I mentioned in the first post of the forum that I was slow to flush this forum because I was in the Bahamas for a five day weekend last week in search of my first bonefish.
Last Christmas a great friend gave me a copy of Fodor's guide to the Bahamas. My wife flipped through it and found a postcard inviting me on a trip for bones whenever I could make the time.
I made the time.
We flew into N. Eleuthera airport on Thursday afternoon, took a water taxi across a swimming pool blue bay to Harbour Island, a three mile long island at at the eastern edge of the Bahamas. Narrow and running north south, the island revolved around Dunmore Town, the original capital of the Bahamas, founded by Loyalists to the King. Across the bay, beyond a series of small cays and unbelievable backwaters, is Spanish Wells, the lobstering center of the islands and the site of the last fresh water wells used by the treasure galleons before the long sail east to Spain.
We stayed at a small resort on the western or harbor side of the island called the Romora Bay Resort. Nice place, about $200 a night, with a pool and a big dock. Rented a golf cart, bought some cuban cigars, and was wading up to my knees on a vast flat on the northern side of Dunmore Town in front of the island's garbage dump two hours after arriving.
Bob and I immediately saw bonefish moving behind us over the bright sand, but the wind was in my face and I couldn't get a cast off. I did throw at a 'cuda about six times, all but hitting it on the head, but it wasn't interested.
There were two other fly fishermen working the flats, but we didn't see them hookup.
Saw more bones, my first, and realized immediately how impossible it is to see these ghosts. The old Cape Cod wade and cast, wade and cast method wasn't working. Bonefishing is much more fish hunting, and standing in a good place and homing in on a fish lane looked like the way to go.
After having a couple rays swim right up the muds we were making by shuffling along, we vacated the flats and drove into town for beers and to find our guides for the next four days.
The first morning we fished with a young guide, Jaron Johnson, who met us at the dock in a decent flats boat with a leaning post for the bowman. Jaron worked us along the shore to the north of the dump flat, telling us the fish were really smart there as everyone throws flies at them year-round. We worked up to the head of the sound to the inside flats around Man Island and immediately saw two schools of bones. I got off several great casts, turned a few fish, but no takers.
We fished the two school for an hour, and then moved south west to the North Eleuthera backwaters where Jaron poled us along the volcanic shores to the north of the airport. No fish. Not a sign.
Second morning we fished with Stuart Cleare, son of the famed Harbour Island guide, Bonefish Joe Cleare.
Stuart was a fishing machine, and took us directly into the N. Eleuthera backwater and positioned us inside a shallow flat between the shore and a parallel line of small exposed cays and coral heads. The tide was falling and Stuart figured we get a mass of fish that only had one way out.
Sure enough, bonefish at 20 feet. Knees get weak, I'm staring at the water as hard as I've ever stared at anything, and drop a #4 Harbour Island shrimp (basically a red crazy charlie with a red squirrel tail) on its near side and to the front about three feet away. The fish liked what it saw, turned, and started after the fly. Stuart talked me through the strip, but just as the leader entered the tip, I, like a fool, swept it back for a roll cast and pulled the fly away from the fish.
Immediately saw, without Stuart, three fish coming off of the sand into the deeper channel. Nailed the cast, dropped in right in front of them, about four feet, and they zigged. Stuart hollered for a second cast, to lead them at 8 o'clock. Did it, but they showed no interest.
Stuart kept up a constant patter of sheer optimism. "Next pass, next cay, watch out bonefish, here we come. They got to come down this way, no other way out.."
Spent the next four hours with an acute case of bonefish fever. Threw at the fish six more times and nothing. Nada. Squat.
Third day, raining, nasty, but we have a trip with Bonefish Joe himself. Stuart's dad. The man on the cover of Dick Brown's Bonefishing book.
The wind was howling, the rain was coming down in squalls, but Joe put us right into fish at the southern end of the bay, poling us up inside of a magical blue lagoon filled with neon parrot fish.
After making a dozen blind casts into that pool we went back to the shore line. Joe spotted a big mud in ten feet of water, and for an hour directed me in a series of 60 foot casts (not too hard with the wind at my back). One fish bumped the line hard, but didn't hook. We fished the deep school for half an hour (I flubbed a cast in a gust and threw a monster wind knot into my fly line, picking it out while Joe is spotting one fish after another in the rain)
then moved to the dump flat, where he immediately found more fish and I hooked my buddy in the wrist with another spaz cast.
Over to the western side of the bay, and we're into a school of two dozen fish. Threw three times. They wouldn't eat.
At this point I am in a state of high anxiety. These fish are not easy.
Next morning we went offshore for big fish. I rigged a twelve weight with a big Ultra Deceiver, but never got to sling it as we got right into some fat yellowfin tuna and got our ya-yas out trolling bait in a driving rain.
That evening I was back in my New York office considering hand grenades for my next expedition.
I'll post photos and details later.
DCC
So, three days with guides, s