It’s part of family lore that when I was three years old I’d go out in a skiff with my father, who’d tie the first fish caught on my line, which would keep me busy for the day. I grew up in Miami Beach, and the backyard of our house bordered on Biscayne Bay. It was easy enough to drop a line in the water after school–and most days I did. Back then, several decades before I learned the art of presenting the ruse of a fly to a fish, shrimp was my bait of choice. My father, a public relations consultant (with the flamboyance typically associated with that profession), once pitched a story to the fishing editor of the Miami Herald, spinning me as a kind of rod-and-reel child prodigy. The editor rose to the bait.  I still have the clip: yellow and brittle as a dried leaf. “My favorite fish is a grunch (a grunt),” I told my interviewer. “And,” I added with precocious certainty (I was six), “when I grow up I want to be a ickyologist (ichthyologist).”

   Fishing was a common language in my family and connected us like nothing else did. My brother is a maniac about the sport—his wife, Maria, too—and, it is telling that on the day he was born my father went fishing and caught a bonefish. When I was growing up, my father would trade in his fishing boat for a larger one at regular intervals before advancing age put an end to boat ownership. Although I left Miami more than 30 years ago to write for National Geographic in Washington, D.C., where a feeding frenzy has more to do with a school of snapping journalists on the trail of a story than it does a bait ball, I could always count on a deep-sea fishing expedition on trips home for the holidays. We typically drove down to Islamorada in the Florida Keys and trolled for sailfish and dolphin in the Gulf Stream, or dropped a line in shallower water for grouper and yellowtail.

   My family, like most, harbors frictions, (some longstanding, others newly minted) that simmer and occasionally erupt, but fishing remained safe territory where abrasions could heal in the mind-clearing astringency of salt air. Years ago, on assignment, I interviewed John Maclean, whose father, Norman, wrote A River Runs Through It, a shadowed story ostensibly about fishing but really about family. As we sat in his Montana cabin, I asked about the role of fishing in his family. Fishing, Maclean explained, had a spiritual dimension and held together a family that communicated in disastrous ways. His father, he said, talked about going to the river because he could say things there he couldn’t say anywhere else.

    La vida es un fandango y aquel que no baila es un tonto, my father used to say.  Life is a fandango (he’d in fact named one of his boats Fandango) and he who doesn’t dance is a fool. So he lived large and danced fiercely, something not without occasional cost to the rest of us. Perhaps that ferocity to live large came from his having survived World War II. He’d flown missions over Germany as a navigator-bombardier on a B-17, and not everyone who flew off returned.

      I knew my father was getting old when he stopped fishing. Two knee replacements, a cracked cervical vertebrae requiring a titanium rod to stabilize it, and age—gravity takes its toll on us all, after all—had compromised his balance. There was no way he could keep his footing on a boat, particularly one tossed about in the Atlantic. Inevitably, he was consigned to a walker, a sentence he met with great resentment. Despite the risk, he longed for one last fishing trip in the Gulf Stream, but it never happened–at least not in the way he’d hoped for.

Years before my father’s deep-water days were curtailed by the rude jolt of age, I had asked John Maclean to talk about his last fishing trip with his father.  “When we returned from our last fishing trip, my father sat down,” Maclean told me. “He was tired.  I asked if I could get something—anything–for him. ‘A drink,’ he said. I fixed it, but it didn’t taste good to him, and I knew he was near the end. He was like an old fisherman who has a big one he knows he’ll never land.”

Recently, my father reached his own end and died. He was 96, and he directed that his ashes be dispersed in the Gulf Stream, where we had fished over so many years.  The ocean off Islamorada was choppy that day. A stiff breeze snapped the lines on the outriggers of the Catch 22, a 54-foot sport-fishing boat owned by Richard Stanczyk, a family friend who took us out for the ceremony. We scattered his ashes into the ocean, and as they unfurled into plumes of gray that disappeared into blue, the head of a big loggerhead turtle popped up from the waves. I swear it winked.

Of course we went fishing afterwards—it was, you might say, my father’s last fishing trip—and in a fitting coda, my nephew, his youngest grandson, caught his first sailfish.

My father would have liked that.

Cathy Newman spent 20 years as a journalist for National Geographic Magazine and was very kind to share her father’s story with Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

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The post (My) Old Man & the Sea first appeared on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

The post (My) Old Man & the Sea appeared first on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

It is the perfect late spring morning in the Keys – the type fly anglers dream about. Even in the pre-dawn darkness, the air is thick and sticks to our skin, and there isn’t a breath of wind for relief. Mosquitoes dance their irritating dance around us as we pack our car. I know it is going to be a great day in the backcountry, and the anticipation pushes my exhaustion to the back of my mind.

My friend Kyle flew in the afternoon before for what would be his first tarpon trip and first trip to the Keys. I always tell people that while I’ve been fortunate to travel the world to fish, there is a reason the Keys are my favorite place on earth. I knew Kyle could fish when I invited him down – he had spent years pursuing stripers in the northeast. Striper guys tend to have the casting distance and quickness needed to get the fly in front of a tarpon. But this is a different game. Trying to feed finicky migratory tarpon on the ocean is a special kind of challenge, but on these hot, slick calm days, the backcountry fish can be pretty cooperative if you can get a fly in front of them.

At dinner the night before, I warned what Kyle probably already knew: tarpon fishing can be tough, but if you’re going to target them, the Keys are the best place on earth to do it. Our guide, Capt. Joe Rodriguez is the kind of guy who will tell you right away what you’re doing wrong, and what you should be doing instead. He has been guiding for nearly half his life and fishing for the rest and has the knowledge to show for it. My tarpon fishing proficiency has exponentially increased in the few short years we’ve fished together.

We meet Joe in Islamorada and leave the dock at first light. The sunrise is almost too perfect, brilliant swaths of color radiating throughout the whole sky and slick water around us, the line between sea and sky imperceptible. Doubt creeps in – maybe we won’t find the fish. After a long run, we finally shut down. At first, the water is an undisrupted glassy mirror, but it doesn’t take long before we hear a familiar sound as tarpon start rolling everywhere, the early morning sun glinting off their silver backs. Kyle insists that I fish first, and after a brief protest, I strip line off the reel and step onto the casting deck. It is painful watching tarpon roll just out of reach, but Joe poles deftly to put me in front of fish. I get a long shot at a fish that rolls in range, but it never sees the fly. Joe directs me to the other side of the boat and my next cast lands a few feet in front of a rolling fish on the move. We watch in strained silence as a subtle wake grows in intensity behind the fly. I hear, “he’s gonna eat it,” from Joe just before the line goes tight and the fish erupts in acrobatic leaps, backlit by the sun. After landing it, I’m beaming, and we all laugh. It isn’t usually quite that easy.

Fish are still rolling all around as Kyle steps up. There is nothing more exciting than tarpon fishing in the Keys, and I love introducing people to it because they inevitably revert to frenetic, childlike enthusiasm. I stand excitedly on the cooler seat. The shots are consistent, and after shaking his nerves and getting some advice from Joe after some missed eats and a few jumped fish, Kyle manages to hook one and leader it a few minutes later. It goes airborne again and throws the fly, and Kyle grins from ear to ear as he steps off the platform. “You’re screwed,” I laugh. “It’s all downhill from here.”

The fish are still rolling, and I catch another before the wind starts to pick up a bit, and they stop rolling. We spend most of the remainder of the day running from storms and trying unsuccessfully to find more fish in the back. When the wind picks up more late in the day, we head to the ocean where the fish remind us how tarpon fishing often goes in the Keys. They keep their noses down and avoid our offerings, other than the occasional fish that feigns interest before swimming past.

After a successful first day, we continue down US 1 South towards the Lower Keys, past mangroves and turquoise water and pastel homes. Kyle marvels that there is some but not much apparent damage from Hurricane Irma. I explain that parts of the Keys had been hit hard, but people in the Keys had been through hurricanes before, they were resilient, and more than anything, they needed the tourists to come back. Plus, the fishing was incredible, so people were crazy not to come down here.

The next two days would be spent fishing with Capt. Brandon Cyr out of Key West, a place I had only fished a handful of times. Another 4:45 AM wake up couldn’t dampen our spirits after that great first day, and we meet Brandon at first light at Ocean’s Edge Marina. Brandon is a fourth generation conch, an affable guy with youthful enthusiasm who I quickly realize is also both a talented guide and entirely obsessed with fishing. The weather is almost identical to the previous day, and I am cautiously optimistic as he shuts the boat down in our first spot and hops up on the platform.

We chat and laugh as we look for rolling and laid-up fish, a task made somewhat difficult by the early morning sun. In low light, you have to read their body language to gauge where fish end up – a fast roll means they are on the move, a slow roll followed by bubbles means they are staying put. There is a serious learning curve (and a degree of luck) to this game, and Brandon is a great teacher, giving helpful guidance and having, above all, a reasonable degree of patience. I love this type of fishing: talking through it, the guessing game after fish show themselves briefly, casting, the breathless moments as you strip the line, waiting to get tight to a fish and watch them explode out of the water. Between shots at fish, Brandon tells us that he had a swimming scholarship to Nova Southeastern out of high school. He was there for exactly one day before realizing he had made a mistake, returning to Key West to become a fishing guide.

As the sun gets higher, we can finally see a group of big laid up fish in a white hole. We talk through the best approach as they are scattered a bit haphazardly, heads facing in all different directions. My first cast lands a little short and Brandon tells me to pick up and throw again. The next cast lands where I want it, and we watch as one fish’s interest is piqued. I’m holding my breath, and Brandon murmurs as she turns towards the fly with a gentle kick of the tail, examines it, and surges forward, inhaling it and immediately jumping wildly as she feels the hook. Line flies everywhere and rips through my fingers as I try to clear it, remarking that it’s a giant fish. I lose her after a few more jumps, but the fun part is over anyways. We get plenty of shots, and both manage to get a few before taking an afternoon break to explore the funky town of Key West. That evening, tired but exhilarated, we head back out for the worm hatch.

The worm hatch is a special event in the Keys, as tarpon go into a frenzy over little red palolo worms as they emerge from the bottom and wriggle along on the surface, making for easy, protein-rich targets. The hatch is triggered by a combination of lunar phase, tide, and weather, so its timing can be somewhat predictable. Once it begins, it usually goes on for days. The worms often appear in the evening, and eager anglers wait for this special time when the oft picky tarpon will eat with reckless abandon. The sun is still high as we head out to where Brandon found tarpon on worms the evening before. I remark to Kyle that he must have some good fish karma built up for the stars to be aligning so well.

Brandon poles us along a shallow flat along the edge of a narrow channel. We don’t see many worms in the water, but schools of smaller tarpon are cruising the flat with purpose, looking for them. A well-placed fly causes a fight between these small, eager fish, and Kyle quickly hooks and lands one. I follow suit, and after releasing my fish, toss the worm fly in the water next to the boat to check that it is still swimming okay. As I pull the fly back out, a silvery body with a bluish tail charges after it. I remark with surprise that it looked like a bonefish. I glance up about sixty feet and see a whole school of what look like bonefish, apparently eating worms. I drop a fly in their midst, and one eats it off the surface as the fly lands. We are all perplexed, but the fish pulls significant line off the reel in two screaming runs, and a few minutes later, a small bonefish is boat-side with a worm fly tucked neatly in the corner of its mouth.

We head to another nearby spot in a channel where a number of boats are already lined up fishing. Not much seems to be happening, as most of the anglers are casting without real purpose and we can’t see any worms in the water. A few tarpon roll intermittently. The sun is getting lower, and Kyle decides to make a few last casts before we call it a night. To our great surprise, he quickly goes tight and hooks a nice fish. He fights it for 20 minutes as the sun gets lower and lower, leadering it several times and getting it right up to the boat before it finally wears through the shock and breaks off. We return to the dock, tired and happy.

After two days of great fishing, we keep our expectations pretty low, but the third day proves to be even better. We start the morning in the same spot as the day before. Fish are rolling again, though the wind is up a bit more this time, and I hook a giant tarpon close to the boat right off the bat. She jumps, and we are all taken aback by her size. She takes me way into my backing and drags us all over the flat and eventually into the channel, where boats targeting tarpon on bait are lined up. The captains all know Brandon and shout encouragement to me and tease him as we try to land the massive tarpon. After a relatively long fight, I get the giant fish boat-side, and as Brandon reaches down to grab her mouth, she pulls away, wears through the shock tippet, and swims off into the depths. I am certain she is one of the biggest fish I’ve ever caught.

With the wind a bit stronger, the tarpon stay down more than the previous day, but Kyle still gets some good shots at laid up fish. After a while, we convince Brandon to let me pole him around for a bit, and he reluctantly accepts, making a few great casts and quickly convincing a fish to eat out of a nice cruising school. As the sun gets higher, we decide to change gears and run to look for bonefish and permit. As we shut down and grab a bonefish rod, we spot a school of big tarpon cruising across a sand flat and scramble to get the tarpon rod back out. The tarpon start daisy chaining right off the edge of the flat, and Kyle makes a few casts into the school before a willing fish sticks its whole head out the water to smash his fly. The school and the hooked fish take off together across the flat.

After landing Kyle’s fish, we are torn, wanting to target other species but knowing there are still lots of tarpon around. We soon see bonefish scurrying by, and I get up and catch one as Kyle stands behind me, tarpon rod at the ready. We then focus on permit, and Kyle takes the bow while I back him up from the middle with a tarpon rod. He gets a few permit shots and experiences the frustration of permit fishing before a lone tarpon cruises across the white sand. I strip line off my reel, we laugh as we frantically try to switch places, and I manage to feed the fish, landing it on a nearby flat in skinny water. We all get in to land, photograph and release the fish, and end up taking lunch while calf deep in the warm, crystal clear water, marveling at what an incredible couple of days it has been. “I love my job and wouldn’t trade it for anything,” Brandon remarks. “My dad always says, ‘Brandon, we might not ever be millionaires, but millionaires pay to escape their lives to come to the Keys and be a part of ours.’”

Bio: Alex Lovett-Woodsum lives in Coral Gables, Florida, where she runs a consulting business for outdoor-focused small businesses and nonprofits. She has been a consulting Editor for Tail and also helped run its social media and online marketing from 2016-2018.  She also works on numerous conservation causes including Now or Neverglades. When she’s not working, Alex spends most of her waking hours fly fishing her home waters around Biscayne and the Florida Keys, as well as hosting trips and traveling to fish as much as she can. You can reach her by email at alexwoodsum@gmail.com or on Instagram @alexwoodsum.

The Guides

Captain Joe Rodriguez grew up in Miami and now lives in the Lower Keys. He has 21 years of experience guiding from Miami to Key West. He can be reached at (305) 494-0000.

Captain Brandon Cyr is a fourth generation conch who has spent as much time as possible on the water since he was a kid, and followed in his father’s footsteps as a fishing guide. He has been guiding for bonefish, tarpon and permit for the past seven years out of Key West, Florida. He can be reached at (305) 797-5076 or on Instagram @brandoncyrkw.

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The post Alive & Well in the Florida Keys first appeared on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

The post Alive & Well in the Florida Keys appeared first on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

A 13-pound bonefish caught last week by Will Franzen and Capt. Carl Ball of AWOL Charters.

Did I mention that the fly fishing is on fire right now? The weather is warming, and everywhere you look, people are catching fish—and lots of them. The bonefishing has been great, with lots of nice fish caught recently. South Florida is still one of the best places on earth to target big bonefish. Hordes of small, eager bones are also around and seem to be growing in numbers, which bodes well for both the fly angler’s chances and hopefully the future of the bonefish fishery. The permit and tarpon fishing is heating up, too, and full-blown tarpon season is right around the corner.

A nice permit on fly makes for part two of the slam.

South Florida is my home, and even though I often travel to other places to fish, it remains one of my favorite fishing destinations on earth. The majority of permit I’ve caught on fly, all the really large tarpon and most of the big bonefish have all been caught down here. I had a chance to get out this past week with for the first time in a while and had great shots at permit, lots of bonefish opportunities, and some great evening fishing for tarpon, even catching a slam on fly with a couple extra bonefish and tarpon for good measure. The next day, I brought a few more bonefish to hand and had some nail-biting permit shots, which is often all you can ask for with those finicky fish. As my second day of fishing wound down, I looked around at the expansive blue sky and flats around me, felt the warmth of the sun on my back, and it reminded me that there’s really no place like home.

The post Fly fishing South Florida: there’s no place like home first appeared on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

The post Fly fishing South Florida: there’s no place like home appeared first on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

At best an occasional bluegill or little stocked rainbow trout.  As for the saltwater, whenever I could get there, mostly what I found was little snappers and random small fish that I couldn’t identify and can’t name. It was depressing. I bet this kind of drought happens to everyone but Trey Combs, but still. So one early-spring day in my desperate snow-bound Brooklyn I got a phone call.
A casting instructor, friend, and all-around fishing mentor, called to say that one of the best guides in the Florida Keys had a sudden opening out at Big Pine Key for some prime tarpon fishing. I couldn’t imagine paying for a trip to Big Pine Key!  I couldn’t possibly afford it!

A few weeks later, I arrived in Big Pine.

The night before our first day on the water, I talked to my guide on the phone. He said some things that, if you’re a fisherman with any seasons, you immediately recognize as ridiculous: “conditions are shaping up to be perfect;” “the tarpon are in thick;” “I don’t know if I’ve ever seen better conditions.”
Right, right.
So in the morning we went out. Within 10 minutes we were over dozens of huge fish, animals that looked like gray railroad ties with fins. An impossible number.
It was like a second meniscus of 100-pound fish cruising just under the surface. I don’t think we even saw a fish under 90 pounds but lots of them were around 120 pounds easily.
This was my first tarpon trip. There were more tarpon than I ever even hope to see in one place again. Sure enough, I’ve been after tarpon since this trip and have felt lucky to see one or two fish a day so this trip was special. I spent just about every moment of the four days casting over these five-foot-long fish. It was unnerving, and hugely exciting. These fish were a bit tricky. Some wanted a palolo worm imitation while some wanted a chartreuse toad or whatever. There didn’t seem to be any rhyme or reason for what individual fish wanted to eat; fly selection was based on my guide’s intuition and trial-and-error.

But no matter what and you’ve heard this before, presentation was key. Put the fly in front of the fish and swim it at an angle away from them. This was what worked. Swim the fly across the fish and the odds plummet. Retrieve it toward them and forget it, they’re violently gone.
We got tons of takes. A tarpon’s take is often surprisingly subtle – the massive fish just comes up behind the fly and then the fly is gone. Nothing savage about it, in most cases, just beautiful efficiency.
But the next few seconds are not subtle. When you strike the fish, it responds with outrageous, unbelievable power. The water in the fish’s general area seems as if it’s being strafed with a barrage of artillery. Huge explosions of water where the fish is, big holes where the fish just was, all this in clear, shallow water. It’s incomprehensible until you’ve done it.
Over my four days of fishing, I hooked & jumped probably three dozen fish. I brought maybe six of those to the boat. Hooks fell out, rods broke, leaders broke, sharks
threatened, the usual stuff. It was exhilarating, the fly fishing equivalent of skydiving in my opinion.
Every plane ride home from a trip I sit back and plan the next one.
I can’t wait to do it again.

Tarpon: Big Pine Key
by John Melfi (originally published in Tail #2, November 2012)

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The post Tarpon – A Big Pine Key Experience first appeared on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

The post Tarpon – A Big Pine Key Experience appeared first on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.