To date, I’ve taken seven large ‘cudas that were close to 30 pounds or larger. I remember how many because those catches are very significant and exciting to me. Only snook more than 20 pounds fall into that category for me. Let me share my most memorable ‘cuda catch.

Chico Fernandez circa 1970

In the winter of 1988, I hosted a trip of 12 anglers to Los Roques, Venezuela. Fishing was fantastic in those days. On the last day of the trip, four of us rode a 24-foot panga to a large sandy flat that had a very sharp drop-off at one end. There were schools of bonefish everywhere, so my anglers got off and started wading after them right away. I stayed on the panga, eating half a sandwich while standing on the tip end of the bow. Soon, everyone was hooked up, and schools of bonefish where racing all over the flats as far as I could see. It was fun to watch.

Then I saw a very large dark fish in the distance. It was following one of the schools of bonefish. I couldn’t see it well enough, but it was either a shark or a large barracuda.

I had a feeling it was a ‘cuda. So I grabbed my 9-weight rod with an old Seamaster Mark II and a ‘cuda fly with No. 4 wire. I had been looking all trip long for that big barracuda, and this could be my chance.

I got off the panga, and once on the hard sand, I had to wade a long time before I got within casting range. And then I could see it clearly; it was a big ‘cuda. My heart was pumping, my throat was dry, and I have to admit that I was nervous.

It wasn’t too windy, and I was up wind of the fish anyway, so it was a fairly easy 60-foot cast. The fly landed 8 or 10 feet from the fish. The ‘cuda was excited upon seeing the fly, but still, as usual, followed the fly halfway to me before taking it. Once hooked, it made a couple of short runs, 20 yards or so, and then made the most spectacular jump I can ever remember out of a ‘cuda. It was a long jump that had to be more than 20 feet. I’ll never forget it.

But a few minutes into the fight, the ‘cuda decided to leave the flat and headed for the deep drop-off at high speed. There was nothing I could do about it except wade after the fish as fast as I could, which wasn’t very fast, so I was quickly losing line. Meanwhile, the ‘cuda got to the edge of the drop-off, only a few feet from the staked out panga, and kept going. Several of the anglers and the guides saw her go by. The next time it jumped, it was an estimated 150 yards away. The big fish was running infinitely faster than I could move by wading.

I kept losing line, and by the time I got to the panga, I could see the bottom of the reel with only a few turns of backing left on it. It was a big effort to climb on the panga’s tall freeboard, but as soon as I did, the engine was running and we were chasing the ‘cuda.

Now I could start to gain line—very slowly since the reel’s arbor was about the size of a quarter. But eventually I was back in the fly line, and by then the fish had sounded, so now it was just a matter of time. Eventually, I was able to bring the fish to the boat and land it. It tipped the guide’s old scale to 34 pounds. And as I held it for a few quick photos, I knew I would never forget this fish. Not even if I ever caught a bigger one. Which I haven’t.

For pure excitement in shallow water, fly fishing for big barracudas is hard to beat. You are looking for this big alligator-like, sinister-looking fish, often sitting still on the water’s surface. It’s exciting when you finally spot one.

Then, when it chases the fly, it will be pushing a big wake behind it. Equally visible is the strike, often very fast and with a big splash and lots of foam. The whole thing has vicious written all over. Because the barracuda is big and fast, it has the ability to make some long runs. And a large ‘cuda is capable of some of the most spectacular jumps you’ll ever see. They can be very high as well as very long, and all this happens as your reel is screaming. Tarpon also can make spectacular jumps, of course, but ‘cuda jumps have their own personality. It’s different. It’s cool.

There are times when the barracuda decides to turn right or left in middle of a run, and now your fly line starts to cut through the water, leaving a big tail of foam. It’s a sight you won’t soon forget.

A big barracuda is probably the most underrated gamefish in the bonefish flats—a truly unsung hero. On the other hand, sight casting to a big ‘cuda in shallow water is not easy, and that, too, makes it exciting

Sphyraena barracuda is commonly known as the great barracuda. The extent of its worldwide habitat is phenomenal. They can be found from extremely shallow bonefish flats to reef areas and open ocean. I’ve taken them in a foot of water, trolling in blue water for marlin and dolphin, and right on the bottom in more than 200 feet of water while deep jigging for grouper and snapper. They go anywhere they want.

And they grow large. The largest on record is 102 pounds, taken in Africa. But fishing the flats today, one close to 20 pounds is a good one, and 30 or larger is a trophy.

More than 40 years ago, I was wading after a school of bonefish on the south end of Turneffe Atoll in Belize. Behind me, the flat dropped off to perhaps 3 feet. I had been busy stalking the school of bones, trying to get in position to cast. I don’t know why, but something made me look behind me, and when I did, I found myself looking at a giant barracuda only 20 feet away. It was right on the surface, looking straight at me. Our eyes met. Neither the ‘cuda nor I moved a muscle.

This went on for a few seconds, and then, almost instinctively, I cast the bonefish fly and passed it by the fish. It never acknowledged the cast or the fly; it just kept looking at me, obviously not afraid. I was not as confident; the fish intimidated me. Finally, after what seemed like a long time, it slowly sank to the bottom, where I could still easily see it. It was big, fat, and dark. Forgetting all about the bonefish school, I then decided to back off slowly and head to shore, where I waited for the skiff to come get me. I honestly believe the ‘cuda was bigger than 60 pounds. Later that evening at the camp, when I told my story over drinks, a couple of the old guides told me they also had seen the fish. I still think about it.

Best time of year

Barracuda don’t like hot weather, so the best time of the year for them is late fall through early spring in most places where I’ve fished, including the Bahamas and Florida.

“The best time is during colder weather, because it brings baitfish to shallow water and the ‘cudas follow them,” says Captain Alex Zapata, who loves to fish for them from Miami down through the Florida Keys. “My favorite months are February to April. November through January are also good months, providing there isn’t a severe cold front. Then everything can shut down.”

Chico Fernandez in Los Roques with a big barracuda

Looking for big ‘cudas

Good areas include deeper flats, like the areas you would fish for permit. Any light-bottom pothole is always a good place to check out. 

Shallow wrecks or markers, even in 10 to 20 feet of water, also will have big ‘cudas, often visible right on the surface. And when I can’t find them, another good bet is blind casting in channels around the flats, especially on outgoing tides.

In the Bahamas one of my favorite places to look for big ‘cudas are areas with large schools of small bonefish, especially if it’s an outside flat closer to deep water. Some of the biggest ‘cudas I see in the flats are in those conditions.

“In the Keys, I love a strong incoming tide because it pushes the baitfish into the flats, and the big ‘cudas follow them,” Zapata says.

Approach and fly placement

This type of fishing is about making long casts—the longer the better. Large barracuda are very worrisome animals, and they won’t let you get close. And if they do, they simply won’t take the fly. Another reason for the long cast is that ‘cudas have the habit of following a fly for a long time before taking it. A long cast gives a ‘cuda plenty of room before it takes the fly. With a shorter cast, the fish following the fly will often see the boat before making up its mind to take the fly. Then it’s all over. 

You want to cast a leader’s length beyond the fish so that the fly passes 5 to 8 feet from it. That’s ideal.

The retrieve

As a rule, ‘cudas like the fly to be moving fast. Remember that you’re using a fly that imitates a baitfish, which moves very fast when it’s trying to escape a predator. It usually can’t be too fast. I mostly use a one-hand retrieve because it’s faster than a two-hand retrieve, at least for me. And always keep the tip of the rod close to the water. 

But Captain Paul Tejera mentions a situation where a two-hand retrieve makes sense. “I use a one-hand retrieve also, but there are situations, such as using a popper or casting to ‘cudas sitting on a strong current, where a steady mid-speed retrieve is called for,” he says. “Then I prefer a two-hand retrieve”.

Hook-up

As with most situations, you need to strip-strike. But often the cuda will take the fly fast, while still coming toward you, creating lots of slack. In this case, you need to use both the strip strike and a rod strike to absorb the extra slack and be able to set the hook.

Clearing line and the fight

A big ‘cuda can move very fast, especially in short bursts—like a cheetah. So when you set the hook, be ready to see your fly line leave the deck lightning fast. Also, keep the rod tip low to the water when clearing the line. It reduces the possibility of any slack, and helps keep tension on the line.

The fight in the flats won’t be long; those super-fast runs and acrobatic jumps soon take their toll. The same fish in deep water will fight a bit longer, but still not real long.

Land and release

By the time a big ‘cuda is next to the boat, it is exhausted. I much prefer to handle them by hand as opposed to lifting them by lip-gaffing, which is not good for any fish.

“I handle the big ‘cuda like it’s a bonefish,” Tejera says.

I like that philosophy.  Be careful, however, because a barracuda can cut you to ribbons. If you are with a guide, let the guide handle the fish. Using gloves may also help. And to remove the hook, I always use one of the many long tools available for the task. Just be careful. 

Finally, take your time reviving the fish before you let it go. Sharks are usually nearby.

Barracuda flies 

Some of Chico’s cuda flies

When selecting a fly for big barracudas, remember you have to be able to cast it far, generally in the wind, and with some degree of accuracy. So don’t be tempted to select a fly that is too big or too bulky. I prefer a short-shank hook to a long shank because they are lighter for the same size gap and have better hooking capabilities. But certain streamer and popper patterns that I like require a long-shank hook, so I still use them when I can afford to accept the trade-off.

Stinger hooks—adding a second hook to the fly—can be effective. Barracuda often strike in the middle of the fly, trying to cut the fish in half, causing them to miss the main hook up front. But these flies are heavier, so it’s harder to make that long cast that is so important. I also don’t think these flies swim as naturally, so you get more refusals, especially in areas that have a lot of pressure. Personally, I don’t use them.   

When selecting a fly, just remember that a big ‘cuda’s diet is mainly fish, not shrimp or crabs. Good choices are the classic baitfish patterns with big eyes in a variety of light colors with a darker back. I also love an all-white, all-orange or all-chartreuse fly. All patterns should have some flash as an attractor. In terms of size, most of my big ‘cuda flies are about 5 to 6 inches in length. 

Another popular pattern is tied with braided hair, long and skinny, often on a long-shank hook. It may have painted eyes and epoxy on the front of the hook. It has taken lots of ‘cudas over the years. But somehow it’s not my first choice.

I also like a long popper, especially for blind casting in deeper flats, channels, or around shallow-water wrecks. A popper is a great dinner bell.

Fly rod, reel, and line

I like 9- and 10-weight rods because their fly lines are heavy enough to cast the weight of a big fly and wire bite tippet a long distance, but they’re still light enough that I can cast them all day if needed.

Any reel that balances with a 9-weight or 10-weight is going to have more than 200 yards of backing, which is more than enough to stop most barracuda.

A weight-forward floating line is all you need. If you are a good caster and can carry a lot of line in the air, then a line with a long belly would help you make longer casts. Also, you can try a clear weight-forward floating line so that the line is less visible to the fish. You may not be able to see the fly line in the air as well, but the big fly would be easy to see during the false casting, and that’s good enough. I often use them with good results. And they’re perfect for blind casting. 

Leaders

A 10-foot leader with more than 50 percent butt section will perform well, although I usually prefer 60 percent butt section. If the fish are spooky and you’re a good caster, go to a 12-foot leader, or better yet, go to a clear floating fly line. Tippets from 12 to 20 pounds are ideal. My preference is usually 16 pounds.

The wire bite tippet can be plain No. 4 or  No. 5 wire or any of the plastic-coated cables that can be tied like monofilament. They both work. But don’t use a very long bite tippet, because it’s harder to cast and you’ll get more refusals, especially from the bigger fish. My wire bite tippet is usually 4 to 7 inches, depending on conditions. That’s usually long enough that the ‘cuda probably won’t get to the mono tippet if it swallows the fly, but light enough that I can still make a long cast. If conditions are making it tough for me to make the long cast, I’ll usually reduce the wire’s length to 4 inches to reduce weight.

Be prepared

If you really want to catch a big barracuda, the most important advice—besides practicing a long cast—is to have a rod in the boat rigged and ready strictly for barracuda. Generally, when you see one while fishing for bonefish or some other species, there’s no time to take out a heavier rod, check the leader, find the wire, tie it to the tippet, and so on. There’s just not enough time.

But if you have a 9- or 10-weight fully rigged and ready, it’s just a matter of dropping the bonefish rod, taking out the cuda rod, and starting your false cast.

If you are committed to barracuda fishing and not concerned with other species, then I suggest having two rods rigged with different flies—maybe a streamer on one rod and a popper on another. When you get to a deep channel that looks good, take out the popper ring the dinner bell. When you go back to a shallow area, it may be preferable to go back to the streamer fly. And if you get a refusal, you can quickly pick up the other rod and offer the fish something different.

Eating barracudas?

If you are considering a barracuda to eat, keep in mind that ciguatera poisoning is an issue. It occurs more often in larger fish, but can also be present in smaller fish. Ciguatera poisoning is caused by eating a fish that contains toxins from a marine mircoalgae. People who have ciguatera may experience nausea, vomiting, and neurological symptoms such as tingling in the extremities. Symptoms usually go away in a few days or weeks, but sometimes they can last for years. Ciguatera has no cure, but it can be treated.

My advice is to release the ‘cuda and eat a mangrove snapper.

Bison Of The Flats: The Bumphead Parrotfish

Stripers in the Suds – John G. Sherman

How to Catch Big Fish by Andy Mill

Go-to Flies for the Everglades by Chico Fernandez

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The post Barracuda Breakdown by Chico Fernandez first appeared on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

The post Barracuda Breakdown by Chico Fernandez appeared first on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

by Joseph Ballarini

On my first cast to a bonefish, on Biscayne Bay near Miami in August 2008, I hooked up.

We rolled out of Black Point Marina, into a skinny-water eel grass flat that was as smooth as melted glass. The sun was starting to surface in its awesome orange glow, illuminating the horizon. We saw spiders the size of birds high up in the mangroves in the early morning light; there may have been a bird caught in one of the webs. What am I doing here?

We traveled by canoe through a very small creek. It was shallow, muddy, smelled like sulfur, and there were lots of bugs. What was I thinking this morning?

The creek fed into a small cove named Black Point about 10 miles south of Miami Beach. As I was admiring the sunrise, just as we entered the creek mouth onto the flats, the guide whispered, “See them? There they are!”

I was nervous—very nervous. I had just started fly fishing after being a bait chucker since age four, and frankly, my fly casting wasn’t good. “I’ll get you closer,” the guide said. “Get ready to cast.” My heart was racing at about 120 beats per minute. I felt my palms getting sweaty, and the grip on my cork handle started to loosen. The cork was indented from the raw pressure of my grip, but it just didn’t seem tight enough, so I just kept squeezing. My body felt heavier, and there was little I could do about it.

“Twelve o’clock, about 45 feet. See them?”

I did. There were six or seven big bonefish right in front of me—tailing. I’d never seen them tail at such short range. This was my chance to catch my first bone on a fly. I was excited, and I could taste success.

I completely flubbed the first cast, throwing the fly about 20 feet short and about 30 feet to the left of the school. I picked up my line with a water haul, which at that moment I really didn’t know existed. Somehow, maybe with the adrenaline or just plain luck, I fired a 40-foot laser into the center of the small school of tailing bones. I saw a flash of silver and heard the guide scream, “He ate it! Set it! set it!”

Huge Fish and a Bad Knot

I pulled back on the line and set the hook on a roughly 7-pound bonefish. My rod bent like I had never seen it bend—because I had never had a fish of that brawn on it before. With the reel screaming, the mighty bone pulled off about 150 feet of line in a blazing initial run that only took seconds.

“You are the luckiest guy in the world,” my guide bellowed. “No one catches a bonefish on their first cast.” Technically, it was my second cast, but it didn’t matter. As quick as the fish was hooked, it was gone. My knot gave way, leaving a pig-tailed leader shooting back at the canoe. I quickly retrieved my line, and the guide grabbed it for a closer look.

“You need to check your knots, man,” he said. “You just lost a huge fish because of a knot.”

I had a pit in my stomach, and for the first time since I was four years old, I didn’t want to fish anymore. That was probably good, because there weren’t any more fish that morning. I felt like a complete failure, but there was a part of me that thought I could do it again. The optimism kept me coming back.

Finally, near Matheson Hammock in Miami, it happened again. It was the same scenario,

but I had been fishing without a guide for about a week. I launched my kayak from the public beach on a pebble shore which wasn’t far from a channel. It was overcast and warm for the time of year, the tides were very dramatic, and there was rain on the horizon. Only lightning would make me leave the flats, especially after waking up at 4:30 a.m. to get on the water by sunrise. But indeed, there was lightning amid the raid on the distant horizon. I didn’t have much time. My favorite 8-weight was ready, handle at my feet with the tip off the bow. This time I tied my own leader and checked my knots twice. I even tied my own fly, Peterson’s Spawning Shrimp, my go-to bonefish fly at the time.

While poling my kayak over a deep boat channel, I saw something in the distance. There they were—six or seven bonefish tailing in about a foot of water on an eel grass flat. They were fat and happy. It almost looked like the same school as that first connection, but the chance of that was virtually nonexistent.

Here we go again

I pole with a rope looped around my wrist. The rope is tied to the anchor line, which allows me to loop the rope around my push pole and gently drop it behind the kayak to drag behind my vessel, well out of the way. I pushed hard one more time to get into a better position.

I looped my rope, dropped the pole, picked up the fly rod, and attempted to visualize my attack.

This time I was ready. Calmer, more experienced, and a much better caster, but still no bones to date, so the nervousness persisted to a significant degree. In this moment, you just accept the tachycardia and sweaty palms, knowing that the hunt is on.

I began my cast, very sloppy and too fast on the backcast, which seems to be the norm while casting when fish are actually present. I threw a 35-foot lob that hit the water like a rock, just to the right of the tailing fish. Fortunately, they were just starting to move right. Sometimes it’s better to be lucky than good.

There was almost no light, so little that I was surprised I saw them in the first place. I couldn’t see what was going on, but before I could react, something took the fly, and a fish was on.

Again the rod had a ferocious bend and a crazy bounce. But this one wasn’t as big as that first hooked bonefish. It took off into the boat channel that I had just crossed, and before I knew it, it was well into the holy crap part of my backing. Over 250 feet of backing was gone, and at no point did I have any control of the fish.

Then it stopped suddenly. My heart sank as I thought the fish was lost. In frustration, I began to reel as fast as my hand could move and watched the kayak start to drift toward the direction

of the fish’s run. It was still on. In a few minutes I had retrieved my backing and was back to fly line, but at that point the resting fish recovered.

Another screaming run began and soon put me back into holy crap territory. I noticed that the lightning, which had been far off on the horizon, was much closer, and rain began

to fall. I was standing on a kayak in Biscayne Bay in a lightning storm fighting a bonefish that just wouldn’t make it easy. I debated whether I should break it off and head for shore, but my ego got the best of me, and I refused to let it go. I was tired of failure and frustration, and I was going for broke. Succeed or die trying, which in retrospect was incredibly stupid.

I started to pressure the fish hard. Really hard. I was expecting him to break off at any moment and become another “almost” story. To my amazement, however, he began to wilt. He lost his mojo and any desire to fight. Again, my heart raced. I could taste success.

Within five minutes, my leader was to the tip, and I had a bonefish—my first bonefish—to the

side of the kayak. He had surrendered. Soaking wet from the rain, not remotely concerned about the lightning, I pulled him out of the water, so excited that I dropped my rod in the

water. But it didn’t matter.

There it was—mirrored silver scales, blackish green stripes, unrealistic pink lips, and my

Peterson’s spawning shrimp stuck in its top lip. It was slippery, slimy, and stinky, but it was a bonefish, caught on a fly, finally, in my hands.

It was glorious. The most beautiful fish I had ever seen. I just stared at it, taking in the details for too long before realizing it was raining hard, there was lightning nearby, and this poor bonefish couldn’t breathe. I lunged for the camera for a quick photo, but to my dismay the battery was dead. Adding more insult, I dropped the fish in the water and stepped on the fly. I can be such a bonehead.

One rookie mistake after another. But after months of frustration, repeated failure, and countless hours of research and investigation, I had just caught my first bonefish on a fly. I soon realized this was more than an obsession. Perseverance in the face of constant failure and determination to succeed had turned my obsession into a healthy addiction.

I still had so many questions. Why was it so hard to find good information about fly fishing in salt water? Why did it take me more than six months to land a bonefish when I’d been

fishing my whole life? Where are other places to fish? What other species are as challenging? Where can I get really solid advice and real data? I didn’t have any answers. Then it hit me. I’m a bonehead … a fly fish bonehead.

A quest in earnest

While heading back to my truck, riding the high of catching my first bonefish on a fly, lingering questions substantially limited my joy. My father had me out fishing since I was four; it was something I had been doing my entire life. Why did I have such a hard time catching a bonefish?

Was this the pinnacle of my fishing experience? Are other fish going to be as difficult?

What other fish are out there?

Well, I found other fish, plenty of them: tarpon, permit, snook, tuna, shark, barracuda, billfish, and roosterfish. There are milkfish, trevally and queen fish in Australia. There are fish similar to permit in Asia, as well as a fish in the Indo-Pacific called snub-nose pompano. Hawaii has giant bonefish. There are many targets for fly anglers. Each one requires a fair amount of knowledge and competence.

So my search for competence began, emphasis on “search.” There were hundreds if not thousands of websites for fly fishing. To my dismay, most of them were utterly useless. I found plenty of dead links and lots of self-serving information that was just trying to sell products or book a trip.

My research and quest for knowledge was stymied by a glaring lack of good information. I wanted data on species, migration patterns, typical foods, which flies mimicked which foods, destinations, weather conditions, and tides. It was stuff I couldn’t find without reading hundreds of pages and rooting through piles of garbage. The internet was full of information that was mostly unorganized, incomplete, and inaccurate, and there were a lot of people masquerading as authorities.

I remember searching for “bonefish fly” and getting results for nymph fishing in Pennsylvania.

Trout fishing is fun, but I wanted to learn about saltwater fly fishing and get better at it.

I wanted to learn how to fly fish effectively in salt water for the top ten or 15 species. One fish in six months—that’s not fun, but it was a learning process. I was done putting in time and paying dues. The addiction had taken over now; I wanted to hunt for fish, not information.

For the next 18 months, I researched saltwater fly fishing information and began to create database. I fished with every captain that I could from Florida to the eastern Caribbean, from California to Australia, and made notes and took photos and video. My travels took me to the Florida Keys, Panama, Costa Rica, Mexico, California, Australia, the Bahamas, the Windward Islands—anywhere to learn. And I did just that.

I practiced casting and specific techniques for casting in wind and less desirable conditions. I began studying the art of fly tying and collected flies from all over the world.

My science background enabled me to search data, organize it, and understand it. It became more of a study of the species and the ecosystems that they inhabit rather than a fly fishing study. If you understand the behavior of the fish, then you understand how to target and hunt for that fish. If you know a species’ migration patterns, for example, why would you need fishing calendar?

I gathered a lot of solid knowledge from all of that traveling, as well as many tips and tricks, and most important, an understanding of how to read water and how to read fish. During my travels and time on the water, perhaps the biggest thing I learned was that our waters are in trouble. It was all too common to hear captains talk about how plentiful the oceans used to be.

Seeing debris washed up on scenic Caribbean beaches and even in Biscayne Bay, polluting the system and endangering the wildlife, was troubling. Rips and scars in the sea grass and on manatees from the carelessness of recreational motor boaters. It’s just a matter of time before it’s all gone.

Every time I go out fishing on the kayak, I come home with a bag of trash. Not my trash, but trash that was floating in our water that I collected for proper disposal. I can’t tell you how many beer bottles, plastic bags, and chunks of Styrofoam I’ve collected.

I found that not only was I becoming a knowledgeable fly fisherman, but also an informed and very concerned guardian of the ecosystems the fish inhabit. I wanted to make people aware of the problem and do something to help support the trusts that study and protect the waters and species.

And so it began

This was the catalyst for Flyfishbonehead. “Hunt for fish, not information.” That’s catchy, but there’s a bigger goal. Let’s create awareness of dangers posed to our ecosystems. Perhaps we can create a global network of members, and maybe this network can make a difference.

What if I could create a website with accurate, organized information that promotes the sport of fly fishing in salt water and supports the charitable trusts that support the ecosystems?

So I did.

In 2010, I started organizing my database and planning a website. I had thousands of photos and hours of video: tuna, blue marlin, sailfish, roosterfish, all kinds of sharks, striped bass, weakfish, bluefish, tarpon, bonefish, trevally. I had so much information to sort. It was overwhelming at first, but after a few years and many terabytes of storage, it’s now somewhat manageable. And I’ve kept fishing and traveling.

My friends and fishing buddies were initially a bit concerned about my “addiction.” They later recognized that it had become a healthy outlet for the good of the sport and the environment,  and they began to help. Like old college buddies chanting “chug, chug, chug,” they kept me moving forward and contributed as much as they could, and in 2011, we created Flyfishbonehead.com and Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

Little did I know how insanely difficult it was going to be to launch a website and magazine. With so many details, countless considerations, photos and videos to edit and process, writing copy, and verifying copy to ensure accuracy, there wasn’t enough time in the day to get everything done. We wanted it to be great; everything had to be perfect. But it didn’t work out that way.

We were almost a month behind schedule, and due to some major obstacles and a few failed designs, it was another year until Tail Fly Fishing Magazine launched in August 2012 during the beta trial of Flyfishbonehead.com.

In September 2012, the beta tag came off, and Flyfishbonehead.com was finally officially launched. My addiction was fly fishing for bonefish, but now it has become fly fishing and also making sure future generations of fly anglers get to enjoy the same waters and experiences that we now enjoy. Perhaps together, as a global fly fishing community, we can even make it better.

I still remember catching that first bonefish. Almost getting struck by lightning. Dropping a Sage rod in the bay. Stepping on the fly and hooking my foot. I’m a bonehead….a fly fish bonehead. You’d think that would’ve been enough to make me quit. But addiction is a very strange thing.

Reflections from the Mill House Podcast

Alive & Well in the Florida Keys

Chico Fernandez joins Tail Fly Fishing Magazine

The post Addiction first appeared on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

The post Addiction appeared first on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

Story by Michael DeJarnette
Photos by Patrick DeJarnette

Our flight arrived about an hour late in Cancun. It was the Sunday before Christmas, and it had been snowing in Utah. Airports and airlines had been working through significant staffing issues related to the Omicron variant of Covid-19, causing flight cancellations nationwide. Although 6 p.m. doesn’t seem like a late arrival, there was still a two-and-a-half-hour shuttle ride followed by a half-hour ferry boat trip. It really starts to feel late when the journey winds through rural Quintana Roo in a drizzling rain in the dark.

Our ultimate destination was Isla Holbox, an island just off the northeastern tip of Mexico’s Yucatán Peninsula, where the waters of the Caribbean Sea and the Gulf of Mexico intermingle to create a rich marine ecosystem. The island remains laid-back and car-free. There’s enough tourism infrastructure to make it comfortable, but its relative inaccessibility means it isn’t overrun with visitors like some popular beach destinations along Mexico’s Caribbean coast. It would be a welcome holiday getaway for our family—and for me and my son, Patrick, it would afford an opportunity to include fly fishing for baby tarpon in the family vacation plans.

But we weren’t there yet. Ivan was a great driver, although he drove a bit faster than what seemed humanly possible in the wet conditions. The aging Volkswagen van had seen better days. A perpetual oily glaze streaked by the windshield wipers added even more excitement to the drive. When Ivan learned our group was happy to pony up the 175 pesos for the toll road, which would shave half an hour from the trek, there was genuine joy in his eyes.

Our plans hadn’t taken into consideration that the last ferry between Chiquila and Isla Holbox left at 9 p.m., so we were surprised by the fire drill that erupted as the Volkswagen bounced into the ferry station. “Five minutes, five minutes, the last ferry!” We quickly grabbed our bags, bought tickets, and loaded onto the Holbox Express Fast Ferry.

On the other side of Laguna Yalahau, the boat was unloaded without delay. The port was lively for a rainy Sunday night. Yellow golf carts with lifted suspensions and balloon tires stood in a line, awaiting passengers in the muddy street. We loaded onto two of them, facing backward as we splashed from pothole to pothole through the town center toward the beach road and our hotel, where a long day was followed by a long sleep.

With poor fishing conditions on the horizon, we waded through the mire to explore the town on Monday. Holbox is a small fishing village, not unlike many others that time had forgotten until an Instagram-fueled tourism boom washed over small beach towns in the Yucatán. Pictures in front of colorful signs with the names of towns—blue water and white sand in the background—have emboldened even the previously less adventurous to leave the traditional cruise ship ports like Cancun and Cozumel to crowd into sleepy towns like Playa del Carmen and Tulum and startle them awake. Holbox is blessedly still off the beaten path enough to retain its identity as a fishing village. We were reminded of this as we saw an American family walking through soupy, ankle-deep sand in the town center with their shoes in hand, the mother walking as quickly as her bare feet would take her while yelling repeatedly that she was “over this!” I smiled.

There are still street vendors and markets where English isn’t spoken and credit cards aren’t taken. Prices are in pesos, and cervezas cost about 40 or 50 of them. Culinary highlights include cochinita tacos at the stand at the end of the mini mercado across from the air strip, the empanadas a few doors down, lobster pizza at Roots, and the “meat in its own juice” at La Tapatia.

Holbox is a place where a beachgoer can walk a couple of hundred yards from the shore and still be in ankle-deep water. The loudest sounds on the island are the gas powered golf carts. You can swim with whale sharks, explore mangroves by kayak, and check out the area’s abundance of marine and bird life. You can also fish.

I connected with Kevin Webb and Darwin Vega Cruz on social media prior to our trip. Having never been to Holbox, I sent messages to a few guides who had pictures of gamefish and fly rods on their feeds. Kevin was the first one who replied, and we eventually booked a few days to chase tarpon and snook on the fly.

Wind and weather didn’t cooperate, but after ongoing conversations with Vega on WhatsApp, the forecast finally became more favorable for fishing on Tuesday. This was set to be a father-son fishing trip like many before it. Patrick was on break from his first semester of college in Boise, and he seemed genuinely excited to be here. Vega was waiting for us at our hotel at 6:15 a.m. We loaded our equipment into his Can Am and drove to the brightly lit port on the south side of town. The ferries and fishing boats had already started their day. Vega loaded us up, untied the Hells Bay, and pointed it into the darkness.

I doubt there’s ever a bad sunrise over the mangroves while going out to fish, but you know it’s exceptional when the guide pulls out his phone for a picture of it. Vega added a couple of images to his phone and then set a course for the mangroves. We approached an opening in the mangroves at full speed and didn’t slow down, effortlessly winding through the trees before coming out into an opening.

Vega chose a red and white Seaducer from my fly box. We cast at the mangroves for some time and missed a beefy baby tarpon. That empty feeling of missing the trip’s first fish hung in the air for a few minutes. The breeze stiffened as the day progressed, and we moved to a sheltered spot. We switched to a Clouser and waded barefoot in soft sand along the mangroves and missed another baby tarpon. Just as frustration started to creep in, we hooked and landed a snook. But our luck was short-lived; the wind continued to increase and was approaching a gale when we ruled the conditions impossible and called it a day.

We returned the next day, only this time, the sky was clear and the wind speed was in single digits. We were developing a good rapport with Vega and he insisted we call him “Darwito,” the name by which most of Holbox knows him. A lifelong resident of the island, Darwito opened up to us about his battle with grief after losing his wife to cancer four years ago. He said the first three years were dark, but a year ago he got sober and started focusing on the health of both his body and mind. He told us he works out everyday, which was obvious when he showed us the story in black ink on his left arm, an extensive tattoo telling an artful story of triumph and tragedy through images of fly rods, skiffs, and tarpon.

We arrived at the mouth of a creek in the mangroves and saw the baby tarpon rolling. The mosquitos had started to bite, which seemed to excite Darwito. He told us that the mosquitos bring the tarpon. He was probably just trying to make us feel better, but we went along with it, and after a few overly excited casts, a yellow and white Clouser finally found its mark in a cut in the mangroves. The tarpon ate, and the dance had begun. We call them baby tarpon, but they feel bigger than babies when they jump. The silver prince earned his bow before I brought him to the boat. Somehow my 9-weight snapped at a ferrule just as we landed the fish, but I considered it a small price to pay for the experience (and the rod has a good warranty), and it didn’t dampen the celebration.

We moved to a canal in the middle of the mangroves and backed into the trees, making long casts across the channel as tarpon rolled by. We lost a few flies in the tricky back casts, but we were rewarded by a good-sized shiny silver specimen. The tarpon fought hard to get into the mangrove roots, but finally relented as a young sea turtle looked on.

We fished more and talked more, but once again the wind picked up and sent us to port. My wife and daughter thought this was a beach vacation and not a fishing trip, so there were family obligations. But any time a family vacation during the week before Christmas can be tweaked to include a few days of skiffs, tarpon, and fly rods, it’s a success. Holbox is a place where this can be done.

Hopefully, Holbox never paves the roads. It would be a shame for the traffic to get to the levels that are now seen in Tulum and other previously unknown beach destinations. For now, it’s still an escape for both the vacationer and the angler who prefers to be away from crowds and is willing to give up a bit of comfort to do so.

Fly Fishing the Lowcountry – Part Three: Migratory Species of the Lowcountry

Remembering Josie Sands

September – George V. Roberts Jr

The post Holiday in Holbox first appeared on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

The post Holiday in Holbox appeared first on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

Your guide is encouraging, “Come on. You’ve got this. Pull harder now.”

No, you don’t have “this.” Your mental composure was gone 45 minutes ago. In reality, you never really grasped the fact that this fish has been a survivor for 100 million years, it’s a 140-pound tarpon, close to 60 years old, and it thinks it’s going to die.

As neophytes, we have to understand a couple of things about how to successfully subdue huge fish. First, when we finally get the fish of our dreams on and we don’t want to lose it, we’ll never really fight it with all we’ve got. There’s no way we’re going to pull hard enough to take the chance of breaking it off. Second, we really have no idea how to pull hard or even what the limit is. When your guide says “pull harder,” most anglers probably just lean back and put a bigger bend in the rod. Wrong.

The key to catching big fish with excessive power is understanding not only how hard you can pull on that fish with the class tippet you’re using, but also understanding the anatomical ability of your fly rod as well as your body.

The tip of a fly rod is used for short casts, the middle is for medium to longer casts, and the butt is used for fighting fish. Your body is similar to the rod, with some parts capable of extreme power and other parts more suitable for feel and lighter resistance. If you misuse the rod or your body—and usually it’s both at the same time—the catch you’re hoping for is highly unattainable.

Here’s an example: Leaning back with a high, big bend in your rod while trying to subdue a big fish does nothing more than bend the tip, which has zero resistance. It looks good to those who know nothing about the subject. But trust me—it’s useless. That’s why anglers end up fighting fish for an hour and sometimes much longer. That can also kill a fish because of the high levels of lactic acid that build up during long battles.

There is a place for fighting fish with a high, bent rod tip. When trout fishing with light 7x and 8x tippets, or saltwater fishing with 2-, 4-, and 6-pound-test tippets, the sensitive tip will help absorb the energetic thrashing of a fish. But that’s not our scenario here.

It’s also impossible to put a big bend in the upper part of the rod without using your biceps. That single biceps muscle holding and lifting the rod will grow fatigued in no time if you’re trying to apply 12 pounds of pressure or more. If you reach up with the other hand to the mid-section of the rod to help, you’ll change the fulcrum and break the rod.

You must learn to use the butt of the rod and lift with your legs, shoulders, and back. If you lift the rod higher than 45 degrees from the water level, your biceps comes into play. To bend the rod, you have to bend the elbow.

Most of the class tippets I’ve used for the last 35-plus years catching tarpon have been 16-pound Mason. I used 16 because the biggest tournament in the world required anglers to use it, and I wanted to keep my feel for that class of line.

International Game Fish Association (IGFA) fly fishing rules require anglers to use 20-pound test or lighter; even offshore marlin anglers are confined to this guideline. Tom Evans caught his 273-pound blue marlin on 16-pound test—one of the greatest fly records of all time.

For all those guides and anglers who use 30- and 40-pound test, I challenge you to the blindfold test. Take four rods with 20-, 30-, 40-, and 60-pound-test tippets and connect them to a scale. Stand back and pull with a fish-fighting rod position—not a straight rod—for 15 minutes, and see what the scale reads. I suspect none of the rods will pull more than 12 to 18 pounds.

You may escape a bad mistake fishing with 40-pound class, but you’ll never pull harder than what I just mentioned, and over time it will prevent you from becoming a better angler.

I wrote about understanding reel drag and marking your reel with Sharpies or paint in our last issue. But there’s even more to consider. When you measure drag resistance with your line coming straight off the reel, you get a clean number before you start to bend the rod as if fighting a fish. If you measure how much friction and resistance your guides create with a well-bent rod, it’s about 20 percent more than with a straight rod. So if your drag is set at 10 pounds, it’ll now take 12 pounds to pull line off the reel.

It’s important to understand that your drag setting doesn’t accurately represent what you think it does when you compare the preset value to a fish-fighting scenario. A fairly straight rod angle to the fish will be pretty close to your drag setting.

If you want to take the guesswork out of it, you can also set your drag with your rod bent in a fish-fighting angle. You don’t want to set your drag too close to the breaking strength of your tippet. You need to have a little room for error and the fish’s first run.

If you have a tight drag and you have to clear 30 feet of fly line before you get the fish on the reel, there’s a good chance he’ll break when that slack is gone and it hits a tight drag. And if the drag is set too close to the breaking point and a 100-pound fish falls on your leader, it’s over.

The fly rod and your body need to work together, so I want to tell you about the greatest fish-fighting tip I know. This drill matches up your weak and strong body parts, as well as those of the rod. It’s a revelation that will make you a better angler.

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TFFM Consulting Editor, Andy Mill, is one of fly fishing’s leading authorities. He has won more invitational tarpon tournaments than any other angler, including five Gold Cups. Andy is the author of A Passion for Tarpon (Wild River Press). You can listen to the fly fishing podcasts produced by him and his son Nicky at millhousepodcast.com.

The post How to Catch Big Fish by Andy Mill first appeared on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

The post How to Catch Big Fish by Andy Mill appeared first on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

As I walked onto the beach at this time last year, the feeling of potential seemed oddly liberating, as if the previous months’ incarceration by snow had been some weird exercise in solitary confinement. In the darkness, I edged toward the end of the jetty as the current pushed against my legs. The tide was already in the second third of the flood and running strongly. Stripping off a generous amount of line, I began to cast crossways into the current and let the fly drift into the seam where the tide formed a back eddy against the rocks. On the second drift, the line tightened up in that characteristic way and like a semi-forgotten reflex, I strip set and felt the fish dart out into the current where it began taking line. It was a small striper, but on this seventh day of May in the early dawn, it was a great striper.

Writing in 1948, O.H.P. Rodman noted in The Saltwater Fisherman’s Favorite Four that the spring arrival times of the striped bass on Massachusetts’s South Shore and in Rhode Island differed by about two weeks. Looking back at the logbooks of his friends Harold Gibbs (former RI Fish and Game Director and pioneer fly rodder) and E.N. Strout, Rodman noted that each angler’s location reflected the time lag in the fish’s migration. During the 1945 season, Strout, an observant bridge fisherman from Duxbury, took his first fish on May 6 and the following year, on May 8. Gibbs, living in Rhode Island, encountered the fish on April 24, 1945 several weeks before they entered Buzzards Bay and began their northward climb along the South Shore.
Rodman’s own indicator of when the fish would arrive was the classic shadbush. Growing along the Weweantic River in Wareham, Massachusetts, their white blossoms typically emerged concurrently with the bass’s appearance in Buzzards Bay. Some inspired anglers in the twenty first-century continue to check the shrubbery (though more have turned to websites) in the hope of catching fish at the head of the run. While many aspects of the New England coast have changed, the arrival of the striped bass is still unerringly similar to when these anglers during the immediate post-war years were finding good fish returning up the shore. For them, it was perhaps a miracle as well. Rodman, born in 1905, fished extensively during his youth and knew well that the demise of the striped bass clubs on Cuttyhunk and West Island during the late nineteenth-century was due to the disappearance of the striped bass in the following decades. That the fish should have returned during the inter-war years must have seemed like a miracle especially to those who had witnessed the population’s inexplicable decline.

Sometimes, my sense of time changes while fishing especially in those pre-dawn hours. It is not difficult to imagine the old surfcasters rambling amongst the dunes in old Model A Fords, shining tin squids by moonlight and feeling the spray from their Ashaway linen lines. Fly fishing for striped bass is not a new occupation despite the feeling one might get from reading tackle advertisements. Harold Gibbs of Barrington, RI fished extensively for stripers during the Second World War and perfected the Harold Gibbs Striper Bucktail, an early Atlantic silverside imitation. With a mixture of white capra hair for the body (eventually replaced by bucktail), it involved a blue swan feather on the sides to add the bluish tint that he observed in silversides. Rodman writes that in one season, Gibbs used his patterns to great effectiveness, catching a total of 800 stripers. Certainly a feat seventy years ago, it is still an admirable success today. The Gibbs Striper Bucktail embodied characteristics that were early for its time but have remained central to modern saltwater patterns. A white body still conveys the impression of a baitfish since so many prey species in the northeast have lighter undersides and contrasting lateral colors. The only thing Gibbs lacked in the 1940s was greater synthetic color variation that could bring out the subtleties between species, such as a silverside and a bay anchovy.

My first striper of the season revived quickly and dove down into the rocks, dousing me with water. At 4:45am, this provided as good a jolt as a cup of the house blend from Coffee Obsession in Falmouth. Fully awake, I continued casting and caught several more school fish. Striper fishing, Frank Woolner has said, is a “strangely narcotic addiction” and nothing in my experience has worked to disprove him. Like a mental rolodex that continually flips through tides, wind directions, moon phases and bait movements, the striper angler’s mind is never at rest. These first fish of the season have set it in motion once again, as Woolner, Rodman and Gibbs must have felt it so long ago. Striper season has begun!

MORE BLOG POSTS ABOUT STRIPED BASS:

DECLINE OF THE STRIPED BASS
MIRACLES OF THE FALL
STRIPED BASS ON THE FLY

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The post Stripers Past and Present first appeared on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

The post Stripers Past and Present appeared first on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.