Down & Out in Belize by Jim Stenson

Paintings by C.D. Clarke

Over the years, I’ve come to the conclusion that permit anglers are a strange and demented group. To be good at it, you need—at the very least—a masochistic streak. A want ad looking for qualified permit fishermen might read something like this: Wanted: Permit angler. Must be able to cast a fly a minimum of 90 feet into gale-force winds and lay it down softly in an area the size of a saucer. Must love self-flagellation and be able to travel at a moment’s notice. It helps to be single and rich.

I doubt I will ever forget the moment I came to the realization that trying to catch a permit on the fly is sheer lunacy. I was standing on the deck of a rundown panga, one that had obviously been in service for many years and seen its fair share of action. It was still serviceable though, and didn’t look to me like it might sink any time soon. This was day eight of a ten day trip; I would be headed home soon; I had been chasing permit off and on for six of the last ten days.
I remember with almost perfect clarity the spiritual awakening, the epiphany, the moment I finally realized how ridiculous it was to think I could hoodwink a permit with a twisted piece of steel, two lead eyes wrapped with fluorescent green thread, and few pieces of 60’s shag carpet. Suddenly it occurred to me that here I was chasing what is considered to be the spookiest fish in the sea; a fish with the personality of a paranoid schizophrenic, unrivaled vision, nostrils the size of a large slushy straw, and somehow I expected it (just one of them, at least) to swim over and slurp up my fly as if it were just another crab crawling along the bottom. In sober consideration, such expectation borders on dementia, a break from reality, a condition caused by too many days in the hot sun glaring into the sea. Then again, if I were particularly prone to sober consideration, I wouldn’t be trying to catch anything on a damn fly to begin with.

Moments earlier leading up to this epiphany, we were staked out on the perfect permit flat; it was crawling with life. Stingrays were blowing off the flat in all directions. Marl crunched under the pressure of our push pole. Conch shells, starfish and miniature crustaceans littered the flat. Grunts and small yellowtails were also in almost unseemly abundance. I remember joking with Ivan, the guide, about it. Actually, I might have mentioned something about fried grunts with grits or maybe it was yellowtail stuffed with shrimp and scallops, smothered in creamy champagne sauce. Knowing me, grunts and grits with a side of hushpuppies and a cold beer (or maybe sweet tea) is probably more like it. Truth of the matter is, it was difficult to concentrate on grunts and grits when our focus was squarely on the permit slowly tailing their way up the flat.

It was an easy cast. The wind was at my back, Ivan had spun the panga around so the sun and the wind were at the proper angle; all was good in the world. By this time the pressure was off. Hard-earned personal experience had by then quite convinced me that it was, in fact, utterly impossible to catch a permit on the fly, unless perhaps one was kind enough to contemplate the larger meaning and intrinsic value of near-death experiences just at the opportune moment and for that reason decided to cooperate; I wasn’t counting on it. Thus, casting to a school of twenty or so permit in the seventeen to twenty pound range had been reduced to the same analytical thrill as casting to hula-hoops in the back yard; blasé, routine, ho-hum. I was over the hype, convinced it couldn’t be done, at least not intentionally. Free of undo expectation, I made the cast. The fly hit the lead permit on the head, just where the so-called experts tell you to put it. Evidently, however, being hit with something in the head does not induce a permit to eat; rather, it appeared to have startled him (and perhaps caused him and his comrades a good dose of irritation to boot). Long story short, the school exploded in all directions. Ivan almost fell off the poling platform. Incredulous the two of us stood for a few moments staring after the spooked fish, both equally stunned and disgusted. It was amazing just how quiet it had become, as if neither of us wanted to so much as breathe.

A good fly fisherman lives in the moment (or never learns, depending on perspective). As we watched, the permit started regrouping several hundred yards down the leeward side of the flat, time to try again. From our vantage point, all we could see was a dozen or so black tails glistening in the bright sun. Stealthily, Ivan pushed the heavy panga against the wind with everything he could muster. In order for me to get a worthwhile cast. Ivan had to position the panga so that my back was against the mangroves. Between the mangroves, the wind and the distance to the permit, this effort could rationally have been judged as futile, if not to say ludicrous. Immune to such non-constructive truths, I made what I thought at the time to have been an exceptionally lousy cast.The fly hit the water with the subtlety of a ground to air missile. I only missed by forty or so feet; nothing like adding a little humiliation to injury. I started to pick the line up off the water to make another cast when Ivan started yelling from the poling platform, “let the fly drop, let it drop”. Not too much later it was, “let the freaking fly drop”, so I did. Incredibly, the permit started moving toward my fly. Several seconds later, they were circling my Merkin Crab, tailing and flashing as if they were actually going to eat it this time. Slowly, I stripped it along the bottom, painfully, inch by inch. The permit continued harassing my fly all the way to the boat. In fact, it seemed they were so focused on the fly they were oblivious to the panga. So close were they in the end that I could have reached down and tailed a free-swimming permit with my bare hands. Which, in retrospect, I stood a better chance of doing than hooking one with the fly. As it turned out the permit were once again only toying with us, mocking us for our audacity to touch and spook them at the same time.

A few hours later the day ended once again without any permit. Then again, it is the chase that counts. Holding firmly to this ancient wisdom of the frequently unsuccessful but always indefatigable fly fisherman, Ivan and I joined the evening celebration consisting of good food and wine shared with great friends, followed by some late-night drinks at the bar. This night was a little different in that there was actual cause for celebration. While this is certainly not required, it does add a nice touch. Turns out that Jim Whitehurst had been fishing a few flats further down from our location and had managed to hook and land a beautiful double digit permit (obviously one of the opportunely cooperative ones). News like that does tend to make you reevaluate your previous, perhaps somewhat hasty, nomination of “great friends”. What kind of heartless friend catches a permit on the fly after it had been determined by all his comrades that the very idea was ludicrous? Then again, his success meant it could be done; all the more reason to go back and try again.

Over the years I have come to the conclusion that permit fishermen are a strange and, maybe, a little demented group. To be good at it, you need at least a hint of a masochistic streak. An ad looking for qualified permit fishermen might read something like this: “Wanted Permit Fishermen Must be able to cast a fly a minimum 90 feet into gale force winds and lay it down softly in an area the size of a saucer. Must love self-flagellation and be able to travel at a moment’s notice. It helps to be single and rich.” At times, the question might arise, why do this to ourselves over and over again? In the end it comes down to the thrill of the challenge, the insuppressible conviction that the next cast is going to be “the one”; and, as a consolation prize, there is always the companionship of friends, great food, warm weather and a beautiful setting to ease the pain.

But I skipped to the end, the last fishing day, the day of defeat and enlightenment. Let me go back and start from the beginning, because cutting out all the adventure of the first eight days would be doing a great trip a huge injustice.

 

 

Belize Beginnings

We were fishing in the vicinity of South Water Caye in Southern Belize, one of the top permit locations in the world. We actually started fishing around Ambergris Caye in Northern Belize a week earlier and had worked our way south (South Water Caye is due south of Dangria and just north of Placencia). Although this area of the world is definitely beautiful at any time of the year, the first three days were proof of the old traveler’s wisdom that when you visit a place for a very short time, you have to be prepared to make the best of whatever conditions you encounter. In our case, the first three days were spent hunkering down from the gale force winds that pounded Ambergris Caye. The winds made the fishing all but impossible. We did what we had to do in order to make the best of a poor situation. Weather always plays a part in fishing and basically there is little you can do about it. Regardless how bad the wind howled, however, we still managed to get out every day and do some fishing. Consolingly enough, we always managed to catch some fish. John Freeman even managed a small permit on the front side of Ambergris Cay. Drew and Tom loaded up on the bonefish one morning on the backside. The truth is Belize is in the tropics and the wind is supposed to blow and blow hard at times. The tropics are the tropics precisely because of the tropical winds and rain. At some point in time most fly fishermen come to terms with the wind and move on. It’s part of the game.

That being said, I must admit the winds were much stronger than normal and we were relegated to fishing the leeward side of Ambergris Caye. The places we could fish were limited not only by the wind but also by the tides; days were normally cut short. Usually, we managed to get out somewhere around eight-thirty in the morning, sometimes a little later depending on the tides. We did see a tremendous number of bonefish and a few permit. The fish were small but not very spooky. The average size of bonefish we ran into was maybe ten to twelve inches long and the permit we saw rarely surpassed twelve to fourteen inches at best. That doesn’t mean this is a fair representation of the average size fish. Possibly, the bigger fish, had found themselves nice little hide-outs to ride out the fronts. In any event, it did not appear that they were particularly interested in coming out to play with a gang of gringos standing around in absurd winds waving their sticks. Additionally, there was a lot of development in this area of Belize. Boat traffic was almost unbearable and the loss of habitat was evident throughout. Beautiful homes and condos were being built often at the expense of stripping entire islands of their mangroves and natural habitat.

To its credit, the Belize government passed legislation in September 2008 that bans commercial fishing for bonefish, permit, and tarpon. It is now illegal to possess any of these except in process of catch and release. As always, however, passing legislation is only the beginning; enforcement, true commitment and financial support from all levels of government and local communities is essential. Unsurprisingly, when we were there, fish traps stilled lined the mangrove islands and beaches on the back side of Ambergris Caye. It is conceivable that these traps were being used for other species but that is unfortunately rather doubtful. Commercial fishing for bonefish and permit has been going on for so long in Centeral America and throughout Mexico that change will come slowly. It has to start somewhere. Tourists can make a small difference through deliberate choice of where to spend money giving direct feedback to lodge owners, hotel managers, fishing guides and fly-shop personnel about perceived devaluation of their vacation experience.

There is a flipside to everything. Tourists have the potential to encourage positive environmental change, but increased tourism generally also means an increase in development. The town of San Pedro is a perfect and sad example. New hotels and condos are popping up everywhere. At times, it seemed the entire town was under construction. As is the case so many times, the very things that once attracted people to San Pedro are being sacrificed to cookie-cutter convenience and beach idyll. The sleepy little fishing village of San Pedro once drew fisherman from all over the world and is about to go the way of the dodo. Still, the power to express displeasure through the pocket-book is not to be dismissed.

Although, our hearts did ache at times for this paradise on the verge of being lost, we did enjoy our short sojourn in San Pedro. We did what most fishermen would do under the same circumstances; we hunkered down, fished when we could, and spent copious amounts of time at the bar learning the local lingo: Bodacious Margaritas, Horny Monkeys, Naked Iguanas and Rumrunners (all mixed drinks, who would have thought?) while nibbling shrimp on a stick, pan fried pot stickers and other delightful treats.

The small beachfront hotel we were staying at was very nice and extremely well-suited to this endeavor. The Sun Breeze Hotel is small enough to hide away from congestion and over-crowding. More to the point, it never hurts that the Blue Water Grill and Bar, is one the best restaurant and tiki bars on the beach. The Blue Water Grill and Bar, we discovered, is a great place to pass the time and to meet up for a stroll through San Pedro to check out the local culture. A lot of the latter, readily accessible to the shot-term tourist, centers around fishing and the fine art of mixology. Thus, for pure anthropological research, Jim and I made it our goal to discover the absolute best mixolgists in town and bounded upon them in a spot called the Sunset Grill. In our scientific opinion (which is shared by many) this bar does in fact have the best margaritas in San Pedro. An additional perk is the uncommon ritual of “feeding the tarpon”. The Sunset Grill has a long dock with overhead lights that shine into the water where tarpon gather at night to be fed. For this purpose, the bartenders meet you at the lights with a bucket of sardines which you are then welcome to hand feed to the fish. While most tourists might daintily throw the sardines at the tarpon like so many toy coy, real fly fishermen lie down on the dock and swirl a sardine on the surface of the water until the tarpon explode on the bait. If same crusty old fly fisherman is willing to sacrifice a few layers of epidermis to the sandpaper-like insides of tarpon mouths, a little game of “tease the tarpon” involving the yanking-away of sardine at the very last moment can procure additional entertainment. It turns out that only a few repetitions of this trick get the tarpon thoroughly furious and frenzied. Perhaps for some, lying face down, a few feet from the water with twenty to thirty tarpon ranging from fifty to seventy pounds that are rolling, crashing, and turning the water into froth, furiously straining to bite off the hand of the ruddy idiot with the sardine may not sound much like fun. This sport gets intense. Fingertips get reduced to sandpaper. For a fisherman, however, this is about as much fun as can be had with fish absent a fly rod.

All things come to an end. All in all, the three days spent in the big cities chasing after small fish and deep margarita glasses did serve one valuable purpose exceedingly well. It helped make the transition from hectic everyday life to a vacation pace. The more time we spent in San Pedro, the slower the time seemed to pass; which, in the larger picture, is exactly what is supposed to happen. However, the time did finally come for us to move south and explore the more pristine side of Belize. We did not really know it yet, but we were about to discover the land of plenty. Our destination was South Water Cay and the Blue Marlin Lodge. We were transported there via a tiny commuter airport (the operative word being “tiny”) conveniently located only about fifty feet from the front door of our hotel. The flight itself was mercifully short as well. We were being spoiled before we even got there, a trend that would continue throughout the trip.

We were met at the airport by the Blue Marlin Lodge staff. After a short trip through town towards the owner’s home we were finally taken by boat to the lodge which was about eight miles south from Dangria and just north of Placencia. It only took a few minutes into the boat ride to realize we were in a different world down here. The open water was so blue it was almost black. The atoll and the inside flats that run parallel to the coast of Belize can literally be seen from miles away. It was as if the flats glowed in the daylight. The islands were thick with giant mangroves in perfect condition. The water teamed with life. Schools of pilchards were everywhere. Schools of cero mackerel and bonito were slicing through the pilchards driving them to the surface where the pelicans made an easy meal of them. Giant frigate birds soared above the mayhem waiting to pounce on the bounty below. Every third island or so we ran past enormous rookeries full of herons, egrets, pelicans, and more frigate birds than you could count. To us, it was as if we had rediscovered Eden. It quickly became a consensus that we could have skipped Northern Belize entirely.

 

 

 

Eden Rediscovered

The ride was short but emotive. It was as if Belize was laughingly saying to us, “you idiots, why did you waste your time up north?” I was on top of the world, disregarding the heart-wrenching realization that we had only three days in this paradise to catch a permit. I knew the time would fly by at warp speed. Twenty minutes later the thirty foot center console eased into the dock and we got our first look at the Blue Marlin Lodge, surrounded by white sandy beaches and littered with tall, swaying palm trees. South Water Caye is a beautiful island that stretches south along the world’s second longest atoll. It was if we had died and gone to permit heaven.

As we pulled alongside the dock, a large school of bonefish pushed away from the boat. Most lodges have their pet fish around the docks. Normally the fish are extremely large and the lodges rarely let you fish them. I was teasing Rosella, the owner of the Blue Marlin Lodge, and Richard, the manager, about their pet bonefish. Richard calmly told me to rig my fly rod and hop into one of the pangas tied up to the other side the dock. Minutes later, while everyone else was unpacking, Richard and I pulled away from the dock and in just a very short time I was casting to a school of bonefish in the four to five pound range. Proper etiquette might potentially have dictated that I wait for everyone to unpack so they could share in the spoils. I did think about it for approximately 0.00009 seconds. As Data once said “that’s a lifetime, for an android”. After this thorough and laudable consideration, I arrived at the conclusion that the others were probably tired from the trip and would much prefer to calmly and orderly unpack their belongings before rushing head-long into adventure. Additionally, it is very much my duty as trip host to scope out the area before exposing my valued friends to it. Thus, I went fishing and kindly left them in peace. The fish were three times the size of the largest bonefish we had seen in Northern Belize. Within the first thirty minutes of fishing South Water Caye and the Blue Marlin Lodge, I had hooked and landed two rather large bonefish. Not a bad start to the second leg.

That night over dinner the conversation was much more optimistic than it had been in San Pedro. In some cases it was downright giddy. Everyone was in great spirits, only partially related to the quantity in which the margaritas were flowing. Once again, it did occur to me for several nanoseconds that we might conceivably pay gravely for our lack of self control the next morning. Such unspirited nagging was also soon dismissed. Even with the overindulgence of libations I did make sure to scope out the pier to see if there was any action under the lights. No cracker or fisherman growing up in South Florida could ever pass up an opportunity to check out the action under the lights on a new pier. Inconveniently, I could only walk so fast; the bar was closing and at eight dollars a pop for a margarita I did not want to spill my drink. Therefore, I approached gingerly. However, the closer I got to the lights the faster I walked drawn by the sound of small tarpon exploding everywhere. When I finally reached the lights, I was so excited I nearly fell into the water.

 

 

Under the Lights

There must have been a dozen permit laid up in the current and, adding to the embarrassment of riches, schools of bonefish were working their way along the bottom. I have been fishing for snook and tarpon under the lights of South Florida for over forty years and I have never seen a bonefish or permit under the lights. I did not know it at the time, but several of the guides had followed me down to the pier and were incongruously laughing at me. I must have been drooling or at the very least looked somewhat ridiculous expressing a mixture of dumbfounded excitement, disbelief and greed. This was also the first time I met my guide Ivan. We started laughing and joking about the fish and he informed me that there had actually been several grand slams caught here off the dock and even more slams finished there. In fact, he boldly stated when I caught my permit and bonefish tomorrow this is where I would probably finish my slam with a tarpon. I immediately fell in love with Ivan.

Now the pressure was on (the same pressure that was very much off when I hit the two-bit permit in the head with my fly several days later). I took a long hard sip of my margarita and then gave it to Ivan and as I started running to my bungalow to get my gear. At least I intended it to be a run. Though the speed and elegance of the process suffered from inappropriate footwear. Evidently, there’s a reason sprinters don’t practice in flip-flops. I did at length attain my room, which I fully intended on entering without waking Drew, my roommate. The young lad needed his rest. Inconveniently, I had to turn on the lights to get my fly rod and a box of tarpon flies, which not surprisingly woke him. Ever inquisitive, he immediately asked where the hell I was going. Too much information can trouble the mind. Thus, I told him I was considering taking a stroll down the pier and maybe pitch a few flies under the lights to see if there were any ladyfish or jacks around. In response, Drew mumbled something to the effect of “yea right”, and before I could make up another cover story to allay his self-sacrificing drive to join me at my lonely late-night outing, he was out the door. Evil tongues say, I tried to trip the poor youth as he went by (if I did then only for his own good to be sure). Since Drew is a lot younger than me and an avid soccer player to boot, I had to choose in the end but consign myself to him sacrificing his sleep and quickly tell him what we were headed for, lest he wake up the entire lodge trying to get his gear out the door and down the stairs. How rude would it have been to deprive all our hard-working friends their well-deserved rest while on vacation?

As it turned out, I could have saved myself all the effort at politeness. When we finally made it back to the pier there were people everywhere. It was some small comfort that none of them were fishing “my pier”, but there was still too much noise and too many people walking around. Knowing full well the best time to fish the lights under a pier is late at night when everything is dead quiet, I was soon losing my exuberant enthusiasm. I really love to catch a tide change somewhere around three or four in the morning. The tide change, mind you, not the shift change. What was everybody doing out of bed anyway?
What I had been unaware of were several smaller lodges on the backside of the island. Evidently, however, Blue Marlin Lodge is the only lodge on the island with a restaurant and bar; or, maybe it is simply the only decent restaurant and bar on the island. Who knows? We had been having such a good time at dinner the additional customers had completely escaped my notice. However, while I was away retrieving my gear those other customers couldn’t help noticing all the guides milling around the pier and decided to walk down and check out the action. The last thing I wanted to do was hook someone in the head with a fly. I had to accept defeat for the time being and put my rod down waiting for the crowd to thin out.

Thankfully, without any spectacle to keep the onlookers entertained, it took only about an hour or so for the pier to be basically empty, except for a few guides and Drew. Fortunately, the tarpon were still chasing shrimp in the shadows. Unfortunately, the permit and bonefish had long since disappeared. Undeterred, I tied on an EP Mullet imitation and started working the shadow-line off the end of the pier. There were more tarpon under the lights closer to shore but there was less noise and fewer people on the end. I jumped a small tarpon on my fifth or sixth cast but immediately lost him. Several minutes later I had another take, but did not get the opportunity to set the hook. In this fashion, I spent the next several hours pounding the water with everything but the deck mop lying in an old panga. The tarpon never left, but the tide went slack and the shrimp were all but gone. The only bait left around the lights were small schools of pilchards. Even though the occasional tarpon would blast one here and there, it was obvious the tarpon had been there to gorge on the shrimp not fool around with pilchards. It was time to call it a night. After all this exertion, on the way back to the room it occurred to me that the real mystery here was whether I would be able to fish for permit eight to ten hours a day in the brutal sun, have dinner, spend some time at the bar and fish all night at the pier for three straight days. There was a time in my life when this would not have been a question.

 

 

A Guide Possessed

Maybe somewhat unfortunately for my old bones, but absolutely in keeping with my childlike enthusiasm, Ivan and I got an early start the next day. We headed north towards Dangria while all the other boats headed south towards Placencia. Over the years I have learned to have faith in my guide until he persuades me otherwise. With Ivan, it was insurmountable faith. He is undoubtedly one of the best permit guides I’ve ever had the privilege of fishing with. Thus, I happily went with him north while all others headed south and I was not to be disappointed.

Soon, we were running hard up the leeward side of most of the small cayes and reefs trying to put some distance between us and the lodge. I find it difficult to describe the feeling I get when screaming through the small cayes and flying over shallow water flats at high speeds in the early morning as the sun still sits low in the east and temperatures are still comparatively cool. The towering mangroves break up the sun’s rays across the shallow flats. It finally dawns on me why I do this. The answer is never the same for any two people, but rarely does it have anything to do with fish. Some people call it the magic hour. I just think it is as close to Heaven as I can get and still be on a little piece of terrafirma.

At this point in the morning, the tide was still dropping and we had several hours to kill before the flats and shallow reefs would start to flood. In this part of the world, the early flood signals “permit time”. Most guides worth their salt have a few out of the way places where there’s a good chance of running into few permit even before then the flood tide. Ivan was no exception. He is also the type of guide who despises staying in any one place for any length of time. Accordingly, for the next several hours, we cruised from one flat to another looking for tailing fish. We were always on the lookout for mudding rays and their happy little companions. When the tide started to change we were anchored up on what the locals call the Shark Hole. In reality it was a mini Blue Hole. The Shark Hole was a round depression in the middle an open flat that basically dropped off to somewhere around a hundred feet. We anchored and drifted back with the tide stopping at the edge, which dropped straight down. One minute the water could be waist deep and the next minute the water was so deep a person could disappear without anyone ever knowing what happened. Immediately, as we got to the hole, the permit started to rise from the depths. There were hundreds of them. Ivan told me this is where he brings his customers when nothing else works. While this was obviously intended as nice words of comfort, it felt like a knife penetrating my back. Why would he tell me that? It was like telling a football team getting ready to play its second game of the season, “if we do not win this one boys our season is over”. What happens if the team loses the game? Where do you go from there – home?

Not that I am trying to shift blame here, that would be totally counter to my own moral character. Obviously we know what happened in the end. If the reader feels compelled to blame poor Ivan and his loose mouth, what could I possibly do to dissuade?

In any event, the morning was passing quickly and we headed off to a new flat. It was almost time to start contemplating lunch when we rounded the corner of a large mangrove caye. As we were sliding across the skinny water, we heard someone screaming from the mangroves. I had no idea what he was saying and had even less of notion where he was. I could not see anyone, let alone a boat. The next thing I knew Ivan was slowing down and headed for an opening in the mangroves. I can remember looking back at Ivan and wondering, “Do we really want to do this?” I had no idea who was in the mangroves, how long he had been there or what he wanted with us. I was starting to get a little edgy. Sure, we weren’t boating off the coast of Somalia, but my natural curiosity to find out what was around the next bend was nonetheless rather curbed and buried. Unimpressed by my hesitance, Ivan pulled in anyway. To my surprise there was Jim Whitehurst, sacked-out on the deck of a panga. The person who had been screaming from the mangroves, turned out to be Ivan’s nephew, another guide from the lodge. He had pulled into the mangroves to get out of the sun and have some lunch. Seemed like not a half bad idea, so we joined in. After lunch, Ivan and I pushed even further north in search of fish. Ivan was moving faster than any guide I had ever fished with. He seemed possessed. In fact, he pushed so hard and so far north, we probably could have spent the night at Turneffe Flats. Ivan and I had been rehashing my varied and universally gut-wrenching permit experiences at lunch. I know he wanted to be the guide that put me on my first permit on a fly. Thus, after passing up what I considered to be far too many good looking permit flats, he took a hard turn starboard and throttled back just in time to come off plane sliding into a small channel separating two beautiful flats. The bottom was perfect: sand, hard marl and plenty of mangrove shoots sticking up everywhere. There was plenty of deep water on both sides of the flats for an easy escape and best of all there were tails, lots of permit tails.

I did what I do best when permit fishing. I cast to twenty or so fish over the next hour and I experienced every imaginable form of refusal. I spooked fish; I had fish follow my fly, then spook; I had fish flare at my fly, then spook; I had fish follow my fly back to the boat, and then just swim away with disdain. Every time I looked back at Ivan for some spiritual insight, he just laughed. By means of consolation, Ivan did keep telling me we had plenty of time to catch a permit, but I knew differently. The permit clock was ticking. I have been down this dark and dusty road before. Sure, there were two and a half days left on the calendar, but in reality there were only about fourteen good hours of tide left. The internal permit clock can drive me mad. It’s as if time drifts away with the tide and all that’s left is a giant hole in my stomach with the realization that I blew it again.

Having watched me struggle in one place long enough, Ivan was about to pole off the flat when we spooked a rather large permit mudding. The permit beat feet for open water and seconds before he crossed the threshold into the deep water, I laid one across his bow. The fly landed directly in front of him. I did not give it much of a chance at the time because my fly line was basically lying across the permit’s back. Normally, that is enough to send the permit into orbit, but the fish had been feeding when we spooked him, and that made all the difference. The permit went tail up and descended to the bottom to check out my fly. Ivan kept screaming “leave it alone, leave it alone, strip it, leave it alone”. I looked back and asked Ivan to please make up his mind. The fish was hot. Ivan went from barking out orders about the retrieve to screaming “set the hook, set the hook, set the hook”. This time in Spanglish for additional effect. I returned volley with “he doesn’t have it, he doesn’t have it” though not in Spanglish. Ivan, however insisted “he’s got to have it”. I continued with my determined denial “I’m telling you he doesn’t have it”. Meanwhile, I was stripping the fly slowly across the bottom and eventually got to the point where I knew the fish would see the boat and bolt for deep water. Sure enough, that is exactly what happened. Again, I put one across his bow and the permit reacted in exactly the same manner. In fact, we repeated the game one more time for good measure. The permit never ate the fly. At this juncture, it seemed to me the permit was very likely only out for a little afternoon fun and I happened to be the only game in town.

After this permit, too, disappeared, I grabbed a couple of beers from the cooler and sat down. The clock was ticking and the first day was in the books. We buttoned down the hatches and settled in for the long ride back to the lodge.
Turning South

The next morning we woke to howling winds blowing out of the northeast. Not what I would call ideal fishing conditions. To his credit, the winds didn’t seem to detour Ivan’s enthusiasm in the least. We loaded the boat and pushed south with the wind knowing damn well, that if the wind did not lay down in the afternoon, the ride home would be brutal if not a little dangerous. I knew running directly into a thirty mile-an-hour wind was out of the question, quite mad actually, but I could not get the image of all the permit we saw the previous day out of my head. Thus, the little kid in me really wanted to go north.
Despite the fact we had the wind at our back it was a wet, slow and very bumpy ride south. To make things worse, we had an additional hour to waste because the tides normally run on average an hour later every day. Regardless of the time of the day the tide changes, it might guarantee an additional hour on the back side of the tide change. It does not necessarily guarantee an additional hour of good fishing conditions. Two hours before a dead low tide is not necessarily any better than an hour before a dead low. In most cases it just means you a little bit more water.

The topography south of South Water Caye is basically the same as the north and just as fishy, but there is considerably more wading available along the inside of the reefs that stretch the coastline. Ivan rarely felt the need to leave the panga. It goes against his core belief of “hit and run” and “cover as much ground as possible on the incoming tide”. After only two days of fishing together, Ivan had become my version of Hemingway’s Santiago; but, poling a twenty-three foot panga in a thirty mile-an-hour wind was even a little too much for the great Ivan. We needed to regroup and develop a new game plan. To my surprise we went even further south.

We had an early lunch so we could maximize our time and spend more time fishing the incoming tide. We knew it was going to be a long run home tonight and that we would be pulling into the docks long after dinner. Neither one of us really cared too much about that, after all, we knew the bar would be open late. The modus operandi entailed running south where Ivan knew two or three expansive flats that paralleled the reef. It would require wading over hard uneven coral bottom for the remainder of the day. Seemed like a small price to pay at the time.

When we arrived at the first location, we cruised up and down the outside of the flat hoping to see some kind of telltale signs of permit. It was hard to see anything with all the whitecaps let alone permit tailing. Ivan ran up wind and up current of the flat and anchored the panga securely. We hopped out and started wading south along the reef. The reefs are very wide here and the trick is to split up, one on the inside and one as possible to the break on the outside. This gets tricky because the water gets deeper and the waves get bigger. The closer to the break, the bigger the coral gets. Large clusters of brain coral littered with giant families of fan corals cover the bottom. Then it dawns on you, if a permit is seen and hooked up, how in hell could it ever be landed?
The day turned out to be physically brutal. We walked and waded for seven or eight hours. I tripped, fell and on occasion went for a quick swim which was very refreshing and of course purely intentional. I gave new meaning to Patagonia’s wading boots. In truth, it was not quite as bad as it sounds; we did see a tremendous number of permit that day. The problem was getting into position to make a cast. When fish were spotted they were either cruising or tailing and seemed to be going in the wrong direction. To get close enough for a decent cast meant working your way around the permit to get ahead of them. Even though the wind and waves were brutal, it did give me an advantage. I knew if I could get in front of the permit I would get unbelievably close to the fish. On several occasions, I managed to get almost too close. In one case, Ivan and I were down on our knees as I was trying to make a side arm cast to a school of permit that had to number in the twenties. The problem was I did not have any fly line left. My twelve foot leader was already through the tip of the rod. Seconds later the school exploded around our feet. I have never been that close to so many angry permit; it was breathtaking. All we could do was laugh in the end.

We pushed the envelope that day, as much as we could. There were still several hours of good fishable tide left, but the sun was getting very low in the west If we pushed any further we might risk making the long run back in the dark. Pangas, unfortunately, are most definitely not set up to run at night, especially not in rough conditions. That being said, Ivan and I were nothing short of determined and adventurous. It was a tossup. We could stay and fish at the risk of making the long run in the dark or we could play it safe and head back to the lodge. We came to a quick compromise; we would run as fast as possible without sinking the panga then slow down and check out the flats we had fished on the way down. If we could see any permit, we would stop and fish them. Let the chips fall where they may. In the end, we slowed down a few times, but the late afternoon sun made it all but impossible to see tailing fish, especially at any distance. We managed to make it back to the lodge in plenty of time for dinner. I even had time for a cocktail before dinner, always comforting to the soul, especially when imbibed in the prone position on a beautiful, clean, sandy beach in the tropics. After dinner Ivan and I were rehashing the day’s events, both of us sharing the opinion that we should have stayed and fished when we had the chance.

 

 

Back to the Beginning

Of course, I was checking out the pier later on that night. The usual suspects were all there; the tarpon were still hammering the shrimp, and there were several bonefish still picking away at the bottom. There was also a lone permit sitting motionless under the light. I watched for what must have been an hour. It was as if we were trying to communicate with each other. In fact, for over an hour, I was staring at a potential grand slam and a good one at that. Right in front of me within twenty feet, I had a forty to fifty pound tarpon, a four or five pound bonefish and the biggest prize of all a twelve to thirteen pound permit. All I was missing was a rod (and the motivation to repeat the comedy-drama of the previous night). I finally gave up trying to solve life’s little problems and went to bed. I needed a good night’s sleep. I only had about four maybe five hours of good tide left before I would have to break down my rods and head for home.

The new day brought better conditions. The winds had laid down significantly and for the most part the whitecaps had all but disappeared. We took our time getting out; the tide would not change until sometime after one PM and the distance we wanted to cover would dictate our fishing time. To add to our time-constraints, however, Ivan had to be back at the docks before five o’clock. He had another gig in the morning and thus had to get back to Placencia to spend time with his family before he headed back out the next morning. Basically, I had two maybe three hours left depending how close Ivan wanted to push it. Despite this looming deadline, I was very much upbeat and hopeful; it only takes one cast and one dumb permit.

In the end, I didn’t catch a permit on the fly. I am secure enough as a fisherman to admit it knowing I’m in very good company. Permit are notoriously difficult to catch on a fly but that doesn’t make the pursuit any less fun. Fishermen like Jim and John who manage to pull off the miracle earn the privilege of teasing and goading their friends; those of us who do not, get to try again next time, a worthwhile price in itself. All in all this had been a wonderful trip with the usual opportunity to make wonderful new friends as well as spend time with old ones. I was particularly touched when I shook Ivan’s hand before he pulled away from the dock he put a small piece of paper in my pocket. He had given me his home phone and address and written me a small note. In the note Ivan said, “Give me a call and you can come down and stay with me and my family in Placencia anytime you want and we can spend as much time as required trying to catch your permit”. Maybe he thought I’d need it and this was done out of pure charity; either way, I very much appreciated the invitation, and I am eager to get back to try again.

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