Words and photographs by Captain John Mauser

If I can fall asleep now, I think to myself, I’ll get two solid hours of shut-eye. That should be enough for a drive halfway across the continent.

It’s already 9 p.m. and the guys will be here soon. Eventually, I doze off, only to be awakened—instantly, it seems—by the alarm. I checked my phone. There’s a text waiting: “Headed your way, be there in twenty.”  I jump out of bed immediately for fear of falling back asleep.

When I open the front door, the crisp air of early December hits me in the face. I don’t have time to waste, so I start hauling gear to the end of the driveway. The headlights of the convoy stab the night. Three trucks, with two skiffs in tow, pull into my cul-de-sac. Justin backs up to my skiff and trailer in the front yard. I’m the final piece of the puzzle. It’s time to hit the road. 

Eric crawls into the back seat, and I hop into the passenger seat as Justin loads the address to our rental in South Louisiana into his GPS. It’s a haul: 14 hours, not counting stops.

“Ready for this?” asks Justin, with a smirk on his face.

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” I grin back, as I wonder to myself how ironic it is that someone who guides anglers for redfish for a living caps off the year by traveling a thousand miles to another state to chase redfish for one more week. Most of this gang makes the choice. Half of us are fishing guides, with a great redfish fishery in our own backyards, and one that we can successfully fish year-round. But here we are. Six guys trailering skiffs across six states to chase a fish that lives a five-minute drive from my house. 

This is our tenth trip to Louisiana. What started as an idea between my friend Perry and me turned into an annual event. Over the years, Perry and I have been joined by a rotating cast of characters—Dallas, Justin, Eric, Simmonds, and Brummet as the core group, along with several other friends. You could call it a tradition, a pilgrimage, or a guy’s trip. Whatever it is, it is something we look forward to all year long.

And this week is sacred. If we’re lucky, this crew fishes a half dozen times together in North Carolina each year. Back home, there is always one obligation or another pulling at us, and keeping us from sharing that quality time. During this one week in Louisiana each year, we pile into the same house to share dinner tables, front porches, and sunsets from the bows of our own skiffs, and we finally get to enjoy each other’s company beyond scattered calls on our marine radios. Once we pull away from the boat ramp, cell phone service vanishes. You couldn’t find us if you wanted to. Finally, it’s just a bunch of friends, the marsh, and the source of our passion.

Redfish.

In the kitchen of our rental hangs a huge, laminated satellite image of the Louisiana marsh. On the afternoon of our arrival, we gather around the war room map and discuss the plan for the next day. Perry will head south with his skiff, while I head east. Brummet will check out the marsh to the north. Each night, while we take turns with dinner duty, the crew gathers around the map again, discussing the day and making plans for the next. There are no secrets among us. If we find something, we share it. The goal is for everyone to succeed this week.

Morning comes early. We pack breakfast, lunch, and boat snacks, with one can’t-do-without-it twist. Little Debbie Swiss Rolls have become the most sacred of our traditions. These morsels are frozen the night before and loaded into our coolers, and can only be eaten when an angler accomplishes something notable, like a personal best fish or a new species on fly.

Racing downstairs in my bibs and jacket, I can see the glow of twilight over the marsh to the east. We’ll be at the ramp in less than ten minutes, but the sun will already be above the horizon by then. Once we reach the launch, I run in to pay the ramp fee while the guys jockey for position between trout anglers and redfish guides. By the time I return, the boys have my skiff at the dock, and I hop in. Idling through the no-wake zone, I hear Perry crank up Rage Against the Machine’s “Bulls on Parade” through his speakers. 

Come wit’ it now! Come wit’ it now! 

By the time the last notes of the song fade, we are crossing the end of the no-wake zone, and it’s throttle down. 

Racing into the glow of sunrise, all the stress of planning, packing, and running endless errands melts away. I take it all in: We are finally here. I’ve been dreaming about this moment for months, and as I look around the other skiffs running alongside mine, I can see it in everyone’s faces. They all feel, too: The promise of a new day on the water, with little pressure to perform, just the potential for memories to be made.

When we reach the first spot, I grab the push pole and scramble up the platform. I may be off the clock, but I have a hard time shaking the notion that I am a guide, and the poling platform is my wheelhouse.

  Eric is first up on my bow, with an 8-weight rod and a fly we call the “Dre-touffèe.” 

“The old standard?” I ask. 

“When has it ever failed us?” he answers. We dreamt up the pattern and named it in honor of the rapper Dr. Dre. It sports a black Zonker strip with gold bead-chain. In less than five minutes, we have our first shot.

“Eric. Twelve o’clock. Fifty feet,” I say, in that clipped, direct tone of voice guides tend to use when the fish is closing in and there’s no time for anything but the facts. “His back just came out.” 

The fish leisurely swims towards us, leaving swirls along the surface, and occasionally breaking the still water with its tail. Eric makes two false casts and lets loose, unrolling the line and leader. The fly lands just to the right of the fish. A few strips and the fly crosses the red’s path, quartering away from the fish like fleeing prey. The red instantly notices the black-and-gold fly and charges forward to inhale it. The quietness of the marsh erupts with shouts of excitement from the boat as we celebrate the hookup. Justin and I are every bit as excited as Eric. A few minutes later, I document Eric’s catch with a photograph before it’s released back into the water. Not a bull by any means, but a respectable 10-pound fish, and most importantly, one that was hungry. 

Refusing to rotate, I climb back onto the platform to find a fish for Justin. Over the course of the day, we all have shots at fish. Eric capitalizes on most of his shots, while Justin hooks a few of his own. I manage to blow most of my opportunities, which can be hard to swallow as a guide. When you spend most of your time on the back of a skiff, you are quickly reminded that there is a difference between knowing where to put a fly and actually putting it there. No jumbos are caught on day one, but that doesn’t faze us. There were no phone calls, no bills, and no work. Just 10 hours on a skiff with three friends who are pumped to hang out and cheer each other on. As the sun disappears below the horizon, we race back to the dock, looking forward to dinner and a meeting by the map. There are reports to discuss, stories to tell, and plans to make.

Mild weather greets the gang the next morning. Low winds and sunshine allow us to focus on the areas of clear water we located the day before. The boys insist that I take the bow first, and I begrudgingly agree. Our first stop provides me with shots at three big redfish. The first two fish are moving away, and I don’t stand much of a chance, while the third just plain refuses the fly.  Later, Justin sticks two nice fish, and Eric lands a stud 43-inch bruiser. That night, over a spaghetti dinner, everyone has a chance to replay the wins and losses and retell all the inappropriate jokes. I’ve had a second fishless day, but I’m still in good spirits. At least, so far. We finish the night by circling around the war room chart and digesting the forecast of 20 miles per hour sustained winds the following day, with gusts in the upper 30s. We agree to sleep in the next morning and make a last-minute plan over breakfast.

Sometime in the middle of the night, I roll over and awaken with a start. The house seems to be shaking on its stilts. I listen to the wind roaring past my window like a haunted freight train. When I walk into the kitchen around 8 a.m., Perry and Simmonds are already making coffee and fixing an annual delicacy: Breakfast PB&Js.

“Doesn’t look too good,” grouses Perry. As Dallas and Brummet join us for breakfast, we discuss the next best thing to do on a blow day besides fishing: Where we’re going to eat lunch. During our first few years of traveling to Louisiana, we typically headed to New Orleans, drawn by the big city’s reputation. Over the years, though, we’ve homed in on local roadside diners and dives for crawfish etouffee and alligator bites. Breakfast has hardly hit the bottom of our stomachs when we pile into one of our favorite Cajun haunts and eat until we are stuffed. Crawling back in the trucks, we ride home, tie flies, and watch a Saturday Night Live marathon for the rest of the afternoon. Even hardcore fishing guides sometimes take the easy route.

I wake up early on day four, but my hopes are quickly dashed when I hear the winds still ripping outside. I’m not sure if I can stand another day off the water, so I ask the crew if anyone is up for extreme fly fishing. We’re all in, and make the call to take a late start and stick close to home, hopefully finding some relief from the breeze. After a midmorning launch, the three skiffs run the back canals towards a series of marsh ponds. Before we even reach our first location, I can see how low the water level is due to the wind blowing all night. Coming off plane, I make a dash for the platform and heave the skiff across the entrance to a shallow pond, scraping bottom while nearly losing the push pole in the mud. This battle against the marsh sets the scene for the entire day. We attempt several ponds before finding one that holds enough water for a redfish to swim in. Most of our day is spent trying not to get permanently stuck. 

None of this matters. The lack of water, the lack of clarity, or the lack of reds. It’s days like this that remind you how little of the equation actually involves fish. I put so much pressure on myself as a guide back home that I often lose sight of why my clients are out there in the first place: To have a good time. We ride back through the canals as the sun sets on the horizon before us, excited about the weather forecast for our final day. That evening after tacos, we gather one final time around the satellite map to plan our next moves. 

Running the canals alongside my friends that last morning is bittersweet. This trip has flown by, and I’m torn between wanting to get home to my family and wishing I could stay another week. Racing past ospreys, egrets, and a family of wild pigs, we make our way to the Gulf. A group decision has been made to stick close to each other today, and fish the same chain of large marsh islands together. Being the only fishless angler on the trip, I am again forced against my will to the bow of the skiff. For the next two hours, Eric guides me across gorgeous flats full of stingrays and blue crabs. One copse of mangroves is covered with dozens of roseate spoonbills. Redfish or not, this place really is paradise. I cast to a few sheepshead that have no interest in feathers or fur. About ready to step off the bow, I see a group of slot reds coming from my 1 o’clock. I make a quick back cast, give the line a few ticks, and all heck breaks loose as the lead fish crushes the fly. 

I thought I had convinced myself that I was okay not catching a single fish during our trip, but the lack of hookups had been gnawing at me. Now I land a trip maker, and as I watch the redfish swim free from my hands, a sense of relief flows through me. Although the fish was no bigger than the ones we catch back home, it helped me kill the skunk for the week, and for that I am grateful.

Now Justin climbs up the poling platform and Eric reaches for his 10-weight loaded with a big blue and orange fly he has been dying to try. Poling into a large bay, Justin works parallel to the shoreline in three feet of clearing water. After a few minutes, the surface begins to tremble ahead of us, and soon we see the unmistakable wakes of several big redfish submarining below the surface. Eric goes into hunt mode as he scans the water for a shot. Something catches my eye.

“Eric,” I say, “11 o’clock. Do you see that colored spot?”

As he swivels his head, a monstrous bull redfish floats up just below the surface. No one speaks a word as Eric makes a single false cast and sends the fly right to the red. A couple of strips and the fish keys in on the fly, following it halfway to the boat before opening its massive mouth and inhaling it. I can feel my stomach in my throat for a second as I watch this event unfold. Eric strip sets the red and that’s all it takes: Within seconds, the fish has the line flying off the reel, and then the backing follows. I instinctively go for my camera as Eric goes to battle. A few minutes later, he lands his personal best redfish ever. It’s pushing the mythical 50-inch mark, eclipsing his earlier stud red. We take a few moments to admire an absolute beast of a redfish. Even though we see and catch and guide to hundreds of redfish each year, coming face to face with such an old soldier is so special. Eric moves towards the edge of the skiff and slides the fish back into the water, holding on until it kicks free from his grip. As he stands up, wiping slime from his hands, Justin tosses him a frozen Little Debbie Swiss Roll from the cooler. “You earned it,” Justin says, with a nod of appreciation. “Now get off the bow. It’s my turn.”

With a scattered school of fish still cruising around the bay, Justin takes the bow, and I get the skiff moving again. Within a few minutes, Justin hooks into his best fish of the week as the rest of the school makes a final exit from the bay. It is now early afternoon, and we are late for our lunch rendezvous with the other two skiffs. As we put towards the rest of the crew, Justin says, “John, it’s your turn, buddy, you’ve got the bow for the rest of the day.”  Over lunch, each boat gives a rundown of the day and their plan for the afternoon. The reports from the other skiffs are positive, with a few bulls, two big black drum, and a sheepshead landed nearby.

After lunch, we idle down the shoreline to a massive bay that couldn’t look more perfect. Eric and Justin cheer me on as I take the bow for the rest of the day with mixed emotions. Deep down, I still want to hook a bull red, but I’m already feeling a rising tide of gratefulness. Big fish or not, the week has been incredible. When you turn the thing you love into your work and career, passion and burnout can battle. These trips to the Louisiana marsh remind me of why I picked up a fly rod in the first place. As the afternoon winds on and my luck dries up, I turn back to my pals in the skiff. “You know,” I say, “Louisiana has got to be the best place in the world to have a great time not catching fish.”    

But it’s never been about the fish. It’s always been about carving out one week every year to be together, strengthen our bonds, and reconnect over something we all love. We tie too many flies, bring too much gear, and talk for months about big reds. But none of that is truly why we go. We go for the excitement, the camaraderie, and the soul healing that happens when a bunch of good friends share a skiff a thousand miles from home. 

10 must have flies for saltwater fly fishing

Go-to Flies for the Everglades by Chico Fernandez

Reflections from the Mill House Podcast

A Fish My Age – Henry Hughes

The post Red Riders – Words and photographs by Captain John Mauser first appeared on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

The post Red Riders – Words and photographs by Captain John Mauser appeared first on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

By Captain Jason Moore

They slip in on the rising summer tide, largely unseen and certainly unheralded. But for a (very) few knowing fly anglers, cownose rays bring the heat.

It took a few seasons to crack the code on these rays. Summers along this stretch of coast can feel still and slow. Flounder settle near the cuts, and bluefish might light up the surface occasionally, but the fly game stays subtle most days. Then the rays showed up. Clean water sweeps over sandbars with the tide. Big fish move with intent and are more than willing to eat a fly if it moves just right. It felt more like the tropics than southern New Jersey.

It made sense to go looking.

Wild Bill stood on the bow of the panga, relaxed, rod tip low, line stripped out and at the ready. The tide flooded the flat, rolling up the edges and across the sandbars. Ripples were starting to show, carrying everything the rays came for—small fish, sand crabs, and anything else caught in the tumbling current, or that moved too slowly without burrowing into the sand. From up top, dark shapes slid in and out of the flow, wings just breaking the surface as they fed, pivoting and leaving clouds of fine sand in their wake.

Cownose rays (Rhinoptera bonasus) are a seasonal fixture here, showing up each summer as the water warms along the shallow inlets and bays of the Atlantic seaboard. Averaging 20 pounds and sometimes pushing twice that, they cruise the flats, bays, and beachfront troughs looking for small fish and crustaceans, turning over sand and leaving behind the plumes that give them away.

The skiff is panga-style with a mostly flat bottom, a poling platform, and an honest eight-inch draft. It’s built off the same commercial lines still used across Latin America—clean, simple, efficient. It tracks quietly, floats skinny, and gets into water most boats can’t.

At dead low, the flat is barren. Dull brown sand stretches wide under harsh light, soft underfoot, and still. But as the tide begins to push, the flat changes. Water creeps in. At first, it’s a slow fill through the deeper cuts, then it builds. Fish start moving. Crabs scramble. Everything that feeds, crawls, or drifts starts shifting. And right behind them, the rays.

They don’t show up early. They hold just off the edge where the current stacks, sliding in only when there’s enough depth and enough commotion. They appear just as it all comes together—slow-moving shadows drifting with purpose, wings tipping slightly with each adjustment. They come in low, sometimes so close you’re sure they’re stalking you.

This time of year, sand crabs and small fish are everywhere. Female crabs flash bright orange egg sacs beneath their bellies, and the rays don’t pass them up. They track low, lift slightly, then drop to pin their food. That’s why the take isn’t always seen—it’s felt. A hard pull, sudden and heavy, like someone trying to rip the rod from your hands.

When the tide tops out, the flat exhales. The fish don’t leave, but they vanish under depth and glare. The current spreads, and the surface goes glassy. Contrast disappears. That narrow window is all you get—just enough water to bring the flat to life, but not so much that it hides everything.

And that window doesn’t last long.

The Right Stuff

It’s timing. Knowing when to push and when to post up. When the rays decide to eat, they’re looking for a fly already trying to get away—tumbling in the current, bouncing off the bottom, fighting for the edge.

They aren’t easy. Like any good saltwater prize, cownose rays force decisions. They’ll make you question the cast, second-guess the strip, and lose the angle. Rush it and you’re late. Wait too long and she’s gone. Everything has to line up—the cast, the fly, the retrieve. Miss any one and you’re done.

The flies are simple. Sparse baitfish in light tones with a little flash, tied on stout 2/0 hooks. Sand flea profiles with a sash of orange or green Alphlexo crabs. But it’s not just the fly—it has to move like it’s trying to stay alive. Move like it’s getting thrown out of a bar, a bit frantic but still trying to stay in control.

A 10-weight is standard, paired with a good reel and at least 200 yards of 30-pound backing. Rays run wide, dig deep, and don’t quit just because you want to.

Leaders are basic. No taper unless you’re feeling fancy or are getting ready for a trip to the Yucatan. Twenty or even thirty-pound fluorocarbon stays connected without drawing attention. Go heavier and they’ll see it. Go lighter and you’ll regret it on the first run or when the line scrapes across their back.

Flat on Flat

Bill was ready. His flies were tied for this place and these fish—no bulk, glued wraps, weighted right. They dropped fast, didn’t tumble, and held bottom when needed. Flies that looked like they didn’t want to be seen.

The first school came through, rays packed close, almost touching. A push of shadows fanning across the flat. Bill dropped his cast just ahead of the lead ray. Let it sink—two slow strips. The fish flared, hovered. Then came the take, and the line went tight and the rod bent, and it was on.

The flat erupted. Wings slapped the surface, and the ray surged. Not quick like a bonefish, but deliberate, like she meant to drag us across the inlet. The rod bent deep. The reel screamed. I don’t remember the line going; it was just the backing melting away as she ran.

Rays don’t bolt. They tear into long, heavy runs with wide arcs and no give. It’s like pulling burlap through current—nothing flashy, just constant resistance. The first run was long. The second longer. When it slowed, it didn’t get easier. Rays settle and pull harder, fanning their wings into the pressure like it’s personal.

You need to feel this in your legs. The rod stays low. Steady pressure.

Bill worked the fish slowly. I turned the skiff to hold the angle. The ray surfaced—still heavy, almost calm. We brought her close, popped the hook, and watched her slip back into the current. One last pulse of sand, and she was gone.

Line was stripped out again. Another fly tied on. Another school already sliding in. Same angle, same game.

Catching rays isn’t about numbers. It’s about reading the push. It’s about one fish at a time and, if everything lines up, then another.

Barracuda Breakdown by Chico Fernandez

Fly Fishing the Surf with Bob Popovics

Bison Of The Flats: The Bumphead Parrotfish

The post For a (very) few knowing fly anglers, cownose rays bring the heat. first appeared on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

The post For a (very) few knowing fly anglers, cownose rays bring the heat. appeared first on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

The post Al Q’s Bonefish Trainer first appeared on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

The post Al Q’s Bonefish Trainer appeared first on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

by Trey Reid

We left the dock at 6:30 a.m., a relatively late departure by the standard we had set over the previous four days of fishing around Ambergris Cay, Belize. By any definition, the trip was already an unqualified success—so productive that it’s awkward even now to recount it. I had landed four permit and recorded two Grand Slams—the most productive saltwater fly fishing trip of my life—and my friend John Bracey, with whom I fished most of the week, had caught his first two permit, the first coming on the same day as his first tarpon and closing out a Grand Slam. Over a breakfast of San Pedro Jacks and fresh mango, we agreed that we couldn’t complain if we didn’t catch a single fish on the last day, a sentiment we shared with our guide as we idled away from the dock.

“Everything today is gravy,” said Captain Gordy Marin, who had guided us all week and who was now steering his boat, Silver Ghost, beneath the Boca del Rio Bridge in San Pedro.

We idled out of the river channel into the lagoon on the west side of town, rounding the southern point of Turtle Island before heading north on the bay side of Ambergris. Ever vigilant, Marin scanned the turquoise waters as we glided across the surface. We slowed to an idle upon reaching an area where we’d found permit the previous afternoon. But the fish weren’t there, so we continued northward to another flat next to a small island. Marin pointed out a school before the boat came off plane.

Nervous water sold out the school, which materialized fully in copious dark shapes and random silver flashes. Tips of dorsal fins and tails punctured the gently rippled surface less than a hundred yards from the boat. Bracey scrambled over the panga’s starboard side as the anchor found purchase on brilliant white sand. Marin eased into the water behind him, and they made a quick but cautious approach to get ahead of the blithely feeding school.

Bracey had several good shots about 75 yards from the boat before the school made a hard right turn toward the rising sun—well above the horizon now but still low in the eastern sky. Their course was bringing them straight toward me and the anchored panga. I pulled my 9-weight from the rod holder and stripped line off the reel as I climbed out of the boat and scurried into casting position.

The school was moving right to left about 50 feet in front of me, and it was massive. I laid a Raghead Crab in front of the lead fish and slowly stripped it. Nothing. I sent another cast into the front-left portion of the school and made long, slow strips. They were on it, turning hard to track the fly straight toward me. My heart rate accelerated with every inch of the gap they closed: 30 feet … 25 feet … keep stripping, man … 20 feet … eat it, you bastards!

I imagined a watery demise, being overrun by a school of a hundred feeding permit, flogged to death by black tails, puffy lips sucking on the remnants of my floating corpse on a Belizean flat—poetic retribution, perhaps, for the zeal with which I’ve pursued their kin. But with just a few feet of fly line outside the rod tip, the school slowly peeled to its right and reversed direction.

“Let’s go find another school,” Marin said.

We barely had time to plane out the panga before another big school appeared a few hundred yards north of where we had just been refused.

Ignominy and Incredulity

I’m not sure it’s possible to feel guilty about catching fish, but I came close last April in Belize. I still struggle to describe the sensation; a lingering fear of misunderstanding and wrong assumptions about my motivations makes me hesitant even now to mine the experience too deeply.

Like most permit anglers, I’m familiar with failure. I live in landlocked flyover country, more than 1,000 miles from the nearest permit water. As my evolution as a saltwater fly angler has progressed, I’ve spent a considerable amount of money and time with modest returns in the way of permit. But that changed drastically—and dramatically—during five days in northern Belize.

I landed a permit within the first hour of fishing on the first day of the trip, and I was truthfully content not to catch another fish all week. But the fishing only got better. Two days later I watched Bracey catch his first tarpon, a hefty resident fish in the 50-pound range, and then I subdued a similar fish an hour and a half later. A few hours after that, I climbed atop Marin’s poling platform to behold him and Bracey wading toward a school of permit under a leaden sky. Minutes later, my friend was admiring his first permit, which was also the final element of his first Grand Slam. Certain that I’d have to experience that rare thrill as a vicarious witness, I was surprised when Marin told me to grab my fly rod and get my ass in gear to intercept the school again. After two missed eats in quick succession, I was hooked up to my second permit in three days. Thirty minutes later, I was overjoyed to catch a scrawny bonefish that gave me my first Grand Slam.

We were breathing rarefied air, but I wasn’t reticent about sharing tales of our good fortune with friends back at El Pescador Lodge. I had never tasted this kind of angling success, and I was inebriated by the mysterious elixir. So this is what success feels like?

The next day, elation almost imperceptibly gave way to ignominy and incredulity. We started early again, and I was treading water to take a picture with another solid tarpon before the San Pedro waterfront was fully awake. Bracey and I both landed bonefish before lunchtime as we awaited our turn to board the permit carousel on the flat where we’d both caught them the previous day. The word was out among Ambergris guides, and the school was getting pounded, with guides lining up their boats to have their anglers take turns wading onto the flat.

Marin had seen enough, so we left to look for less-pressured fish, finding them a few miles away. Bracey hooked up on his first cast to a school of big permit, but the fish slipped the hook 30 seconds into the fight. Marin spotted another school a few minutes later, and we waded toward them under the bright midday sun. They ignored the first presentation, but after my second cast and a few long, slow strips, the line came tight. It was my third permit of the week, a bruiser leaning toward 25 pounds, and it capped a second Grand Slam. Bracey caught the day’s second permit just a few minutes later, and I added my second of the day and fourth of the trip before we headed back to the lodge.

I was ecstatic, but conflicted thoughts crept into my head. This isn’t supposed to be happening. Is this what impostor syndrome feels like?

Bracey, who’s unflappably modest, must’ve felt something, too. “You know, maybe it’s getting to the point that we shouldn’t say anything about this when we get back,” he said. “I mean, if somebody asks for details about our day, I’m not gonna lie about it. But maybe we shouldn’t volunteer anything.”

Moonwalking up the dock was out of the question. Until it wasn’t. But we were the first boat back to the lodge, and only our wives and Marin witnessed my shameless spectacle. Just getting it out of my system, you know. And we still had one more day of fishing.

So much gravy

It was the last of five days on the water, the last Friday of the month, the day before a new moon. Permit were everywhere, but we hadn’t yet fed one despite several good early shots. That was about to change.

Marin got the boat well ahead of another big school. More than a hundred strong, it was pushing northward parallel to an uninhabited cay. We dropped anchor in knee-deep water and all three bailed out of the boat to ease into position. Bracey hooked up quickly, line peeling off his reel as the rest of the fish stayed tightly together and slowly reversed course via a wide arcing turn in slightly deeper water. Marin and I took off to intercept the school, and there was no easing into position this time. We rushed southward, sporadically sinking into loose silty pockets in the sand. I covered the hundred yards through thigh-deep water and sucking mud in a time best measured by a sundial, my heart pounding from a combination of exertion and excitement, but we were in position.

I cast in front of the school at a perpendicular angle. It wasn’t my best presentation, and Marin made sure I knew that. The captain and I had reached a shaky détente by the last day of the trip. He had revealed himself as a demanding young guide on the first day, brash almost to the point of insolence at times. But he had put us on the fish, and we were improving as a result of his prodding and pressure. He wanted perfection and expected at least something approaching excellence; mediocrity was intolerable. “I’m not gonna lie to you,” he said. “That cast wasn’t good.”

I reminded him that I was literally twice his age, and that I didn’t usually run the 100-meter dash in water and mud before casting to a school of a hundred permit.

“It’s not easy to catch permit, man,” he said. “You got to work for it sometimes.”

Fair enough. We quickly went back to work, getting into another school, or maybe the same school, a few minutes later. Marin got in on the action and doubled with Bracey, and I brought the morning’s fourth permit to hand 15 minutes later. My second fish of the morning gave us five before 9 a.m. And it was all gravy.

“Yeah, man,” Marin said. “But we got so much gravy, it’s gonna get so deep it’s gonna cover up the turkey.”

Our metaphorical gravy, a fly fishing dream made of glimmering slabs with forked black tails, indeed grew deeper. We spent the next four hours chasing two big schools of permit that roamed back and forth along the cay, wading into the water for stealth when we could and casting from the bow of Marin’s panga when there wasn’t time to scramble over the side. Together, we hooked six more permit, bringing five to hand. The sixth should’ve been landed, but it was part of a triple hook-up that Marin lost in his zeal to make it a quadruple.

I hooked up with a dinner-plate permit from the front of the panga during the day’s last frenzy, jumping over the port side to fight it while Bracey crawled over the starboard gunwale to chase a portion of the school that veered right when it split in two. Marin also waded into the fray, grabbing one of my rods and sending a cast toward the part of the school that lingered with my fish. He stripped and set the hook on Silver Ghost’s tenth permit of the day. Meanwhile, Bracey covered about 150 circuitous yards through soupy sand, still in the game, advancing and retreating, drifting and dancing in all directions as the permit dictated. He had numerous good shots that didn’t yield eats. “Run, John,” Marin coached and cheered. “More right, man. More right. Go, John! You can do it, man! I trust you, John. Run, John!” I couldn’t hold back laughter. Or my opinion, yelling, “Don’t die, John!”

Now a dozen yards left of the boat, I kept the smallish permit tight but wasn’t rushing anything—if I’m being honest, to prolong the chance of a triple hook-up. Bracey’s effort was rewarded, and line surged off of his reel as the day’s 11th permit bowed the rod. I gulped from the cup of permit glory, taking in the spectacular sight of three fly fishers with bent rods, pulling against fastidious fish and long odds. I was still incredulous, but no longer sheepish. I reckoned that I had paid my dues in money, sweat, time, and disappointment. It’s supposed to be fun, and right then, I couldn’t imagine it ever being better.

Marin broke my reverie when he shuffled back to the panga, still fighting his permit, and grabbed another fly rod out of the rod holder. “What the hell are you doing?” I asked. “I can’t help it, man,” he said. “I’m greedy.”

Our cocky young guide tucked the fly rod with the fish tethered to it between his thighs and laid out a long cast with the second spare rod. It was too much gravy. The quadriceps method of fighting permit caused tension on the line, and Marin’s fish broke off. Bracey and I landed our fish, kneeling down in the water to release the fish together as Marin snapped a photograph.

I might never pass this way again. I certainly don’t expect to. And that’s okay. I’m Southern; I know a thing or two about gravy—it’s delicious, but too much of it isn’t good for you.

Topwater Permit

Ruben Martin’s Epoxy Crab: Permit Fly

Fly Fishing For Permit & Bonefish in Tulum, Mexico

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The post Permit guilt, creeping conflict, and fly fishing ecstasy in Belize first appeared on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

The post Permit guilt, creeping conflict, and fly fishing ecstasy in Belize appeared first on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

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.

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If you’ve ever wondered who invented the Cockroach, it wasn’t Lefty Kreh, as many websites and fly shops erroneously report. It was Norman Duncan.

Norman was great friends with Flip Pallot, Chico Fernandez, and “Little John” Emory in the early 1960s. Together, they put fly fishing in Miami and the upper Keys on the map with their inventions and creativity. Little John died from melanoma when reaching his prime. Flip and Chico became Flip and Chico. Norman joined the common man’s workforce and fell from the limelight, but he’s always had an indelible reputation for his foresight in those early years. Norman is responsible for many innovations including the Inside/Out fly, the Mutton Cockroach fly, the Permit Puff, and of course, his Cockroach for tarpon.

Duncan’s Cockroach fly remains a staple for tarpon throughout Florida, Central America, and the Caribbean. Most well-stocked fly boxes have at least a few Roaches in different color combinations.

The Cockroach requires only a few materials and is easy to tie. It looks great in the water and will elicit an eat more often than not.

Duncan was interviewed on the Millhouse Podcast and when asked about his most well known creation, he had this to say:

Andy Mill: You were one of our sports’ great innovators. Tell me about one

of the greatest tarpon flies for decades, the Cockroach.

Norman Duncan: Joe Robertson and Little John (John Emery) were out fishing at Loggerhead Point, and they were throwing orange flies and others, and the fish had lockjaw. John said “I’ve got some flies that Norman tied in my tackle box; let me tie one on.” Joe looked at it and said, “What’s that?” and throws it in the water next to the boat, and Joe said, “That looks like a damn cockroach, no self respecting tarpon would ever eat that!”

Andy Mill: So that’s how it was named?

Norman Duncan: Yeah, he said, “That thing looks like a damn cockroach!” So John threw at the first tarpon he saw and the rest is history. We kept it quiet for a few years, and one day I went down to Sea Center on Big Pine Key, where all the guides went out. I didn’t think anybody knew about the fly. I know all the guides, you know, and all the rods were rigged; it was early in the morning. I looked down and they all had my fly on, and I asked, “Where did you get that fly?” “Oh, John told us about it, but he told us you were the one who tied it.”

Homosassa:  A Reminiscence of The Greatest Tarpon Fishery

5 Things To Consider For Your First Tarpon Trip

The Aquarium: Tarpon Fishing in Puerto Rico

The post Tarpon Cockroach – One of the Best Tarpon Flies of All-Time first appeared on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

The post Tarpon Cockroach – One of the Best Tarpon Flies of All-Time appeared first on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

The Family Trevally

Terrors of the Pacific, Whatever Their Size

by E. Donnall Thomas Jr.

I was living in Alaska when Christmas Island—once known, if at all, as nothing but a remote speck of land in the mid-Pacific—began to emerge as a saltwater fly rod destination. One of the first lessons one learns upon arrival in Alaska is that going somewhere warm and sunny during the winter is more a matter of necessity than indulgence. For several years running I’d headed to the Caribbean, where I’d learned at least the basics of flats fishing for bonefish and other species. Traveling due south to Christmas by way of Hawaii sounded a lot easier than traversing the continent, and in the wake of glowing preliminary reports, a regular fishing partner and I signed up.

When the great British navigator Captain James Cook arrived at Christmas Island in 1777, he launched a skiff from HMS Resolution and sent it through the leeward gap in the reef to explore the atoll’s inner lagoon. His log reports that the crew returned with tales of abundant “crevallies”  (perhaps a clue to the origins of the name for our Atlantic jack crevalle). This was welcome news to a hungry crew eager for a break from salt pork.

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The post The Family Trevally first appeared on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

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Topwater Permit Fly Fishing

by Bob Haines

Perhaps my first inclination that I’d been doing it wrong was the day after I finally caught my first permit. While sitting over a Belikin and a hot dog at Jets in the outbound terminal of the Philip S.W. Goldson International Airport in Belize City, two likely fishermen saddled up to the bar to do the same. We exchanged the usual pleasantries—How’d you do? Alright, you? About the same. Then it was time to board a plane back to reality after a month in the Belizean salt.

Because it was the day after my first permit and subsequent grand slam, I carried a thick and vicious hangover onto the plane. (Somehow I ended up as guest bartender at the Lazy Lizard, mostly pouring drinks for myself.) As soon as I hit my window seat, the earphones went on and the eyes went closed. I woke up cotton-mouthed somewhere over the Gulf of Mexico between Belize and Dallas to find that one of the fishermen from the hot dog joint occupied the aisle seat in my row.

Conversation between fishermen is quick and easy,

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The post Topwater Permit first appeared on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

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The post Stripers in the Suds – John G. Sherman appeared first on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

Inshore Surf Sight Fishing for Corbina

I’m wandering the beaches again on an early April morning, looking for California corbina. I walk three beaches for about  7 miles, looking at structure and looking for fish. The third beach doesn’t show much promise until I’m about to leave. I look down and see two corbina sitting right at my feet like a pair of silver ghosts. They immediately blow up and run for deeper water. 

Okay. We have some fish here, and it’s the early season. Soon I see a pair of fish, then a triple, and finally a pair in the distance. I line up a cast at an angle and slightly past them. I’m fishing a fly I developed for sight fishing, a bright pink Surfin’ Merkin. I can see the bug in front of the fish. A couple of quick strips puts the fly right in the distant pair’s path, and I let it sit. My type-6 line is on the bottom, the bug is anchored, and I have a good position. 

As soon as the fish near the fly I start bumping it to look like a burrowing sand crab, which causes the fly to kick out puffs of sand, its legs simulating the paddle legs on the real thing. Both fish begin to follow the bouncing fly, and eventually one lunges ahead of the other to eat. I watch both fish and fly to judge when to set the hook. As soon as I see the fish lunge and arch its back and the pink fly disappear, I know it’s on. 

Immediately both fish blow up and flee to deeper water. The head of the hooked fish is shaking all the way into the backing. Montana-based Sweetgrass Rods designed this bamboo rod for me, specifically for this fish—and it’s a great stick. The click-and-pawl reel is screaming now, and the bamboo is bouncing with each shake of the fish’s head as I clear the backing. Eventually I surf the corbina in on the waves and slide it onto the wet sand for release. The overhead light brightens the purple iridescence of its back and the chrome sides. The bright pink fly looks like a wad of bubble gum stuck to the fish’s lip.

This is the season’s first fair-hooked, sight-caught corbina—a fish to which I’ve been addicted for a very long time. 

Corbina, which run from California’s Point Conception down through the west coast of Mexico, tend to show up with the mole crab beds in the spring as the sand pushes into the beaches. Although the season generally runs from April to August, the unique and challenging corbina are really only available for surf sight casting in the summer. You can fish for corbina blind. You can also cast to suspicious swirls or short sightings—what we call vicinity casting. But the real deal is sight casting and actually watching corbina eat your bug. Corbina are easy to snag, so most of us only count fish hooked in the lip.

A lot of factors need to line up for a good shot at sight fishing: good sun overhead, no fog, good structure, low wind, and solid sand crab beds to hold the fish for a while. But great conditions aren’t guaranteed, so you have to work with what you have; when the stars do align, however, sight fishing for corbina can be awesome.

I’m always scouting locations, looking for beaches that are cut up with structure like buckets or troughs, which will fill up at different tidal cycles. As corbina push in looking for a meal, they’ll pile up in some of this structure, which gives the angler a better opportunity to present a fly. Scouting multiple beaches at low tide can pay off when I find one that is set up better than others. 

Troughs will have lateral current, and corbina typically feed into it. Anglers can follow a fish and get multiple presentations. My favorite is a trough that dumps into a bucket and turns 90 degrees out to the ocean with a flat right next to it. The fish will pile up at that corner and hop onto the flat to feed before rolling back to the deeper corner water.

Some sections of beach will be structured more like a flat, and water will push in a sort of sheet. In this situation, fish will sometimes ride that water in with their backs up out of the water, feed, and then leave with the tidal recess. Swirls, backs, and wagging tails clue anglers to the presence of fish. Without structure like buckets and troughs, you may have a short window to present before the fish has fed and left. 

Most of us sight fishing for corbina use rods from 4-weight to a 7-weight with a variety of lines: 30-foot sinking head integrated lines for most situations, intermediate heads for calm days, and in rare instances floating lines.

The fish will swim right over the sunken head. You can use a larger-test leader and pull on the fish harder to get them in quick. If you are fishing a sinking line, give it a test cast and see how much the line swings in the current before anchoring in the sand. This will give you a rough idea of how much to lead the fish to avoid presenting the fly on top of them or behind them. 

My go-to sight-casting fly is a pink Surfin’ Merkin, which is based on the Merkin permit fly. The Surfin’ Merkin has been tweaked to make the fly look and act more like a burrowing sand crab. It is also pink (rather than Merkin gray) for improved angler visibility, which doesn’t seem to bother the fish. You’ll see that bright salmon pink at a distance and at some depth in structure. Being able to see the fly and the fish greatly improves your odds of getting a grab and setting the hook.

I mentioned a bamboo rod earlier; over the years I’ve migrated to slower rods because most of this game is in close—as in 5-to-30-feet close. No kidding. A corbina will sometimes follow my fly until its head is out of the water at the sand’s edge before eating. So I often have to cast with part of the fly line’s head still inside the rod. I’m not casting to the fences here, so a slower, more accurate rod works better for the close game.

Sight fishing for corbina in the California surf is by nature a tricky and local endeavor—and for these reasons a like-minded community has developed around this fishery over the years. Initially there were just a few of us nuts out there; now there are more. Those interested in giving corbina a try might enjoy my friend Al Quattrocchi’s book The Corbina Diaries, which covers the history and techniques of this game. 

For many years we used to fish a spot we shared with an older spin fisherman named Matt. Initially he was a bit grumpy when we took to fly fishing in his area of operation. He fished live sand crabs and wore a hat right out of the Crocodile Dundee movies, so we nicknamed him “Corbina Dundee.” One day I was sight fishing a single fish that was ping-ponging between a group of swimmers on its right and left. Matt, who had finished fishing, was busy watching. I couldn’t get a good presentation. My only option was to lob out a cast perpendicular to the fish’s travel—and sure enough, the fish turned 90 degrees and followed the fly. I kept slowly bumping it all the way to the edge of the waterline, and my fish ate the fly with part of its head out of the water before screaming off to the deep. Laughing, I looked to Matt, who had observed the entire incredible show. 

Sight fishing corbina in the surf isn’t easy, but the cool people and the crazy fish keep me coming back. And even if you strike out, you get a nice walk on the beach out of the deal.

Bio: Paul Cronin has been fishing local California beaches for 20 years. When he isn’t fishing, he designs and builds robots in his workshop.

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Within Tail Fly Fishing.com are several great articles on inshore surf fishing for several species of saltwater fish.  Stripers in the Suds is another great article to learn more about the sport of inshore surf fly fishing.

The post California Corbina: Sight Fishing the Surf first appeared on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

The post California Corbina: Sight Fishing the Surf appeared first on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.