Paradise

The difference between a fairy tale and a fish story, "Once upon a time," and "you ain't gonna believe this shit."  

The trip began on a familiar bank, where the water was low and the fish were happy.  Five for five on Gurglers when we moved.  We knew we would never keep that up, but that was our sign.  Seven days of mostly calm to gentle breezes. Low morning tides, both a help and a hinderance, but mostly a help once we got to the grounds.  More sun than clouds most days, and not a drop of rain.  The fish were outside the mangroves in droves, a long boat ride from any sign of civilization.  Sometimes stronger winds pushed us into creek mouths for a few hours, but we caught multiple fish in those every time.  It was the most consistent week I've ever had in Campeche.  

The typical morning started out with our guide Juan putting us right where we needed to be.  There were flashes of silver, the sound of the textured lines shooting through the guides, Juan's excitement, and the rattling of gills after every blow up.  It frequently went something like this.  

"There's a bunch of tarpon coming.  Too far, hundred meters.  Wait.  You see?  School!"  "OK, cast eleven, 20 meters, you see?"  "Ya ya, good cast, strip, strip.  He's coming, he's coming.  Got it!  Oh, geeze.  No pull on the rod. Pull on the line!  Cast again, cast again!  Now.  More far, two more meters.  More right, more right.  No step on the line."  Geeze."

Never a dull moment with Juan, he still has the full enthusiasm he had 10 years ago once we get on the fish and its show time.

"Back cast, back cast, two o'clock, 20 meters.  Oh, big tarpon!  He's coming, he's coming!  Got it!"

We'd get it right often enough, and it helped that we were often surrounded.  Blow a cast or spook some fish, and there were more within range or coming.   Sometimes, we just got it right on a single or pair that were sitting ducks.  The babies we came for, 5-15 lbs, were near the mangroves.  ON the outside grass flats were the "juveniles" of 15-30 pounds on this trip.  We spent most of the time on those.

There were enough fish offshore for both of us to cast together, one from the bow and one from the middle of the skiff.  We'd alternate the timing of our casts, each waiting for the other to start stripping before making our own cast.  The bow caster would hook up, we'd trade places with the fish running and jumping, and then double up.  Beautifully orchestrated, if I might say.  We had doubles every day. 

Surface fishing worked every morning.  White, yellow, and black, all with some red and/or some flash, worked equally well.  It didn't matter too much.  We jumped 30+ fish daily.  Juan apparently counted 70-something "landed" at the boat.  He does that, I don't, but it sounds in the ballpark.  Nobody could have really kept count when we were on 'em and it was mayhem.  You wouldn't have believed this shit!

Floater, slow sinker, and faster sinker.

When the wind would come up and make visibility harder, Juan would pole/drift from yellow spot to yellow spot, clearings on the bottom with no sea grass.  The fish were easy to see, as was the direction they were facing. We spent several afternoons getting ate on every light spot, for hours.  

Typical of the fish in the mangroves.  Fun size.

Bride of the Sea statue.

Wind and Tides

The great Stu Apte wrote a book about some of his half-century of flats fishing called Of Wind and Tides.  That title continually ran though my head as both of those vital variables set up perfectly for an entire morning and into the afternoon.  Light wind and low tides.

I'm not sure where I first heard the term "fantasy fishing."  Probably in the early 80's guiding in Alaska or something.  I've used it for 35 years, but rarely is there actually such a thing.  It doesn't mean really good, great, amazing, fantastic, or any such lesser description.  It really means stuff dreams are made of.  What we think of when we think of paradise, perfection, wouldn't change a thing.  What we fantasize about.  I rarely see it, but it happens every year or two.  Usually around a hatch, for trout.  Sometimes for a few hours down south, on a flat.

This time it was day 5 of a 7 day trip last week.  We were completely alone, somewhere along the Yucatan Peninsula a couple hours from any sort of civilization.  There was a slight breeze barely moving the surface of the water, just enough to easily see any target near or far, yet assist us into great double-hauls to 50-70 feet.  Hero casts.  There were close fish too. Light clouds covered the sky to help conceal our presence and mask shitty fish-spooking casts.  The warm sun was filtered just enough to prevent overheating in the 80 degree air and shield any bright glares.

The morning low tide ensured the fish were looking up from the 2-4 feet of clear water they were basking in.  We could see them all, and they could see anything on the surface and take a closer look.  They rolled, "finned" slowly on the surface, and just laid up motionless hoping a Gurgler would come blurping by.  We obliged. Our guide Juan had us in the right spot for it of course, well away from the everyday fishing grounds.  

This fantasy happens on the occasional morning with similar conditions, but not all day! One stop maybe.  This time though, it went on and on, and the realization set in after a few hours that we were right in the middle of the dream.  Perfect wind and tides, surrounded by the perfect number and size of 15-30 pound "greatest sportfish on earth."  And they wanted to eat.  Fantasy Fishing. 

Dry, wet, and deeper.  Today it was the dry.

Fish came after it!  I don't know how the head is tied.