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.

Many coastal fly anglers consider surf fishing to be the ultimate challenge. Fortunately, most of us live within a coffee-mug drive from some of the best surf fly fishing opportunities in the world. Down South, the snook is king, while Up North the striped bass wears the crown. There’s a supporting cast of bluefish, mackerel, trout, and jacks.

Bob Popovics is one of the best at the game of surf fly fishing. He’s been at it for more than 50 years and lives only minutes from New Jersey’s Island Beach State Park, a favorite for striped bass hunters. His surf experience also includes time at surf fly fishing haunts like Martha’s Vineyard, Montauk, and the Outer Banks.

Just back from Vietnam in 1970, the young Marine was eager to get on with his life and get back to fishing with his dad and working at his family’s Shady Rest restaurant in Bayville, New Jersey.  A lunch get-together with high school buddies Jimmy Magee and Butch Colvin (whose dad owned the iconic Cap Colvin’s Tackle in Seaside Park), was the first step in a lifelong fly fishing journey that has made Bob one of the most influential fly tiers of the second generation of saltwater fly fishing pioneers.

The three buddies arranged a trip off Harvey Cedars to jig weakfish, but when bluefish crashed the party, Butch grabbed a fly rod and began casting. “I thought that was pretty cool, and wanted to learn more about fly fishing, so the next day Butch took me to Cap Colvin’s to buy my first fly rod, reel and line,” Popovics says. “I was hooked. It was like therapy, and the process of learning to cast and catch fish was soothing, and great fun. I fished with the fly rod as often as I could.”

Later that winter, Butch gave Bob a cardboard beer flat filled with a fly tying vise, bobbin, thread, and some feathers and bucktail, and said, “You’re going to learn how to tie flies.” Back then, there wasn’t much information about saltwater fly tying, but like the promise of a full moon at high tide, a new organization called the Salt Water Fly Rodders of America (SWFROA) brought a fresh level of excitement to coastal fly fishers with an exchange of information, techniques, tackle, and fly tying. Bob was an eager student.

Annual get-togethers were sponsored by SWFROA and its chapters at places like Tilghman Island, Maryland; Key West, Florida; Newport, Rhode Island; and Sag Harbor, New York. Bob attended one on North Carolina’s Outer Banks, where he met Lefty Kreh, who became a good friend and mentor. SWFROA had many well known fly anglers on its board of directors, but Fred Schrier of Toms River, New Jersey, was the dynamo, “the juice,” that drove the new organization.

“I owe a lot to Fred,” Popovic says, “because he was a great motivator, always encouraging me to try new things, and he helped introduce me to so many people like Mark Sosin, Poul Jorgensen, Bub Church, and many others who generously gave me advice and support. Fred’s really the guy who gave me the biggest boost.”

“Surf fly fishing is a very visual experience, and to be good at it you have to be an observer, be aware of your surroundings, the type of beach, the breeze, the currents, and beach structure. Watch everything that happens all around you. Before you make the first cast, walk up to the beach, wait a few moments and observe. Watch the wave sets, get the feel of the rhythm of things before you start fishing. Before I make the first cast I check out the water for signs of bait, cloudy and clear water edges, the formation of bars and points, the location of white water and calm water, and the types of birds in the area. You need patience to be an observer, but it makes you a better fly fisherman.”

Bob likes to keep things simple. He may have plenty of fly gear and equipment in his beach buggy, but keeps only the bare essentials in a shirt or jacket pocket when he’s standing at the water’s edge fishing. “I always have my stripping basket, and like to use a Velcro belt, which is so much easier to get on and off than a buckle-type belt. My pliers are on my wading belt. I pare down what I need to just a few flies and essentials. Instead of taking 20 of each type of pattern, such as crab flies, or bucktail Deceivers, or Jiggies, I take maybe three of each so I have enough on hand to replace a broken-off or fish-chewed fly. I like soft fleece wallets that fit into my shirt pockets to keep a supply of favorite flies close at hand.”

He also keeps a spool of 16-pound tippet handy, and another of 12-pound for very clear water. He usually doesn’t use a heavy mono bite tippet. If blues show up, he has a screw-top tube container in his pocket (like the kind that hold cigars), with 8-inch wire leaders tied with a haywire loop at one end to attach to the tippet. The open end is then haywired to the fly.

“Most of the time I know what to expect when I hit the beach, so if the mullet are running, I take mullet patterns and don’t bother loading myself down with a bunch of flies that probably are not appropriate,” Popovics says. “I do like to have a color selection on hand in case I need to change from a bright fly to dark one, and same goes for short and long patterns.”

Bob favors a 9- or 10-foot, single-hand rod, and says, “Although I’ve tried, I haven’t gotten into the two-hand casting style, and prefer to use single-hand rods most of the time. I like a rod that is not an ultra-fast design. In my consulting work with fly rod manufacturers and in teaching fly casting, I’ve come to like fly rods that have a tad more bend in the butt section as compared to stiff, ultra-fast taper fly rods. Some of my favorites include designs by St. Croix that give the surf fly caster better control of the fly presentation when mending the line or when lifting the line to make a quick cast to reposition the fly. This is an essential feature for any good surf fly rod.”

“When fly fishing the surf, it’s common to retrieve the fly all the way to the rod tip. To quickly and efficiently make the next cast, I like a short, blunt-head line that will load the rod with less line outside the tip. You’re looking to make as few false casts as possible, so a short compact head will load the rod quicker and more efficiently. Use the resistance of the water to help load the rod as you lift to make the backcast, shoot some line on the backcast, then shoot the works on the forward cast. Depending on wind you may need another false cast to reach out to the fish, but always strive for the fewest number of false casts. The goal is to lift for the backcast, shoot, and shoot again on the forward cast.”

“A floating line is my first choice when selecting a fly line. Most fly anglers can dependably cast 50 to 70 feet, and at that distance most beaches will be about 5 to 7 feet deep. A striped bass can easily see the fly at that depth and if you need to go deeper, a weighted fly like a Jiggy or a Clouser Minnow will get deep enough,” Popovics says.

A floater with a short intermediate head is his second choice. “You want to be able to pick up line and recast if necessary, and this is still possible with an intermediate sink tip fly line. You need to do this if the fish moves away from you after you’ve made a cast, or if the fish veers off at an angle from its original swimming direction.”

“A floating line only behaves badly and makes a poor presentation in the surf when you allow the line to be carried away by a breaking wave. You can overcome this by working the line in between the waves, letting it ride and fall with the waves as they roll to the beach. Watch the sets. After six or seven waves, there’s usually a calm area before the next set starts and you can make a nice presentation into this calm water.”

Bob recommends that every surf fly angler learn the skill of mending line. This quick, circular flip motion of the rod tip adjusts the line’s position in a current or wave to keep the fly tracking nicely. If the wave action makes it impossible to control the fly, he uses a roll cast, then lifts for a backcast, and shoots a forward cast to reposition the fly in calm water. “Rod handling becomes second nature, and after awhile you don’t even think about it. The line mending and lifting just become automatic responses to the motions and actions of the waves.”

We all dream of catching a fish so big we won’t have to fib about it, but typical surf-caught striped bass run from schoolies to teen-size and maybe into the 20-pound range. A 30-pounder is an astonishing catch. Even the biggest striped bass will not take too much line, so Bob prefers lightweight large-arbor reels that can hold about 150 yards of backing. “You don’t need a huge reel. The weight of a big reel gets tiring and feels like you have an anchor under the rod. More important is a large spool diameter that retrieves line quickly. Keep in mind that most fish I can play by simply bringing the line in by hand and dropping it into the stripping basket.

“Most reels today are saltwater worthy,” he says, “and it’s probably more important to consider which hand you use to crank the line in. Right or left, the dominant hand is your best choice. A right hander will reel faster, longer, and more smoothly with the right hand; the opposite is true for a southpaw.”

It’s natural to want to walk into the surf up to your knees, but Popovics prefers being higher on the sand because many times the bass will be right in the wash. When fly fishing a beach, the currents and structure are important. The basic current is from the incoming and receding waves, but there are also beach currents generated by wind that often run along the beach. These areas can be worked by letting the fly swing in the current, mending the line as needed to keep in touch with the fly and not let the waves pull line and cause an erratic retrieve and slack.

Bob suggests surgically casting along the beach structure just like a trout fishermen in a small stream. The bass aren’t everywhere; they hold and travel along definite structure such as a slough between the beach and a sand bar, a cut in a sand bar, a point of the beach with white water along its sides, the edges of clear and cloudy water, and also the calm water. “Work all of it,” he says. “Use wind and currents to your advantage when walking the beach. Keep the wind off your non-casting side when possible, or walk with the current a few steps in between casts.”

Bob’s good friend Lou Tabory told him, “There’s no substitute for time on the water,” and Bob echoes that with more good advice, “Even a fishless morning can still be a great day because of the experience earned and knowledge gained. Count the hours, not the fish. Be an observer, look for things, think about what’s going on around you, work the structure, and remember that time on the water builds casting and fishing skills.”

As the premier fall surf fly fishing builds, Bob uses specific fly patterns based on what bait is prevalent as the season matures from September through November. For the early fall, he’s usually throwing Siliclones and Bob’s Bangers to imitate mullet, and Jiggies and Surf Candies to imitate rain fish. When bigger baits are in the surf, his go-to patterns include bucktail Deceivers, The Beast, and Spread Fleyes. Later in the fall, when the sand eel invasion has hordes of the slender baits invading the beach, he’ll switch to longer but skinny Jiggy Fleyes.

One last tip, one of Bob’s favorite fall times to fly fish is the start of a fresh northeaster before the water gets all roiled up and murky, when it’s still clear. “The bass go on binge feed,” he says, “and if the water is real rough, I’ll use a 300 to 400-grain sink tip line to cut through the turbulence.”

Surf fly fishing is popular for many reasons, including its simplicity and nearness to home—and equipment doesn’t have to cost an arm and a leg. It’s exhilarating when a full-blown bluefish blitz erupts, yet serene and calm as the sun ignites the dawn and striped bass begin to swirl at bait in the trough. Fly fishing the surf is a lifelong adventure that has captured fly fishing pioneers dating back to Rhode Island’s Harold Gibbs, New Jersey’s Cap Colvin, and Maryland’s Lefty Kreh—and it now inspires today’s new generation of fly fishers.

Read more great articles like this one and get expert tips from the legends of saltwater fly fishing in the pages of Tail Fly Fishing Magazine. If you love saltwater fly fishing and wish to improve your game, support conservation causes and become part of a small but incredible community, then subscribe to Tail Fly Fishing Magazine today.

You might also like:

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Striper Redux – Jack Gagnon

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The post Fly Fishing the Surf with Bob Popovics first appeared on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

The post Fly Fishing the Surf with Bob Popovics 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

SUBSCRIBE TO TAIL FLY FISHING MAGAZINE

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.

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

Fishpond Thunderhead Backpack

Most of us know Fishpond for its impeccably made products with unique design features. They’re made to tackle some of the harshest environments an angler can expect to encounter. The redesigned and updated Thunderhead series of packs and slings certainly lives up to demanding standards. We finally had a chance to put the fully submersible backpack through its paces. The biggest brother of them all did not disappoint. The pack’s sheer toughness is impossible to overlook. Being made from 1680D TPU coated nylon, it looks and feels bombproof. What really sets it apart from its competitors is the waterproof TIZIP zipper closure system. While other packs utilize a roll-top enclosure, the Thunderhead zipper offers conventional top access using finger loops on either end to slide the mechanism. It just feels completely impenetrable, and on our tests in the elements, it was. Like most waterproof gear, the backpack has a simple interior. The only extra storage is a removable zipper pocket for small items like cell phone or wallet. The exterior, however, has a number of gear attachments and ergonomic—and surprisingly comfortable—shoulder and hip straps. It can be integrated with other Fishpond products like the chest pack. It also has attachment points for Fishpond’s Quickshot Rod Holder for wet wading with multiple rods. The Thunderhead Submersible is a versatile, highly durable, backpack that maintains comfort and fishability while offering uncompromising protection from the elements. Thumbs up! $299.95 (fishpond.com)

Scientific Angler Regulator Spool

Switching out fly lines from reels and spare spools and keeping them tidy and organized is a headache all fly anglers experience. Well, Scientific Angler just made our lives a little less complicated. The Regulator Line Winder is an ingenious device that allows seamless line removal and storage in kink-free coils. Its retractable inner pegs fold in once the line is wound, and notches in the housing keep pipe-cleaner twist-ties in place to secure the line in a neat bundle. The housing disassembles with an easy twist, retracting the inner pegs, and voilá, your wound line is perfectly delivered. 

Its light compact design makes it an easy addition on travel trips. And with no metal parts, it’s completely saltwater-proof. Our only suggestion would be another model with a bigger overall diameter, as many prefer to store lines less-tightly wound to prevent memory. $29.95 (scientificanglers.com)

Loon Quickdraw Rod Sleeve and Ergo Quick Release

Loon Outdoors has been making industry standard fly-tying tools and adhesives for more than 20 years, but if we thought fly tying was their only bag, we’d be wrong. Loon has released a number of cool gadgets that we think fly rod owners will love as much as we do. One of our favorites, the Quickdraw Rod Sleeve, allows anglers to store rods fully rigged and ready to go. It ensures the rod’s finish, guides, and lines won’t get damaged, whether they’re on the floor of a skiff or in the back of a truck. It’s a great way to keep multiple rigged rods from having their lines become twisted when walking out to the boat or through the woods. They’re available in a variety of sizes and lengths, easy to use, and take up very little space in a boat bag. The Ergo Quick Release is a hook-removal tool with just the right angles and edges. It allows an angler to efficiently unhook landed fish with minimal handling. While there are many similar products out there, we really like this tool’s ergonomic handle, durable stainless construction, and versatility. We also appreciate its ability to handle a variety of hook sizes and flies. $13 and $19 (loonoutdoors.com)

MacKenzie’s Hand Scrub and Salve

The folks at MacKenzie’s like to say that this stuff will liberate the stinkiest of blood, scales, and slime from hands. And even though fly anglers may aren’t usually handling bait and bloodying fish, we all can benefit from this hand soap’s perfect blend of scouring walnut husks and pleasant deodorizing essential oils. Whether oil and grime embedded from a garage project or garlic/onion essence from the preparation of a fresh fish dinner, Mackenzie’s will keep hands feeling smooth and smelling fresh. Their hand salve is able to tackle the driest cracked palms and fingers. We keep a supply at the kitchen sink and the boat bag—and use it regularly. $9.95-$46.95 (fishermanhandscrub.com)

Skwala Fishing

Skwala Fishing, based in southwestern Montana, is a fledgling apparel and gear company focused on fly fishing. The founders bring years of high-level industry experience and meticulous attention to detail to their design features. We couldn’t be more excited about a new player in the business and welcome the fresh perspective on products we all use on the water. We recently got our hands on two items in their Sol Collection: the Sol Tactical Hoody and the Sol Wading Pant. The durability and quality design hooked us first. These feel like huge upgrades from the average solar shirts and pants. The hoody has moisture-wicking, quick-drying breathable fabric and 50 UPF sun protection that we’ve come to expect from high-end products. But these items stand out from the crowd because of unique features like the Primeflex ultra-durable fabric in high-wear areas and low-profile pockets in key areas that don’t compromise mobility. Likewise, the wet-wading pants are made from a microporous unique fabric that feels solid enough to slog through the flats all day but light and liberating enough to remain comfortable and unobtrusive. Skwala also offers a full line of fishing jackets and waders, and we look forward to field testing them. $119 each (skwalafishing.com)

Tervis Tumbler

Tervis is a third-generation, American-owned-and-operated company known for durable drinkware with great insulation properties. The company’s 20-ounce and 30-ounce stainless tumblers are not unlike those offered by their competitors, who are perhaps more recognizable to the average consumer these days. But we think Tervis offers a great alternative at significant savings. They promise their tumbler’s double-walled design will keep beverages hot for up to 8 hours or cold for 24. We did our own overnight ice water test with a big name tumbler and found the melt rate basically identical. We especially love the look and feel of the tarpon, redfish, and mahi-mahi skin prints—reason enough to own a new Tervis Tumbler. $27.99 (tervis.com)

Wilkie Brand Mesa 5

Wilkie Brand shirts may not be typical fly fishing gear, but they are essential for making an impact when arriving in a tropical airport for a week of fishing with friends. Sure, most anglers will arrive in typical high-performance fishing shirts, but stepping onto the tarmac in the dark grey, short-sleeved western shirt with the tan Hawaiian-pattern yoke will immediately get a fisherman into the proper island state of mind. Don’t be afraid to fish for ditch tarpon after dinner in this 65/35 cotton-poly blend shirt with snazzy pearl snaps. It’s an article of clothing that won’t be too badly wrinkled after it’s been stuffed in a duffle in the overhead. We like to couple it with a shapable-brim, raffia straw Stetson, but we’ll skip that review since our fishing buddies no longer allow it on the boat (too many windy mishaps while flying across the flats in search of big bonefish). We highly recommend this shirt for the discerning traveler who likes to make a splash. $59 (wilkiebrand.com)

Toadfish Non-Tipping 10-ounce Wine Tumbler

There’s a lot going on with the Toadfish® Non-Tipping 10-ounce Wine Tumbler, including a couple of features that make this vessel completely different from others we’ve seen or used. The first is the SmartGrip® technology that keeps the cup upright even in the choppiest sees. It’s a suction system that can be stuck to any smooth surface such as the fiberglass on a skiff. The system’s upside is also its downside—it sticks hard. While great on the boat, be careful with that glass-top coffee table in the lodge. The other great feature is the glass insert. The company says the insert is designed to enhance the aroma of wine, but we use it exclusively as a convenient container for bourbon, tequila, or mezcal. We wish the lid was a bit more leak resistant, but overall, this is a great boat cup that will not tip over. $24 (toadfish.com)

Orvis Flats Hiker (Spring 2023)

These are without a doubt the best flats shoes to hit the market in a long while. The Flats Hiker is like a sneaker with a built-in rain coat. This stylish shoe has a top layer covering the actual protective shoe within. The Michelin soles are flexible and have a non-slip tire tread, making them feel good when walking as well. Zip open the outer layer to reveal a well-padded and comfortable sneaker-type shoe on the inside. Theres’ a wide-grip handle on the heel that makes them easy to pull on, accommodating even the thickest fingers. The laces are hunting-boot style and loosen easily even when wet. Once on and laced up, zip the outer layer and adjust the velcro closure at the top to your preference of tightness around the sock or lower leg.  A very well-designed and comfortable flats shoe—something we all needed.$249 (orvis.com)

Tornado Anchors

Designed for river beds, this hand made anchor is also quite handy on the flats. While it was designed to adjust to the constantly changing bottom of stone river beds, we asked to try one in the salt. We didn’t think this style of anchor would hold a skiff in a strong current or high winds, but it surprised us. The Tornado will plane a bit if dragged. This adds resistance and allows for the shifting plates to grab and catch. It actually grabs in sand pretty well, even better on softer bottoms, and best on hard bottoms. It didn’t get caught up in underwater debris nearly as often as traditional anchors, but it did hang up once (all anchors do at some point). The best part is it’s easy to rinse and store and has far better aesthetics than other anchors. It you’re looking for a better anchor, check out the Tornado. The 24- to 45-pound models should be sufficient for most skiffs, and you can also add the “Anchor Nest,” which is a nice storage box to fit in your hatch, for an additional charge.

$160-$250 tornadoanchorsusa.com

Monic Phantom Tip – Permit

Readers know we like Monic lines because they’re made in the USA and PVC-free. They’re also really great lines. The Phantom Tip permit taper employs a gradual head and 15 feet of clear tip for a delicate and stealthy presentation. The head design allows for a more delicate presentation on long casts, while 20 feet of belly provides the ability to make that cast. We’ve found that the sweet spot for casting this line is about 35-40 feet, which coincides with the last part of the belly. $119.99 (monic.com)

Vannkriger Solar Stealth Performance Shirt

In a virtual sea of apparel for anglers and outsiders in general, some are well done while many are . . . well, let’s just say some are well done. Vannkriger is a new entry in performance wear, and they got a lot of things right. The rolled double-stitched seams and sleeves are aesthetically appealing and very comfortable on sticky summer days. The “athletic” fit is accurate, so you’ll have to suck in that gut for your grip-and-grin. The sleeves are a little long, providing an extra bit of sun protection. It’s definitely not your standard tech shirt, and it’s a very good value. $45 (vannkriger.com)

Fish Hippie Drift Performance Short

The Fish Hippie Drift Performance Short is lightweight and quick-drying, constructed from 93 percent Nylon and 7 percent Spandex. The shorts have a decent amount of stretch but still hold their shape well. The company has been very responsive to minor flaws we’ve encountered, and they stand behind their products. One pair had some loose stitching after months of hard wear, and Fish Hippie quickly replaced them. These shorts make great fishing or hiking shorts because of a high level of comfort and ability to dry quickly, but they can double as dressier shorts if necessary. $88 (fishhippie.com)

Skullcandy Crusher Evo Wireless Headphone

As fly anglers, we sometimes subject ourselves to long flights to get to the remote destinations required for bucket-list fish. A crying baby or overly talkative neighbor in the seat next to us can make a long day of travel even longer. The Skullcandy Crusher line is a noise-suppressing headphone that performs very well at a lower price point than some of the better-known brands in the high-fidelity space. One of the more impressive features is the 40-hour battery life that’s coupled with rapid-charging technology. The expanded bass is great for the island music we like when traveling to the Caribbean, and the the ear cups are very comfortable. One of my favorite additions to this product is the Tile finding technology, which is great if you’re like us and constantly losing things. Very nice headphones for the price. $199 (skullcandy.com)

The post Saltwater Fly Fishing Gear – Fall 2022 first appeared on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

The post Saltwater Fly Fishing Gear – Fall 2022 appeared first on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

by Joseph Ballarini

It was perhaps legendary Keys guide Harry Spear who originated the very effective style of fly that sports a flat body, allowing for linear movement without spinning. Spear used his Tasty Toad to target the large, spooky bonefish off Islamorada. The Toad landed softly, sank quickly, and refused to spin even when stripped aggressively.

You’ll see this same concept manifest in a number of subsequent flats flies, including Del Brown’s Merkin, the Tarpon Toad (with which Andy Mill has won five Gold Cups), the Kwan Fly (for redfish), and most recently, Dave Skok’s Merkin Shrimp. This concept is also the basis for the Bob Branham’s M. O. E. (Mother of Epoxy) Fly, which has proved itself deadly on permit.

One of my favorite pattens for bonefish and permit is Peterson’s Spawning Shrimp. However, this fly does spin if stripped aggressively, so I stopped using it in Biscayne Bay in favor of Branham’s M. O. E.

Eventually I got the idea to combine the best aspects of Peterson’s Spawning Shrimp with the technical aspects of Branham’s fly—with a few personal touches. I thought the Evolution was an appropriate name, since it’s best described as a mashup of two existing patterns.

The Evolution has superb action, is effective, and is relatively easy to tie. I’ve tested it everywhere I’ve fished, and it seldom fails to produce. In green, the Evolution is my go-to fly in Mexico and Belize. In Florida I prefer pink and ginger; in the Bahamas, pink and tan.  But you can tie it in any color combination and with any head color. Frankly, I don’t think the colored head really matters much for fishing, but they sure do look nice in the box.

If you have any questions, you can email me at admin@tailflyfishing.com.

Materials

Hook: Mustad S74SNP-DT 2XH/4XL size 6 long shank
Thread: Danville flat waxed nylon, 210 denier, pink
Tail: Orange fox and tan Craft Fur (alternatively, I use golden doodle fur after our dog is groomed), flanked at each side with a thin barred ginger hackle tied splayed
Antennae: Black Krystal Flash (optional)
Legs: Tan barred silicone ( I color mine by hand with brown and black markers Borski-style, but the commercial versions work well also)
Eyes: small red shrimp eyes
Flash: Tan Krystal Flash
Wing: Barred tan rabbit fur
Weight: I-Balz
Head: 5-minute epoxy tinted with fine orange glitter

Step 1: Tie in a base of thread on the hook shank above the point.
Tie in orange fox fur, leaving about 1/4 inch beyond the bend of the hook.

Step 2: Measure and trim the trailing portion of fur to bend back over the the bend of the hook and tie in creating a slight bulge for the legs and eyes in the upcoming steps.

Step 3: Tie in craft fur (or dog fur) that should be about twice the length of the fox fur.

Step 4: Tie in two small barred ginger hackles, splayed and extending to approximately the length of the Craft Fur.

Step 5: Tie in black Krystal Flash so it extends slightly beyond the tan Craft Fur (optional, not shown).
Tie in one of the silicone legs so that it extends the length of the Craft Fur (you can trim the legs later, if you wish).

Step 6: Tie in another silicone leg on the other side of the tail. Tie in one of the shrimp eyes to flank the tail. 

Step 7: Tie in the the other eye. The shrimp eyes should extend beyond the bend of the hook by about 1/8 inch.

Step 8: Tie in tan Krystal Flash on the underside of the tail.

Step 9: Tie in the weighted eyes. I-Balz have a wider gap and result in a flatter head on the finished fly.

Step 10: Tie in the first section of barred rabbit for the wing on the underside of the shank.

Step 11: Tie in the second section of wing, just in front of the first and behind the weighted eyes.

Step 12: Wrap the thread to just behind the eye of the hook and whip finish.

Step 13: Mix the two parts of 5-minute epoxy along with the glitter. 

Step 14: When the epoxy is mixed, place a small amount on the eyes. You will need much less epoxy than you think.
The big mistake here is adding too much epoxy and not leaving enough space for a flat, lightweight head.

Step 15: As the epoxy begins to firm, wet your fingers and shape the head using your thumb and index finger to flatten and smooth the epoxy. The key is wet fingers so the epoxy does not stick to your hands. Shape and smooth the head until it’s flat, smooth, and symmetrical.

Heres a quick smart phone video showing how to make the head

Subscribe to Tail Fly Fishing Magazine for the great features, the unique and effective saltwater fly tying and other information that will undoubtedly make you a better angler.  Here are some links to more great fly tying features…

Candy Corn Crawler

Soft Chew Wiggler 2.0

Saltwater Fly Fishing: Saltwater flies – Hammerhead Crab

Characteristics of a Great Bonefish Fly

The post The Evolution Shrimp Fly first appeared on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

The post The Evolution Shrimp Fly 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.

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

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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Los Cabos – Saltwater Fly Fishing

Saltwater Fly Tying – The Salty Stripper

Fiberglass Rods for Saltwater Fly Fishing

Lessons Learned Inshore Surf Fly Fishing

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.

Captain Earl Waters stripped off 60 feet of line from the reel and handed me the thick, one-piece composite rod. “Here,” he said curtly. “Cast.”

I unfurled the length of the line after a couple of back casts, shooting the fly straight to nowhere in particular.

“Hand the rod to your buddy,” he said, directing Charlie Madden to do the same drill.

Waters had stopped his pristine, teal-green Silver King skiff, with a coral-colored cap, about a half-mile out in the Gulf, just outside of the Homosassa River channel. We were apparently being interviewed realtime for a skills check. 

Madden made his cast. Seemingly satisfied with the results, Waters fired up the outboard and zoomed south toward the flotilla of boats spread across the expanse of shallows outside of Chassahowitzka Channel.

It was May 15, 1993. Madden and I were, at last, tarpon fishing the equivalent of golf’s Augusta National. We were rubes, with about a year of saltwater fly fishing under our belts, and had thin wallets with just enough credit between us to split two guided days at Homosassa and two nights at the storied Riverside Inn.

Booking it had not been easy; we couldn’t find a guide who’d take us. Without a history and a bankroll to fund at least a week or more on the water, Homosassa guides were not particularly interested in taking on new clients, especially neophytes. 

We reached out to David Olsen, former manager of the now-defunct Fly Fisherman in Orlando, Florida, for help. A few days later, Olsen called back: “If you guys can fish May 15 and 16, I have a guide who’ll take you. Name’s Earl Waters. I vouched for you guys—told Earl you could cast and see fish.”   

Thus, the on-the-water interview, which had really begun at the Homosassa launch ramp.

Our initial introduction at the ramp wasn’t much more than a head nod of acknowledgement that we were Waters’ clients. After readying his skiff, he examined the four-piece graphite rod and Islander reel that Madden and I planned to share. 

“You can put that rod back in your car,” Waters directed. 

Reading the perplexed look on my face, he answered my unspoken question. 

“That rod is too small for these fish.”

I was bummed. The four-piece, 12-weight Loomis IMX, stamped “DEMO” just above the single cork handle, was my prized tarpon possession. I’d found it in a bin marked “half-price” in a sporting goods store in Denver on a recent business trip. That it was now being relegated to the hotel room, along with the dozen IGFA-leadered flies, neatly fixed in a new leader stretcher rigged specifically for this trip, was painful.

In retrospect, I fully appreciate the atmosphere of that morning. Waters expected much, considering his clients and friends included the likes of Al Pflueger and John Emory. Indeed, in Monte Burke’s Lords of the Fly (an extraordinary, must-read compendium on the 50-year history of fly fishing for tarpon—specifically for record fish at Homosassa), the arcing intersection of legendary guides and anglers, chasing tarpon for the better part of half a century, explains it all. 

Over our two days, Waters became genuinely sociable, and generous with information on all manner of tarpon fishing, even though finding the tarpon proved elusive. Shots were few and far between, but Madden did manage one bite and landed a classically average Homosassa tarpon.

Despite the slow action, Homosassa was mesmerizing. It possessed a magnetic draw for Madden and me that could not—and would not—be ignored.

In the Beginning

Homosassa, situated on Florida’s Gulf Coast about 70 miles north of Tampa, is legendary. Its legacy of tarpon fishing began about 1970. 

“When Lefty Kreh wrote about a trip he’d made to Homosassa in The Tampa Tribune, fishing with ‘the MirrOlure guys,’ Harold LaMaster and Kirk Smith, the word got out,” Captain Dan Malzone said in a recent interview. “LaMaster and Smith invited Kreh to fish with them as they chunked lures into the hole around Black Rock, which was stacked thick with big tarpon. I owned three sporting good stores at the time, so naturally, I’d heard about it.

“In 1972, Keys anglers Normand Duncan and Gary Marconi caught wind of Homosassa’s giant tarpon that nobody fished and started fly fishing there. They invited me to fish with them in 1974.  In the mid 70s, we were the only guys on the water.”

Subsequently, Malzone would fish Homosassa three days each week, Friday through Sunday, the only days his businesses would allow him, for the next several years.

In 1976, Florida Keys guide Steve Huff and angler Tom Evans, who would book Huff for 45 straight days, had had a rough spring, nasty weather keeping them dockside more often than not. One windy morning, with a low-pressure system settling on the Keys, they had breakfast with Duncan at a local diner. He suggested they drive up and fish Homosassa, where the weather might be better. “Where the hell is that?” asked Evans.

“We drove up to Homosassa,” Huff said in a recent interview, “launched the skiff … and never saw a fish all that first day. So the next day we hired a plane from a local airport to fly over the area to look for fish. And we found them … tarpon were everywhere.” 

Huff and Evans hit the water soon after they landed. “Tom hooked up on a big fish,” Huff recalled.  “He immediately became smitten with the big fish at Homosassa and wanted to come back.”

The following year, Huff and Evans spent three consecutive weeks fishing Homosassa. The flats were still mostly absent other anglers and skiffs, but record chaser Billy Pate had gotten word of Homosassa’s giant tarpon. Like Evans, Pate had the financial wherewithal to pursue big fish for weeks at a time, and he spent the entire tarpon season chasing records at Homosassa.

“On Memorial Day 1977, Pate and his guide (Hal Chittum) were the only ones on the water besides Tom and me,” Huff said. “About three in the afternoon, fish began pouring in from the west by the thousands. Tom caught seven tarpon that afternoon, all over 150 pounds. His seventh fish was 177 pounds.”

Continue reading this and the hundreds of other impeccable features in the pages of Tail Fly Fishing Magazine, the only magazine dedicated to fly fishing in saltwater.

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Alive & Well in the Florida Keys

A Fish My Age – Henry Hughes

Worm Swarming—At Long Last

The post Homosassa:  A Reminiscence of The Greatest Tarpon Fishery first appeared on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

The post Homosassa:  A Reminiscence of The Greatest Tarpon Fishery appeared first on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.