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Slammed

By Allan Finkelman

The past three days have been fairly typical. We've had our moments, both good and bad. Yesterday was our best day with 8 tarpon hooked. I only landed one of those fish, which is way below my usual percentage. In a tournament, that would drive me nuts, but yesterday I was able to enjoy watching them jump, and not fret about lost fish.

The weather today was much different than yesterday. We spent yesterday in the backcountry to take full advantage of reasonably good light along with very light wind. This morning though, was dark and dreary. The lack of light kept us out of the backcountry. Uncharactetistically, Ben's mood seemed to match the light, so I tried to pretty much leave him alone.

We started the day staked out on an oceanside white spot that we hoped would be on the tarpon's path. That's the basic strategy for poor light. The fish would be very hard to see on a grass or other dark bottom. However, there were few fish coming by, and those that did weren't looking very happy.

People who haven't spent much time on the flats have trouble understanding the concept of fish looking happy or unhappy. It's all too clear to those of us that spend a lot of time looking. In the case of tarpon, happy fish are generally high in the water column, moving at a slow, relaxed kind of pace. Unhappy fish are often deeper and moving faster. They seem to have a twitchy kind of attitude, and will often run from flies that aren't even close to them. Happy fish are far more likely to indulge in a snack when one appears in front of them.

With few fish, and poor responses from them, Ben's mood wasn't improving. I tried to stay relaxed and alert. I tried to not second guess our location. I bided my time and waited for something to change. It always does. One of the great things about fishing is how quickly a poor fishing day can turn into a great one.

About ten o'clock we saw a pair of fish coming towards us. I made a good cast in front of the lead fish. As the fish rose up to take a look at the fly, we could see that it was a permit. The fish's body language said that he (or she) was very excited to see this tasty morsel. A couple of quick strips and he nailed it. As the permit streaked off with my fly firmly embedded, I considered the situation.

I knew that the fish had to be fairly large. After all, I thought it was a tarpon when I cast to it. Permit are surprisingly strong critters, and a big one on light tackle can be a real handful. However, I was fishing for big tarpon, so I was rigged with a 12 weight rod. I also knew that I had 16 pound class tippet tied with biminis for full strength. Plus, I had an 80 pound mono bite tippet. All things considered, I determined that I was in a great position to really lay into this fish.

The permit's initial run took about 125 yards of backing. As I worked the fish back towards the boat, I was impressed by the difficulty of moving him, even with the heavy tackle. When I had regained the fly line, I screwed down the drag a little tighter, to about 5 or 6 pounds. I wanted the fish to pay a steep price for taking any line.

With the fish close to the boat I began to work him over as best I could. I found it more difficult to move that fish around than it is to move a tarpon more than twice its weight. But I persevered, and Ben grabbed him by the tail some 12 minutes after hookup. We estimated the permit at between 35 and 40 pounds, which is my largest fly caught permit by far. I'm sure that it would have been a longer struggle with a nine or ten weight rod. I was happy to have a nice beefy stick in hand.

Apparently, the tarpon's mood had also improved. They started to come with some regularity. We were getting shots every few minutes. They were good shots too, with a couple of very large schools coming by. One school must have had about 300 fish in it. Two others probably had close to 100 each. I was casting well, and swimming my fly with the fish, but I just couldn't seem to get any of them fed. A few halfhearted follows or looks is the best response that I managed to induce before the action slowed.

We moved to another spot and immediately had a couple of schools hitting us from different directions. I don't think that we had been there more than 2 minutes before a tarpon ate my fly and was solidly hooked. The tarpon's first jump showed him to be a small fish of perhaps 45 pounds.

To put it in perspective, this fish never got off the fly line, and after several jumps he was on his side alongside the boat. I reached down and retreived my fly. It was four minutes after he first ate it.

I always appreciate a tarpon that will jump a few times, then give it up quickly. I'm not a huge fan of extended tug of war battles. I love to watch the fish eat the fly. I enjoy the jumps and early runs. After that I want to get on to the next fish as quickly as possible. Of course, you can greatly influence the tarpon's decision to roll over by pulling on him hard and continuously. Each year, as I learned more, and improved my fish fighting technique, I would find myself pulling harder on the fish, and amazingly enough, breaking off less of them.

I was especially pleased that today's tarpon was a quick and easy one, because I was now two thirds of the way to one of flats fishing's most notable accomplishments, a grand slam. That particular deed has eluded me throughout my flats fishing history. I've never even felt close to achieving it. I've had tarpon and bonefish many times, but filling in with a permit is so hard to do that in those situations I didn't even feel like I was chasing a slam. I've caught permit and bonefish several times and at least been in the game. But a tarpon is never a sure thing, and especially out of season can't always be found.

This was, by far, the best opportunity I've ever had. The two hardest parts of the slam were done. All I needed was a bonefish. One stupid bonefish. It was only 1:30. I had plenty of time. Ben was just as aware of the situation as I was. He rightly assumed that I would want to go bonefishing.

Ben poled us up onto the flat right in front of us. It was the top of the rising tide and we expected to find a couple of mudding schools of fish up on the flat. Visibility was still less than ideal, but we felt that there was enough light to see mudders.

After a half an hour of poling the flat, we were beginning to doubt the light. We doubted the light more than the presence of fish, as we had so often found fish on this tide. We had seen and investigated some obvious ray muds, but so far no bones.

But then, Ben announced that he thought that maybe he had some fish around 90 feet away. He gave a push or two with his pole and then confirmed the sighting. The fish were closer now and mudding hard. Ben said "50 feet, 10 o'clock going hard left."

I was experiencing this phenomenon. I told Ben that I didn't see them. Communication between angler and guide is vital. With the fish a mere 50 feet away, we needed to get this sorted out quickly. In a couple of seconds, the opportunity would be gone. Ben tried to get me to look at the right spot. He has described this process in an article, and with tongue firmly planted in cheek, spoke of "calmly and gently urging" his angler to see the fish. In the heat of actual battle, this comes out as a panicky shriek "Left! Left! Left! Left you idiot!" He didn't actually call me an idiot, but I told him later that it seemed implied.

With the reflexes of a dead cat I swung my head to the left, and there they were, mudding up a storm. Once I saw them I knew what to do. I am capable of a quick release, and I got my fly in the water immediately, just to the left of the last mud. One of the fish in the school got right on the fly. I stripped it a couple of times, and it was with great relief that I felt the resistance and solid weight of a fish on the line.

I relaxed as the bonefish finished his first run having taken about 75 yards of backing. I was estimating its weight at around 8 pounds. As I began to bring him back towards the boat I was mentally celebrating my first grand slam. I was buying a round of drinks when the unthinkable happened. Out of nowhere, a shark ate my bonefish. There was no dramatic splash or bust, and no revelry by the shark. Jaws didn't bother to rub it in. He just calmly and gently ate my fish along with about six feet of leader.

I was a little stunned, but not really surprised. Fishing accomplishments have never come easily for me. I've paid a price for every great moment, and lesson learned. Here was yet another opportunity to build my character.

It was 2 o'clock. There was plenty of time to catch another bonefish. At this point, I wanted it pretty badly, and I knew that Ben did too. If you don't think that the guides have an emotional stake in what's going on, you're either not paying attention, or you're fishing with the wrong guides.

I guess that its too late for me to make a long story short, but let me make it at least a little shorter than it could be. We fished for another five hours. During that time we looked at no less than a dozen flats. One flat had a few very skittish fish on it, and we had one cast there. I'd like to say that single cast was all I needed. In fact, it was a good cast and I expected to catch a fish with it, but it didn't happen. Instead of getting my slam, I got slammed. All those other flats didn't have a single bonefish on them. We couldn't believe it, but it was true. Somehow it figures.

I suppose that there is some life lesson here. Who cares? When in the course of fishing discussions the subject of grand slams comes up I'd like to be able to say "Yeah, I've done that." Instead, I'll be forced to say "Well, I've got a story about that," and then watch everybody make feeble excuses and drift away.

I will say that the shark certainly helped to make this day an indelible memory. And the one thing that the shark could not take away was the fact that I caught, on fly, a very big frigging permit.

Reel -Time

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Copyright 1996 Allan Finkelman