RIGHT The great thing about bonefish is you can still spot a willing tailer when conditions are not optimal. Tom Melvin found this player in the flat light and rain of a February day in Cayo Largo, Cuba. Photo: Bryan Gregson 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 be-ing 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, tell-ing me not to worry about it, he doesn’t care either. But we’re going tarpon fishing anyway. 048 CUBA
The Flyfish Journal Volume 13, Issue 2: Page 48
