afterthought to this splendid stroll on the flats. And quicker than I would have liked (though all day wouldn’t have been enough) I caught up with the skiff at the prescribed far point where the guys were digging into the cooler. Before I could say a word, before I could give Torrie a piece of my mind, he looked up from the box, a huge smile on his face, and extended a cold Kalik in my direction.

I been watchin'. Knew you had it, mon. Could see it in you. Just needed some time to yourself to make it right.

He had seen what I was missing and he had given it to me. Not the cast or the vision or the physical act. I needed the headspace to go with those tools. The room to figure it out in the very best way. My way. He'd put me where I could only disappoint myself, knowing that I wouldn't.

The beer tasted damn good.

We finished the day on the boat with a few more close shots, thirty and in, as the tides dropped out. I blew a few of them, but didn’t sweat it that much. Torrie was quiet until he called it a day and watched as I made my wind-em-up cast, clearing the coils on the deck with two leisurely flicks, sending out sixty feet of line, straight as an arrow. Twelve o’clock. No pressure.

I could hear him chuckling from the platform.


Note: Okay. Torrie didn't really throw me off the boat. Pardon a little poetic license. But I was sent in the described direction, on my own, after a frustrating morning. The rest is true, right down to the reason that he sent me off. My deep gratitude and respect goes out to an extraordinary guide, Torrie Bevins of the Andros South Lodge, for recognizing what I needed and making it happen. I look forward to walking the Dirty South with (or without) you again, my friend.

Oh, and pictured at the top of the post is my buddy Steve Duda of The Flyfish Journal who, if I recall correctly, was heading out on a similar walk our second day on Andros South. We jointly agree that wading's the very best way to play this game.

On the Brain

He insured that the first rule was clear before we stepped on the boat. One could not have a beer until they caught a bonefish. To my great relief, we each snagged a ghost early so the drinking could begin.

The rest of the rules he made up as the day progressed.

One of the joyful perks of this whole blogging thing is the opportunity it provides to make connections. I've had the pleasure to meet and fish with a host of folks who share my combined passions for fly fishing, writing, and generally baring one's soul on the internet; a combination that pretty well insures some interesting connections. I've yet to be disappointed.

So I was thrilled to learn that my visit to Abaco Lodge would overlap with that of my left-coast pal, Bjorn Stromsness, Mr. Bonefish on the Brain himself. Better yet, we shared a day on the water; my last and his first of our respective trips. It was the icing on the cake for me and, I hope, a good start for him.

No surprise, Bjorn pretty well schooled me that day on the water, confirming that his blog's title is well earned. He's passionate about the sport and the environment within which it's enjoyed. He calls foul when foul needs to be called and he's unflinching in his advocacy of all things bonefishy. On top of it all, he's a mighty fine angler.

Bjorn and his buddy Aaron were to spend another day at the lodge and then wander off on a North Abaco do-it-yourselfer for the remainder of the week. Let's all keep an eye on his blog to see how it went. Given the participants, and the location, it had to have been a memorable adventure.

I wonder if they had any beerless days.

Bye Bye to Bones and a Few Thanks

It’s been three weeks since I stepped off the plane back here in RDU, completing an eleven day round trip between home and the flats. Yesterday I shook the last grains of Bahamian beach sand from my Keens and today notions of bass and trout finally began to creep back into my brain.

I guess it’s really over.

It probably would have happened sooner had it not been for the recent spate of crap conditions keeping me off the water here in the southeast; storms, flooding, insane generation schedules driven by an insatiable need for air-conditioning. How did mankind survive before the advent of the condenser?

Anyway, I’ve channeled the tropical vibe long enough. Tried to share the island sun as much as I could. Hope that you felt it, warm on your face, but it’s time to move on. It's time to shake off that out island rhythm and get back to normal, at least for a while.

So, to wrap it all up, a few thanks...

...to Pinky for the kind invitation and unbelievable hospitality at the Long Island Bonefishing Lodge. The out islands are a joy and Pinky's outpost is a bonefishing destination to savor. All the comforts of home, miles of flats to explore, and all of the guided support you might want - or none if you prefer. DIY the right way.

...to Darlene for being the heart of the lodge. From her warm smile in the morning to her divine conch fritters to her delightful grandchildren, she kept a light mood throughout the house, making us all feel right at home. Did I mention the conch fritters?

...to Markk for some mighty fine days on the flats and the single best piece of fishing advice we received all week:

Leave the barracudas alone!

...to the Coral Harbour Beach Villas for letting us crash in their beach house for a couple of days as we wandered the back channels of Nassau, finding bonefish in the unlikeliest of places and New Providence peace off the back deck.

...to my homeboy Tbone for the boxful of flies that carried the day, every day, on this trip.

...to my bonefish-brained blog buddy Bjorn for all his advise and the shrimp pattern that brought the biggest fish of the trip to hand, almost.

...and, of course, to Sam, Marc, Chris. Couldn't have asked for a better crew to share an island with.

Let's do it again sometime. I'm hooked.

8wts

Bonefish mean 8wts and we bent a few

Redington, Hardy, G.Loomis, and Scott

Mystic and Orvis, TFO and Sage

Smoked a few reels, as well

Lamson, Nautty, Orvis, Redington

Gear junkies, we are. No denyin'

And bones are as good an excuse as it gets

The Moments We Remember

The radios crackle in synch with the skyline.

Get back to the boat, boys. We gotta get outta here.
Yeah, I don’t like the looks of that lightning.
Not the lightning, mon. The darkness. We need to get off the flats while we can still see the bottom.
Huh? You know this place like the back of your hand, Pinky.
Sandbars, Mike. They move.

Point taken. We turn and we race, Sam and I, as much as one can in shin-deep chop, the three-hundred yards to the skiff, dragging the rod tips in our wake. Pinky might not be sweating the lightning just yet, but, as the highest two points on these flats, we don't feel the need to add another nine feet. There’s enough of a charge running down our spines already.

These are the moments we remember. Sure, the thrill of the catch is what those back at home think that we’re chasing, but it’s more. It’s the rush. It’s the feeling of riding the thin edge of control. It’s the realization that you’ve pushed it as far as you should, and maybe then pushed it a little bit more.

It’s watching a big ‘cuda slide by, close, as you wade ass-deep, resurrecting every adventure article you read as a boy suggesting who’s really the king of the flats, then impulsively putting a fly on his nose, only to watch him confirm that reputation, leaving shredded mono, visions of razors, and questions of sanity in its wake.

It’s tip-toeing to the edge of a bottomless blue hole and considering swimming across.

It’s hearing Pinky transmit Bones on your three, coming fast. Two cruisers behind. If they show interest in your fish, crank the drag. Break it off. And if they show interest in you, throw a handful of bottom their way.

Throwing mud at sharks. Unconvincing.

It’s finding one of those migrating sandbars and, with the rain lashing down and salt spray in your face, jumping off and dragging the skiff to deeper waters; eyes on the horizon, adrenaline pumping, heart rising to your throat, and a big, albeit nervous, grin on your face.

Yeah, these are the moments we remember.

The Best Bonefish

It wasn’t the first bonefish. It wasn’t the biggest. But it was, without question, the best. The best because there was no one around to see it. Markk said it would be like this, the day we arrived. We smiled and nodded in earnest agreement, but we hadn’t a clue how right he would be. This DIY stuff hadn’t completely sunk in.

Pinky calls it Do It Yourself bonefishing, but it’s more than that at the Long Island Bonefishing Lodge. More like Do It With As Much Help From Friendly Experienced Guides As You Need And Want Until You’re Ready And Comfortable Enough To Do It Yourself. I guess I’d call it DIY too, as the acronym DIWAMHFFEGAYNAWUYRACETDIY is perhaps a bit cumbersome.

Here’s how it worked for the four of us:

Day one, we split into pairs, a rookie and second timer on each skiff with Pinky and Markk at the helms. Our hosts took us out to the expansive flats, anchored the boats, and walked for a while with each of us newbies; insuring that we were capable and prepared, helping us understand what to look for, where to look for it, how to be ready, what flies to use, how to present, and how to respond when one of the silver finned rockets decided to eat. Pinky and Markk grew up on these flats - more knowledgeable guides I could not imagine – and with Pinky at my side I brought to hand my first bonefish. It was damn good, but not the best.

For the most part, we are competent anglers so the fledging was brief and light-handed. It’s tailored to the needs of the individual, making Pinky’s lodge a great place for bonefish beginner and expert alike; providing each the environment they’d require for a satisfying fishing experience. Preparing you to be successful, whatever level of fisherman you might be.

And once prepared, you're turned loose.

Each day, after the first, we’d pair up again, switch the day’s fishing partners, and bounce between Pinky and Markk, then skip through the Cays to one of the endless flats spread out along the beautiful west shore of Long Island. Rocky Cay. Gouldin Cay Bank. Grandpa’s Fishin’ Place. Once on the grounds, we’d step off the skiffs, radios in pocket, and strike off on our own, choosing to fish side-by-side with our partner or wander apart as our fishing styles, or mood, fit. The skiff, and our guides, stayed in the neighborhood, tucked out of site in the Cays, or moved on to the next rendezvous point, usually well and abstract in the distance, but always, if needed, in touch by the walkies which doubled as comms between anglers. A large pod coming your way, bro. Three o’clock. Be ready.

This fit my style well for I’m a mover on the water. Wading and searching for fish is a joy and as often as not it seemed that the flats were my own. Miles of shin-deep, shimmering, salt without a soul in sight, only the wind to be heard. Alone to fish or cut bait with no one to impress. No pressure to succeed but my own. And it was during these times that the best bones were caught. No celebrations. No high fives. Just me and the flats and the fish. Quiet and deep satisfaction. I'd done it myself.

Markk was right. The best.

So That I Might See

I close my eyes so that I might see.

You reach a point, staring across these endless shimmering flats, when your brain refuses to go on, refuses to sustain the intense focus, refuses to continue to filter the overwhelming visual input pouring in as you try to divine the shadowy shapes of bonefish - tropical snow blindness, I suppose, brought on by sun and wind and want - and you begin to wonder whether the problem is that there’s no fish to be seen or that you are simply incapable of seeing them. Doubt creeps in. Doubt, and the deep suspicion that your angling inadequacies are being exposed in the whole.

So I close my eyes and take deep, centering breaths; forgo sight to smooth the internal chop, to calm the inner breezes, and, instead, listen, smell, and feel through my pores the glistening expanse that surrounds me. I resolve to not look at the waters, but, rather, to look over them; to see this shin-deep Bahamian haven as a whole, not to fixate on parts, freeing my senses to wander, unfocused, to notice the imperfections on the periphery; the subtle variations that might mean fish.

So oriented, I open my eyes and, as if on cue, they appear. Three sleek shadows, sixty feet out, sliding through the shallow salt in short flowing S-curves like banners in a gentle breeze, moving tangentially to my right. There’s little time.

Stiff wind at my back, I turn away from the fish, put my left shoulder into the blow, and flip a quick backcast into the path of the ghosts. I’ve worn enough fly line this week. The small pink crab imitation lands lightly. The shades twitch, but do not bolt, and continue along their serpentine course.

Pivoting back, I drop my rod’s tip into the water, draw the floating line straight, and wait. The pod stays on track until a short strip, a bounce of the crab, pulls one away from his mates. Another strip, he follows. More, with increased urgency, and he swims towards me, intent on the fly, until my leader has but a tug or two left before re-entering the tip. I hold my breath and get low, expecting to be seen, but, at the last instant, the wraith turns and the line goes taught. I feel his weight.

A hard, direct strip sets the hook. But the bone seems unsure, slides a dozen feet to the right, and pauses, graciously allowing me a quick glance at the loose loops of line floating low at my feet. It's good that they’re clear for I’m allowed only that briefest of peeks before he evaporates in a puff of blue silt. Houdini'd be proud.

Loose line whips off the water, flies through my fingers, and sizzles up the rod. Graphite resonates like a tuning fork. The bone takes it all and gets to the hardware; drag kicking in, buzzing like a swarm of angry bees. The 8wt bends, and stays bent. Before I can blink, the bimini twist tying poly to dacron ticks through the guides and the stick begins singing a higher octave. Backing falsetto.

150 feet… 200... 225… I lift the tip skyward to maintain my tenuous leverage and to keep the streaking line clear of the sparse mangrove spikes that dot our shallow battleground. No down and dirty here. He’s in charge, for now. I’m just hanging on.

250… 275… Finally, spool getting thin, a respite. The bone slows, slides laterally, and begins an oblique return as I scramble frantically to keep tight, cranking spastically, cursing the size of my arbor. In what seems like forever, the bimini ticks, more slowly this time, back through the guides, but we’re far from done. The fish refuels, turns on the afterburners, and jets away once again. The reel resumes its complaint. The rod hums in refrain. We do it again. And again.

In time, the runs become shorter, less electric, until the fish acquiesces, comes reluctantly to hand. It’s as dazzling as the water from which it is lifted; silver scales, mirroring this sparkling environment, reflecting perfectly my cradling fingers; slices of light tightly packed on a sleek, strong frame, shaped for speed; adornment and form worthy of this fish full of spirit and fight and grace. It looks perplexed.

I’ve been there.

So as it slips from my fingers and returns to its haunts, I relax and give thanks that I’m here; that I’ve faced the work-a-day winds, the onslaught of detail, and the endless shimmering expanse of the too busy life – the corporate snow blindness of success and stress and want - and had the good fortune to be able to refocus; to refuse to go on. To look over instead of at, see the broad shimmering flats of life in the whole, free to wander, unfocused, to notice the perfections on the periphery; the subtle variations that might mean happiness.

I’ve closed my eyes so that I might see.

Note: My friends have heard me say, on any number of occasions, that the least interesting part of fishing literature is the fishing itself. It seems all the stuff around the endeavor has so much more meat. But this, after all, is a fishing blog, so I felt compelled to give it a shot, at least this once.

Besides, if you can’t make catching a bonefish exciting, you might just as well pack it in.

And thanks to the Long Island Bonefishing Lodge for making this all possible.

Gone To De Islands, Mon

Sorry,
but activity might be a little light around here this week.
Places to be,
people to see,
and maybe a bonefish.

But do check back 'cause you never know.

Whatever the case,
rest assured,
I'll be back before long with a story.
Or maybe even two.

Oh, yes.
Rest assured.
Maybe two.