DIY Keys Bonefish
A wad of tee shirt is ripped from foggy eyes as a zombie hand fumbles for any snooze button on the bellowing smart device. I crack the trucks frigid atmosphere, the cab inhales humid dawn. The horizon begs to give way to orange. No-see-ums and the tiny kind of mosquitoes dive bomb barren ankles as the obligatory bug dance is displayed while teeth are brushed with a gallon jug and fishing shirts are fitted. We are both surprised to see only one other truck at the ramp.
We hit a few spots we deem as “close to the ramp.” our ultimate goal is to take this marred piece of fiberglass as far as she will take us into the back county, especially if predictions of low wind hold true. The tide is rising all morning. The first spot is too deep. Almost impossible to sight fish in the low morning light. Choice number two is more of the same. We drift off the second flat hunched over cached satellite images. With an abrupt decision, the skiff lurches to life in gin clear drink.
I am on the pole first, as is customary for the boat’s owner. Water this pure my skiff has never seen. We glide effortlessly, even with 15lbs of ice and 22 beers. Skates glide from wood to grass, invertebrates grovel in white sand. Bonnet head and lemon sharks patrol mangroves, tickling deeply ingrained senses. The serenity is intoxicating. Any second now, chaos shall be unleashed by rafts of bonefish or 20lb permit, I figure.
In truth our expectations were moderated between caffeine doses during the six hour drive South the night prior. Both of us have caught DIY bonefish before, but only abroad. We have no expectations that the bonefish will be as wonderfully dumb or aggressive as they are in the Caribbean islands we have visited.
My flat bottomed skiff really has no business crossing giant basins or fighting Atlantic currents. Perversely, this adds to the excitement of bringing a bonefish, or dare I say- Permit, to hand. My buddy may be wondering why he agreed to this trip after mile two in a steady chop. With only a 65 quart stool for comfort. We agree to be content with any size bonefish or permit. A proper mess of young tarpon would also be acceptable. A brand new area, no guides, and a hull shape better suited for aluminum than fiberglass. The odds are stacked against us.
I snap out of my tropic induced coma as a school of three bonefish intercept us on the mangrove line head on. We both do that “instinctive crouch” you do when you are already too close for a cast. My comrade manages to get a fly in front of the trio. The lead fish peels off and the second shows no interest. The third fish gives a halfhearted snap of the jowl. It is hard to tell if friend or foe missed the strike.
New flat and new guy on the bow. My favorite bonefish fly rolls between finger tips. The tropical fever strikes again. Everything is pristine, everything is full of life, everything is beautiful. Everything looks like a bonefish. Three fish come in and break the fever, just as before. The second fish inhales the sloppy plop of my crab fly before it was ever stripped. After successfully clearing line, I turn around to mirror excitement and a thumbs up.
Our first American bonefish.
The first of the big three on my skiff.
Somewhere in the tangle of walking trees and frothing red water. A lump forms in my throat. It was a jack, not a bonefish. Well, half of a jack.
The sun and moral dip low as we make the long run back to the motel/baitshop/marina. But first a stop for the obligatory fried sandwiches and mediocre musical guests. Friendly service and quick beers left the night easy, and the snapper was good.
Day 2:
We run to the last spits of land extending into the gulf and pole all day. Don’t see shit. We fish channel edges, grass flats, mangroves. Don’t see shit. We make a harrowing run for my meager skiff and pop out somewhere in the Atlantic. Poled a couple miles of beach. It sucked. Mapped out a spot nearer an inlet. Staked out. Got a little buzzed, Saw a tail and sobered up. Got a few short lived shots at bonefish in low light, maybe a permit too. Made the orange run home a little more peaceful, with hope for the last day.
Or maybe it was the beers.
Day 3:
Spirits are low. We know its over. Miracles have happened before, but the last morning usually sucks. We see a guide and his sport at the ramp. typically not my favorite sign, but after two days of empty ramps and conspiring how everyone knew something we didn't, it was oddly comforting.
He runs gulf side, as we do. (We left the ramp first which means he followed us). We try a flat surrounding a small helping of mangroves in the middle of a wide channel. More serine landscape, more sharks, no bones. We take yesterdays advice and run toward the Atlantic. After snagging an unmarked crab trap with the skeg, and a few choice words, we are poling once again. Thoughts of family obligations and chores are starting to creep in.
“If we left now I could get some extra stuff done … I would have less making up to do with the ol’ lady.”
I take the leeward line down an ocean side cut. I See wakes to the left and bolt across a small natural channel. My comrade on the bow is numb from hours of shark fins and mullet wakes. We pole into the glare silently. Out of nowhere, he crouches down like hidden dragon and flops out a gotcha after 1.5 false casts. The glare is blinding, all I can do is get low and pray. Somehow he comes tight, line leaps of the deck until the drag is screaming. He turns around to reveal a shit eating grin. Bonefish.
We get a few pictures and exchange high fives of relief. The trip is saved. One of the big three on my modest skiff. I feel content going home now, but I cant help but notice how fleeting the high is.
Guess I will have to get another fix soon.
