The Pull of Water
I just got back from an incredible family vacation, a cruise to the Bahamas. The cruise itself was good, the beach time – much needed, the snorkeling – fun, the food – yeah not so much (there was a now infamous worst churro ever, really, ever), but the family time was great. We escaped the Norovirus and had an enjoyable trip.
Cruising is not really my cup, but the destinations are awesome. It’s not a Bahamas bonefish trip but the sunwashed beaches, turquoise water, and a gentle breeze are a face-slap of summer when at home there’s a Polar Vortex. Who wouldn’t rather be in the Caribbean?
And, there are fish there too.
So, even though it wasn’t a trip to a desination Caribbean fly fishing lodge, of course my fly rod made the trip. Like I mentioned, this was a family trip. I knew time for fishing would be short and finding good fly fishing on a cruise is tough to do. Any time you’re in the Bahamas you think of bonefish, but cruise ships don’t just pull up and drop you off at the edge of the flats. I tried to map out any possible bonefishing/permit/tarpon near the cruise ports. It just wasn’t going to happen.
Luckily, the big 3 flats fish aren’t the only fish in the ocean. So I decided to pack the rod anyway to give it a shot.
On Google Earth I found some rocks at the end of one of the cruise port beaches. Rocks and coral and such usually have some fish of some type so that was going to be my best chance. When we got to port I played a precious “me time” card (thanks Em) and started walking at a quick pace toward the rocky point. I probably only had a couple of hours at most. I walked, past the lounge chairs, the cabanas, the bars, the noise, and the coconut lotion smell. Walked past the snorkeling areas the catamarans, and even past the last few solitude-seeking sunbathers at the far end of the beach until I arrived at the rocks.
I quickly rigged up a chartreuse Clouser minnow, the default go-to all-around saltwater fly. With the anticipation and lack of time I was almost shaking as I yanked the knots tight. I started with a quick half cast intended just to give me time to strip more line off the reel, but as the fly settled, line started shooting off into the ocean. Nice. I grabbed for the quickly disappearing line and my quick strip set held tight. Within a minute or two I had a nice little bar jack in hand. What a beautiful fish, silver, streamlined, a bit like a mini albacore. Photos simply don’t do justice to the two vibrant turquoise stripes that length-wise flank the top of each silvery side. Awesome.
Another bar jack followed the fly on the next cast but didn’t take. I expected more action on each subsequent cast. Not to happen. The school moved on an it went quiet, except for the rhythmic heaving waters filling the tide pools with each surge, the fringes of each push of the Atlantic splashing off the rocks with surprising energy.
The sudden lack of action was disturbing, like I’d caught the very tail end of something, but there’s an energy in new experiences and I kept casting. The view is awesome.
Quiet blind casting out into an ocean is a singular experience. The enormity of the waters is immediately and overtakingly apparent. Your proudest 50, 70, or even 90 foot casts cover so little of the expanse. Yet oceans are teeming with life, it’s everywhere down there, and that gives you hope. Although, I’d occasionally glimpse a fish in a wave, or spot the reflected glint off a fish’s side, I couldn’t really see or know what was down there, what lay beneath the heaving seafoam. This is an exercise in pure faith and hope. And this is a fly fishing moment every angler should experience.
Yes, there’s a specific joy in sight fishing on the flats, in hunting out and then intercepting a cruising predator with a well placed cast. There’s joy in casting dries to rising trout or pitching a nymph into a fish filled pool but all of it is predicated upon a certainty of the existence of quarry within range. Blind casting is a different experience, more prayer than procedure, more fortune than execution, all overwrought by the looming fear of futility. You cast with faith in water and hope for a merciful reward. And because you’re rather randomly casting into what may just be an enormous void, a real humility is forced on the whole affair.
As you cast repeatedly, the pointed feel of each hopeful strip of line wains, your perception of details in your surroundings snap back, and senses return. You begin again to feel the touch of the warm sun alternating with cool splashes of salt water on your feet. You hear the persistant tropical breeze and occasional seabird and you begin to see this scene for what it is, present, fecund. The reality of it, macro and microscopic, is all happening right now, here and everywhere the ocean touches. Tiny crabs shuttle around in the tidepools and millions of sand particles ebb and flow with each wave. It would be easy to slip away and just watch this all happen, but you have another cast to make or statistically your odds decrease.
After a half hour or so of this delightful contemplation, observation and presence between double hauls I heaved a long cast over some deep rocks. I counted the fly down for a bit, stripped once, and was met with an electric jolt and a violent series of successive tugs. “Trout don’t do that,” I thought.
Whatever this thing was, it was pissed off and strong, not fast like a bonefish, but powerful. The unseen force at the end of my line fought differently than the little bar jacks, who tried to quickly speed to the deep but just weren’t big enough to succeed. This thing dove headlong for the jagged rocks; he was going home.
I staved off one run toward the rocks and then another. I have to get him away from there. With an angled pull and several quick jumping steps down the shoreline I successfully moved the dark fishy shadow into an area with a bottom of clean white sand. Ok, I got you now.
Yeah, the fish wasn’t having any of that and its next move was a surprise. He made a quick instinctive decision, changed course, and bolted right at the rocks on the shoreline where I was standing. Even with huge 6-foot strips of line you can’t do much with a run like that. He was soon buried in a hole in the sharp edged rocks and wasn’t coming out. How tough is this leader?
I worked to find an angle that might free the fish but I was met with the solid still tension that portends a snag. I was sure the leader, or even the fly line, would fray and snap. But with a desperate sprint back to my original casting location and a steady lift straight up I got lucky and the finny force popped out of the hole and was rushing back out to sea.
I ran back down the shoreline toward the clean sand and before long, with the help of a wave surge, moved the tiring fish into a small pool near my feet. What an incredible creature, all toothy, and spotted, and spiny-backed, and alien. I had no idea what species this was.
That’s the best kind of fish to catch when blind casting into an enormous ocean.
And I’m among them, but we trout fisherman down deep are a pretty snooty bunch—‘nothing prettier than a trout’—Wrong! God didn’t make a trout and run out of creativity. With rare esceptions, those finny creatures we pull out of liquid anywhere are creatures to behold. We’re a priviliged bunch to fish anywhere. Thanks for sharing—and that two hours you spent probably will be right upthere in your memory bank as you move down the line.
Agreed. Thanks for the support.
Did you ever find out what the species was on your second catch? At first glance I thought it was a lion fish, somewhat similar colors.
Nope. Maybe a small grouper, but not sure.