Words: Dylan Tomine 2021-11-16 08:27:55
“After months of planning and tying flies, setting up rods is the first thing to get done on the five-hour run from Jucaro to Jardines de la Reina, Cuba. With rods for the week ahead sitting ready on the stern, we turned our attention to mojitos upstairs.” Photo: Nick Price To be honest, I don’t really care one way or the other about permit. It’s not that I actively dislike these overgrown pompano, I just don’t have enough experience or context to elevate them, as many anglers do, to Holy Grail status. Besides, as Tom McGuane has pointed out, if you mention these fish to your nonangling friends, they usually think you’re talking about your fishing license. And yet, here I am, on the bow of a skiff staked out on the ocean-side drop-off of an enormous flat in Jardines de la Reina, Cuba, during what has been billed as the prime permit week in one of the best big permit destinations on Earth. We’d been poling along the deep edge of the flat when our guide, who I will call Señor Holler, spotted three permit off the starboard bow. This, after four solid days in which nobody in our group had even hooked, let alone landed, a single permit. Now, my friend Mauro and Señor Holler are on foot, about a quarter mile away, stalking the elusive fish that seem intent on leading them on a wild goose chase. I watch the receding figures walking with exaggerated stealth. From time to time, they pause, crouch, cast, then continue walking until they become tiny dark silhouettes in the blinding glare of tropical light. I wait and watch, killing time. I look at clouds building into towering thunderheads. I wipe sweat off my brow. And then, about a hundred feet off the transom, I notice a small patch of muddy water. Interesting. With the boys still stalking, now even farther out, I slide over the gunwale and walk toward the growing area of murky water. At about sixty feet, I can see some kind of fish swimming around in circles, swirling up the marl. I cast my bonefish fly into the disturbance, make a couple of strips, and watch two permit materialize in clear water about where I think my fly should be. One fish races ahead of the other, tips down, and opens its mouth, gills flaring. I keep stripping until the line tightens, then I come back hard against the resistance. The shallow water detonates with an explosion like a rooster pheasant flushing from heavy cover. The fish careens across the flat leaving a contrail of cloudy water behind it, zooming around at a speed I can barely fathom. I watch the fish growing ever smaller in one direction, while my fly rod and line still point at a place where the fish was seconds earlier. By the time I’ve recovered all that backing and given a diminishing amount of it back on several occasions, Mauro and Señor Holler are back at the boat, defeated by their quarry. My fish makes a short run back toward the skiff, and Señor Holler sees it flashing through the water. “Permit! Permit!” he yells, “don’t lose it!” He jumps out of the boat and splashes to my side, just in time to tail the fish. Mauro snaps some photos and I release the fish, which shoots out of my grasp and hightails it over the edge of the flat into blue water. Señor Holler hails the fleet on VHF, shouting into the handset in rapid-fire Spanish, of which I can only decipher my name and the word palometa, Spanish for permit. Congratulatory messages come back from the other boats. During one of the replies, I hear Yvon in the background saying, “Oh god, the guy who cares least always catches the best fish.” Yes, it was a boondoggle. But who am I to turn down a free trip to Cuba? Bruce McNae, a generous and longtime benefactor of wild-salmon conservation, was hosting a week aboard a mother ship, flats skiffs in tow, in search of permit. The idea was to gather a handful of conservation leaders—and me, feeling something like an imposter or perhaps someone’s little brother—from around the world for a meeting of the minds and to foster collaboration. We would fish in pairs during the day and figure out how to save wild salmon over outrageous dinners at night. The whole thing seemed a bit over the top, but like I said, who am I to turn down such an offer? “Just get yourself to Miami,” Bruce said. “We’ll fly private to Nassau from there, and meet the yacht in Cuba. I’ll cover all your costs.” “Private jet, luxury yacht, guided skiffs … um … this doesn’t involve me taking off my clothes, does it?” “What? No … are you … OK, whatever. Look, some of your friends will be there, Yvon and Mauro are in, and Kurt from Wild Fish Conservancy. Then there’s the salmon advisor to Prince Charles, and the guy who’s developing closed-containment salmon farms, and ...” “We’re going fishing, right?” “Yeah, for permit, but I mostly just want to bring all you guys together and kick ideas around, come up with some new ways to save wild salmon.” “And, just to confirm, I can keep my clothes on? OK, I’m in.” When our G5 landed at the small, rural airport in Cayo Coco, Cuba, we were greeted by armed guards in full military uniform. They were not happy to see us. Trying to be helpful, I unpacked my trusty Spanglish, and eventually learned that they didn’t know what to do with us—a private jet from the United States had never landed in Cayo Coco before. We milled around on the tarmac while our pilot, the head Cuban military officer, and the airport manager conferred. Without saying anything to us, the military man and the manager abruptly walked back into the building. Our pilot said he didn’t know what was going on, but that they needed to call someone. If worse came to worse, he thought we probably had enough fuel to make it back to Nassau. The rest of the military contingent, a half dozen stone-faced, AK47-toting troops, stood at attention, staring straight ahead. When I stepped forward to attempt some small talk, the closest soldier put his hand on the pistol holstered at his waist. An hour’s worth of increasingly tense seconds—3,600 to be exact—passed. The airport manager returned with news: We were not allowed to land here without a special visa. We looked first to our pilot, then to Bruce, our fearless leader. Both shrugged. I asked the manager when and how we should’ve obtained the visas. He brightened. “Oh,” he said in English, “I have them right here.” “How much do they cost?” I asked. He slowly looked from one to another of us, then over to the soldiers. He cast his eyes upward, brow furrowed in concentration. His lips moved silently, while he unconsciously touched his thumb to the tip of each finger, counting. His eyes shot furtively left, then right, then, his math complete, he broke into the kind of gleeful expression one associates with lottery winners. “I am very sorry for the expense,” he said, “but it will cost each of you … five dollars.” By the third day, nobody had hooked a permit. We’d seen plenty, but all the usual factors that keep anyone from catching a permit had come into play: blown casts, standing on the line, long follows with the inevitable refusals, fish that simply didn’t see the fly or care enough to react to it. The one constant? Señor Holler’s growing frustration, which he expressed through increasingly abusive yelling. The day Yvon and I fished with him, Señor Holler shouted at us about the permit that wouldn’t eat our flies; about the bonefish we—mostly me—couldn’t see until they were too close; about casting at and hooking a barracuda—again, me—that he had to deal with. Finally, Yvon had enough and told the guide we just wanted to fish on foot, to let us out at one end of a sprawling, mangrove-strewn flat, and pick us up several hours later at the point on the far side. Señor Holler seemed to take great pleasure in explaining, in very loud and condescending tones, that it was impossible, that we were stupid to even try fishing on foot there. The bottom, he explained, was too soft to wade; we would need to stay in the boat with him. Yvon calmly reached into his pack, produced a couple pairs of small snowshoes, which we strapped to our flats boots, then bailed over the side. “See you at the point in three hours,” he said, addressing Señor Holler. Then Yvon and I proceeded to enjoy a quiet, stress-free walk through the marl and low mangrove shrubs, spotting bonefish here and there, and catching enough to keep our interest. Clearly, when we fished from the boat with Señor Holler spotting fish from the platform, we had more shots at fish. But you can’t discount the value of not being yelled at, and fortunately, my limited fish-spotting range matched my casting abilities perfectly. Of course, I’m simply not going to say how much time I spent casting to elongated coral clumps, fish-shaped sand patches, and occasionally, complete hallucinations. But nobody yelled all afternoon. Back on the permit flats, I hand my bonefish rod to Mauro, telling him I know it’s not the right gear, but that it worked. Having just landed a permit, I feel as though I’ve accomplished something, even if I’m not really sure what. In any event, it seems that we have, for once, stumbled into the right time and place to actually catch these fish. Now I want to watch Mauro give it a shot. He slides into the water and starts walking, head up, scanning for signs of life. With the tide coming in and good numbers of fish around, I figure he’s going to get one any minute. And even if not, it’s only 8:30 in the morning, yesterday’s wind has fallen out, and the whole day stretches out ahead of us. Señor Holler jumps overboard with very little stealth, marches up to Mauro, and snatches the rod out of his hands. “You are not fishing!” he shouts. “We go now!” He climbs back into the boat and starts the motor. “Hey,” I say, “there’s permit here, Mauro should fish.” “No! Only you. Grand slam! Grand Slam! Now is time for tarpon!” “Really, it doesn’t matter.” “No! You must catch tarpon now! Grand slam!” Mauro climbs aboard, looks at me, and shrugs. Señor Holler jams the throttle forward, the skiff jumps up on plane, and we’re running wide open, the mottled coral bottom streaking past, wind whipping our faces. If I am too ignorant to fully comprehend the significance of permit, I care even less about the grand slam—catching a permit, tarpon, and bonefish by a single person in a single day—something I’ve read about but only vaguely registered in my consciousness. Mauro waves his hands in a dismissive gesture, rolls his eyes, and laughs, telling me not to worry about it, he doesn’t care either. But we’re going tarpon fishing anyway. Each night, we gathered in the yacht’s air-conditioned salon to live like royalty. Icy mojitos and frozen towels to wipe our sweaty, sunburned faces greeted us the second we stepped off the skiffs. Then, fresh tropical fruit salads. Snapper and humongous lobsters caught by the chef while we chased inedible sport fish all day. Flan, fine rums, and cigars for dessert. Yes, it was a boondoggle, and for me, almost unimaginable luxury. The Cuban crew and guides—excluding my nemesis, Señor Holler—were kind, thoughtful, and open to answering all the questions we had about life in this last outpost of communism. In the rural areas where they lived, the crewmembers assured us, there was very little property crime because everyone owned the same stuff, which meant there wasn’t anything worth stealing. Everyone in the country except doctors drew the same salary, about nineteen dollars a month. With no incentive or pressure to get ahead, and few options for entertainment, citizens were free to spend their days making good food, music, and love. Propaganda messaging for the tourists, perhaps, but it sounded utopian anyway. Lest we start making plans to move south, though, there were also subtle reminders of the authoritarian regime. Each night, the captain of the mother ship had to radio the government to report that nobody had taken a flats skiff and headed for Florida. Citizens were not allowed access to the beaches for the same reason. The guides hungered for our monofilament tippet material, modern fly lines, and wading boots. I still felt a strange mixture of gratitude for being invited along on a trip I could never afford and a kind of low-grade embarrassment, not to mention a skeptic’s view of the real value of what we were doing there. But true to Bruce’s word, we occupied our evenings, often long into the night, with salmon conservation: technological breakthroughs for a closed system of dry-land salmon farming; ancient selective-fishing techniques that could allow thriving runs of fish to be harvested without harming depressed stocks; an idea for a gathering of international salmon experts to create a new global management paradigm; a rough outline for a film that could show taxpayers how their money is being wasted on hatcheries and their public waters polluted by fish farms. Just talk, sure, but we all dove into it with sincere effort, happy to talk with our counterparts from different countries and trade thoughts and ideas. And now, the tarpon. We make a hard turn into a long, wide channel of murky water walled in on both sides by impenetrable mangrove forest. Señor Holler cuts the motor and we drift in thick, humid heat. Señor Holler yells at me to get my tarpon rod. I don’t own a tarpon rod. He yells at Mauro to give me his tarpon rod. Mauro, gracefully maintaining his naturally upbeat demeanor, laughs and hands me his tarpon rod. You know the really cool part about tarpon fishing? That adrenaline surge, the dry mouth, your knees quivering as you watch a string of hundred-pounders finning and gulping in crystal water as they come into range? That doesn’t happen here. Señor Holler, in what passes for a stealthy whisper from him, tells me very loudly to strip out all the sinking line, cast as far as I can, and count slowly while the fly descends into dark waters. I pile the line on deck, reach back, and let it fly. The heavy lead-core line shoots out, straightens, and splashes down. Señor Holler starts counting, loudly: “Uno … pause … dos … pause … tres …” At veintisiete, he motions for me to start my retrieve. I make two strips and it comes up solid. I strip set again, and while the rod tip is ripped down toward the surface, the far end of the line, way out there, starts rising to the surface. Fast. Seventy feet off the bow, water tears open and a twisting, rattling blur of silver vaults into the air as if shot from a catapult. Three more explosive leaps, a hundred yards of backing, and a slowly descending tail walk tire the fish, and when it pauses, I am able to gain line and move it toward the boat. Then, on a short line, another flurry of crazed—and, I will admit, slightly frightening—jumps right next to the boat and the fish is out of gas. It swims in a wide circle, pumping its tail to dive, but slower each time it passes around the boat. Finally, I pull the tarpon alongside and Señor Holler grabs it by the lower jaw, leaning the fish’s big head against the gunwale. I pull the hook out, lift it for a photo, then feel it power away into the murk. One cast, one tarpon. Not exactly how I picture tarpon fishing, but still, there must be a bunch of them under the boat here. I hand the rod to Mauro, crack a Cristal, and sit back against the ice chest. “No fishing for you!” Señor Holler shouts, jabbing a finger at Mauro. “Only him! Grand slam! Bonefish now!” “Come on,” I say, as a creeping déjà vu sets in, “the fish are here, let’s fish.” Señor Holler throws his arms in the air and stomps his foot against the floorboards. “Grand slam! Grand slam!” he yells, “Only you fish!” He snatches the tarpon rod from Mauro, furiously winds up the line, then points it at me, shouting, “Only you!” For Señor Holler, the coveted grand slam is now a slam dunk. It’s only ten o’clock in the morning, which leaves eight more hours for me to catch a bonefish. While the permit seemed impossible, and the tarpon doubtful and random, bonefish here are a dime a dozen. Señor Holler poles us through a narrow cut hidden by mangroves and into an open saltwater lake. The glassy surface is pierced by dozens of bonefish tails and backs glinting in the sun. With the grand slam now within easy grasp, Señor Holler has taken it down a notch, confident in his success. He hands me my bonefish rod, extends his arm horizontally, and with palm up, gestures magnanimously to cast in any direction. I hand the rod to Mauro and Señor Holler boils over. “Grand slam!” he screams, spit flying and neck veins bulging. “Grand slam! No fishing for Mauro! Only you!” I sit down on the cooler and look up at Mauro. Then I extend my arm horizontally, and with palm up, indicate that he should cast in any direction. Yes, it was a boondoggle, a week of incredible opulence and comfort in a spectacularly beautiful place with good friends. An extravagance I could never even imagine, let alone deserve, and one I soaked up and savored. But “boondoggle” also carries a connotation of bogus intent or lack of results, and here’s the thing: That closed-containment salmon-farm technology? In the months since we talked about it, it’s grown into a viable business, with several of the group investing in the rollout. The World Salmon Forum, the first-ever gathering of salmon activists, scientists, and managers from around the globe, became reality, with the inaugural three-day symposium in Seattle. A comprehensive, coast-wide strategy for saving wild Pacific salmon started with a fully operational selective-harvest fish trap on the Columbia River. The idea for a film about the cost of fish farms and hatcheries turned into the documentary Artifishal. Add it all up and boondoggle or not, at least in my book, it beats a grand slam any day. This excerpt appears in the book Moving Water, which will be released in April 2022 by Patagonia Books.
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THE GRAND SALAMI
https://digital.theflyfishjournal.com/articles/the-grand-salami