Permit Anyone?

The first time I heard the term permit in conjunction with flats fishing, I thought you needed an official piece of paperwork to fish certain areas. How was I to know? Friend and I were sitting at the cardboard table, tying flies and talking about fish and fishing.

“What type of permit do you need?” I asked. “How much does one cost?”

I wondered if I could afford to go flats fishing if a permit was required.

“Not a permit, idiot: a permit! It’s a fish. They’re white, shaped like an oversized bluegill and they are hard to catch.”

“How hard?”

“Real hard.”

“Why?”

“They don’t like to eat a fly. They fight hard if you can hook one, but not too many folks hook them while fly-fishing. Permit just don’t eat flies very well.”

After that dose of humiliation, I figured it out.

“Oh. A fish. I get it.”

As I was soon to learn, a permit is somehow more than just a fish, though. What a fish they are.

I started reading stories about flats fishing and talked with folks in the know. Soon, I knew that I wanted to catch a permit, someday. The more I thought about it, the more I knew I really wanted to fish for permit. With all that was going on during the early ‘80’s in my life, though, I had no idea when someday would come. But, I could dream, couldn’t I?

On our first trip to Belize in February of 1993, I asked the local guides about seeing permit and whether or not they thought we might have an opportunity to catch one. Their sly, knowing smile did not particularly meld with the answer they gave, which was something like, “we can try”, or “we’ll see”, or “it’s kind of hard to know.” The smile said, “no chance, gringo.” In response to my persistent questioning, I got them to say that we might see permit, but we shouldn’t plan on finding any. If we did spot one, then we could try to get a cast off, but, “don’t hold your breath.”

I guess there’s no room for a blue boy on the flats.

Fine, I thought. Be that way. I still want to see a permit.

We began our trip with a couple of days of bonefish. We started the next day on a bonefish flat, but after an hour or so, Nesto decided it was time to go to the tarpon flats. The day was very windy. The bonefish flat had been choppy, but the tarpon flats were a bone-crunching ride away. But, the sun was good and as it turns out, Nesto would much prefer fishing for tarpon than anything else on the flats. He’ll do the other stuff, but for many anglers Nesto Gomez has established himself as the tarpon guide on Ambergris Caye.

Following a rough and tumble thirty minute ride from the bonefish flats across deep water we arrived on the tarpon flats. After Nesto explained how to hold the line in preparation to cast, Duzy perched himself on the bow, tarpon rod in hand. Nesto poled around for a while, looking for tarpon while Duzy tried to stay on the bow. It was windy, and the waves were rocking the boat.

“We call that the cha-cha, senor, “ Nesto laughed in response to Duzy’s insistent attempt to keep his balance on the deck. After more poling, looking and dancing, Nesto said we were going to move to a new spot.

After a shorter but no less rough ride, we stopped at the southern tip of Blackadoor Caye. I looked at Duzy and asked if he wanted another shot.

“It’s your turn, Dale,” he said. “I’ve had enough dancing for now. I don’t see how I can cast in this wind, anyway.” Duzy was just being honest. He was ready for a break.

I had my rod ready and climbed onto the bow. My dancing was pretty good, for a tall skinny guy, if I don’t say so myself. It was pretty tough staying up there, but we were here and I was going to give it my best shot. Nesto stifled a laugh, and then began poling the boat towards the point of the long, thin caye. I tried to pay attention to what was going on while asking questions about what we should be looking for. Each time I looked back at Nesto he was scanning the horizon for fish. His concentration level was amazing, given the wavy conditions. At least that’s what I was thinking.

In a little while, Nesto said, “I think I see some tarpons up ahead.”

“Where?” I asked in mid-step. I was trying to find the spot and the fish, while preparing to make a cast in whatever direction he told me. With disappointment in his voice, Nesto said he thought the school of fish were “just” jacks.

“Will they eat this fly?” I asked.

“Maybe,” was his reply.

I told him that jacks would be fine; lets give them a shot. Slowly, Nesto kept poling toward the fish, which I finally saw off the bow. As I tried to synchronize my dance step with the rhythm of the waves in preparation to make a cast, Nesto cried, “Tarpon, nine o’clock, coming straight at us – cast now!”

Nesto stopped the boat and quickly turned a bit to give me the right angle. I turned to the left – the jacks were at about eleven-thirty – and saw four tarpon swimming straight to the boat. My feeble, windblown, dance-enhanced cast landed in front of the lead fish, forty feet away.

Nesto said “Good cast; strip!”

The tarpon honed in on the fly and followed it toward us. I was thinking something like how cool it would be to hook a tarpon on my first cast to them, when the fish turned off and headed past the bow toward the jacks. I couldn’t believe it! The tarpon spooked the jacks, and the jacks made a beeline away from the boat on the eleven-thirty line. An instant later, another school of big fish swam across the bow of the boat, moving in a three o’clock direction away from us at mach two. Whew.

“What were those?” I asked Nesto. I hadn’t even had time to recover my line, let alone the whiplash my neck experienced while turning my head from tarpon to jacks to the other school of fish.

“Permit, sen-or. Those were twenty pound permits.”

Oh. Permit. They’re a fish as I recall: tough to find and tougher yet to get to take a fly. I was still trying to keep my balance. My shoulder sagged, manifesting my immediate and total frustration. We’d just seen tarpon, jacks and permit in nine seconds; they were all fish that I wanted to catch.

“Can we chase them down and get a shot?” I asked Nesto.

 “No. They are gone,” he said.

So sad, too bad, I thought. We continued poling, watching and dancing along the flat for another hour or so. The anticipation was keen for the first few minutes. We’d just seen some great fish and even had a decent shot at four tarpon. Then, the recollection of the suddenness of everything, followed by the disappointment led to despair.

We didn’t see another fish. My legs were getting tired of doing the cha-cha and Duzy didn’t want another shot. He was all danced out. We headed back. Across the tarpon flat, through the now larger than ever waves over the deep water, through the lagoon and back to the dock.

As I would later learn, this experience would be the norm for saltwater fishing, particularly when pursuing tarpon. A few moments of uncontrolled chaos are punctuated by hours of trying to stay alert while bobbing along the flats in a small, white boat. When do we go again?

I love flats fishing.

Upon our return to the dock, Duzy and I recounted our true adventure to the others while they lied to us about theirs. (In this sense, flats fishing results in tales like all others. The guy with you tells the absolute, unvarnished truth, while everyone else is lying.) We explained that we had fished hard for several hours and that in twelve seconds we had seen a school of jacks, tarpon and permit. The tarpon had followed the fly, which was good news: hungry tarpon are always good news to the flats fishers. The story took a lot longer to tell than it took to happen, but our friends insisted we tell it again over dinner. They like lies as well as the next guy.

As I tossed in bed that night, the vision of jacks and tarpon were exciting, but it was the school of permit that really kept me awake. I’m not sure why, but I had an automatic affinity for these bright, white, curious-looking fish.

Growing up in Ohio, the old saying had been that if bluegill weighed five pounds, no one would fish for anything else. On the flats, I discovered that permit, which were sort of shaped like the familiar bluegill I grew up catching, did, in fact, get to five pounds and much more. They might not be as easy to catch – obviously, but I just had to catch a permit, somehow, some way, someday.

Later, during that first trip, I would be wading the northeastern coast of Ambergris Caye with Jose Perez. On that day, Jose and I struck a friendship that’s lasted for the better part of ten years and continues to grow.  The day was rainy and overcast, but there wasn’t any wind. I’m not sure that’s such a great trade-off, though. While Jose was spotting the occasional bone, I had lots of trouble seeing in the “dark”. Jose was patient, friendly and helpful, as he taught me to observe the top of the water, watching for nervous water, tails or other types of movement.

During our wade south along the bank, we approached a small growth of mangrove shoots. I honed in on the edge of the mangroves and thought I spotted a black sickle protruding through the glare on the surface of the water.

“Is that a permit?” I asked Jose.

“Where?” He had been looking in another direction.

“There, near the mangrove shoots.” I pointed my rod tip in the general direction. Then, I thought I saw the tails again.

“There are two of them, Dale!” was Jose’s enthusiastic response.

The mangroves were too far away for a cast, so we continued wading in that direction. The permit kept tailing slowly away from us along the edge of the mangroves. My heart kept pumping; adrenaline was flowing through my veins. We just might get a shot at a permit!

“What fly should I use, Jose?” I was trying to remain calm.

In a non-chalant manner, Jose answered, “You can try the one you have on. Sometimes they will take a pink bonefish fly.”

“We don’t want to try a crab?” I asked as we approached the mangroves.

“You can try if you want to,” was Jose’s response.

I left the pink bonefish fly on. Jose was, after all, the guide. He had been here before. He had caught permit before. I could trust him, couldn’t I?

We continued our walk to what I hoped was my destiny with a permit. When we were close enough for a cast, the fish were gone. I was disappointed. At the same time I was excited that I had spotted the fish of my dreams. My adrenaline-filled body remained on alert in an effort to spot more permit tails. We saw the fish again about a hundred feet away, but they spooked before we got close enough for a cast. I think a bird flew over them, and again, I didn’t get a shot.

I really wanted to catch a permit now. At the conclusion of the trip, I made a pact with myself that I would work on my casting, get a better pair of polarized sunglasses and that I would one day catch a permit with Jose. That was all there was too it.

In my ensuing trips to Belize I would almost always spot a permit or two. And for some reason I usually saw them before the guide. It was as though I had magnetized eyeballs that were mysteriously drawn to tailing permit. I would share the sightings with my buddies hoping that they might have seen a permit, too; but they had never had. Interesting. I was seeing them at least one time a trip, but I still had not even made a cast. The fish were always too far away, or too spooky or too something. I kept hoping and watching. Someday, I would catch a permit.

After I had been to visit Jose and his beautiful flats four or five times, my brother, Don, and friends Gregg and Neal decided to go to San Pedro a few days ahead of when the rest of the shop troupe would arrive. (I host a group each year to Ambergris.) We were going to fish-eat-sleep before we had to do lots of talking and sharing with the new folks. Gregg and Neal had visited Belize with me before and would fish with Tomas Paz. It was Don’s first flats trip and we were paired up with Jose. Everyone was all set. We love fish-eat-sleep trips; they are our favorite kind.

You never know about the wind conditions when you go to the flats. Often, it is so windy the areas you can comfortably fish are limited. As it turned out, the first day we would fish was relatively calm; this meant we could go back to the northeast part of the island and do some wading. This was where Jose and I had previously seen permit, so I was hopeful for my first shot. I didn’t really think Don would have a chance; I knew what the first time flats experience was like, and it was not easy. Surely, my little brother would have to pay his dues before seeing a permit, let alone getting a cast or – God forbid – actually hooking one?

The water that day was very low due to the tide conditions and the lack of wind. (Interestingly enough, high winds usually blow more water into this area than would normally be there without the wind.) We traveled on the outside of the Belize Barrier Reef to a spot where the reef meets and immediately leaves the island’s shore. Further to the north, the reef again joins the land before departing towards Mexico and the Yucatan peninsula. The enclosed area that is a result of the shore-touching reef creates a great spot to fish for bones. The bottom is hard and light in color, so it is easy to wade and at least a bit easier to see bonefish. The prevalence of the wind velocity and direction that usually visits this part of the island keeps most folks away. Since the fish aren’t used to seeing many anglers they tend to be less spooky, if that is possible for bonefish.

To give you the full effect of the events Don and I would experience this fine day, there is something else that I have to explain. There is a fish that inhabits this particular area close to the reef that is called an Ocean Triggerfish. It appears to be gray in the water and has a dark dorsal fin that flops around above the surface of the water as the fish munches coral and other Triggerfish delicacies in the shallow water. The first time I saw the flopping dorsal fin, I wondered if it belonged to a permit. No, Jose said, explaining that the wallowing fish were in fact triggerfish.

Since I have an if-it-swims-I-will-cast-to-it attitude when on the flats, I asked Jose if they would eat a fly. He said that they usually didn’t. (While screwing around one day, I found that if I got very close to a Triggerfish and presented a small, bright orange fly directly in line with the path the fish was traveling, it would in fact take the fly, then spit it out very quickly. After observing this a few times I made an adjustment to my presentation. When I saw a trigger pull the fly into its small mouth, I would set fast and often hooked the fish. We decided you could hook a Trigger if you tried, but they didn’t fight much in the shallow water – unless you threw a conch shell at them – and it would be better to fish for bones.) So, triggerfish were more or less off limits as a game fish. After all, when there are fast, furious fish in the area, why try for one that doesn’t really eat a fly very well in the first place, and that doesn’t flight very well in the second place? This makes sense, doesn’t it?

Now, back to the first day of our fish-eat-sleep-before-everyone-else-arrives story. When we arrived at the north end of the reef-enclosed area, we tied the boat off to the pole, put our wading shoes on and got ready to fish. I handed Jose a nine-weight with a crab just in case we happened to see a permit, then he and Don headed south along the shore of the island. I knew that the bones were often in very shallow water in this area, and wanted Don to have the best shot at getting his first bonefish on his first day of flats fishing.

While they waded the bank, I waded toward the reef, watching for bones and occasionally blind casting a chartreuse Clouser along the edge of the rocks in an attempt to hook the small jacks and snappers that inhabit the area. They’re so much fun to hook; they fight with about five times the ferocity that might be evident in their small stature.

In a short time, Don and Jose were probably eighty or ninety feet from where I was. I could see Jose working with Don. I would frequently stop my own fishing to see what they were up to. I really wanted to see my brother hook his first bonefish. I laughed when I observed Jose pointing to a spot with the nine-weight while Don moved his head from side to side and up and down, trying to find the invisible fish Jose could see. I’d had plenty of experience with this myself and it was funny when someone else was doing it. After a bit of heron-like head bobbing, Don would try a cast, and I would often see the water explode with fleeing fish. The casts were usually too long. Jose would lower the rod and patiently wade ahead, hunting for more fish to point out for Don.

After an hour or so, we started to wade back together. We continued to concentrate on finding fish and waded with stealth in an attempt not to spook any fish that might be between us. When we were about forty feet apart I saw two permit tails slicing through the water in our direction. If they would maintain their line of travel, they would swim right between us.

Permit! And there were two of them, too. What a treat! Was this my chance? Would Don and I be able to share my first permit?

I looked at Jose and started to ask if he saw the fish, too, but he was already handing the nine-weight to Don and pointing in the direction of the fish. It was no surprise that Jose saw the fish. He sees everything and knows how many, what size and kind they are to boot. Don, on the other hand, probably hadn’t yet even seen a bonefish, although he had taken a number of ill-fated casts in the direction of Jose’s point. Now, we were in a spot where the two permit were clearly visible. The sun was bright, the water clear and the bottom light. And Don was shaking his head up in down in agreement with Jose’s point rather than in a perplexing, what-the hell-are-you-looking-at fashion.

Great, I thought. Those are my fish! I found them. Instead, there was no doubt in my mind that the first flats fish my little snot-nosed sibling was going to catch would be a permit. Sad day! I’ve been flats fishing five times, seen lots of permit and haven’t even had a cast, let alone a hook-up. Punk-time hasn’t been here two hours, hasn’t caught a bonefish – in all likelihood he hasn’t even seen one - and he’s getting both a look and a shot at permit! There are two of them right in front of us.

Damn! That’s my favorite fish, too. I really want to catch a permit.

Then again, great! Go for it, Don; you can do it! Please, Lord, let my little baby brother hook one of these permit. He’s my brother, for crying out loud. Give him a chance. Make a good cast, Don. Go ahead and hook one of those permit.

You know how brothers are. Do love and competitiveness go together?

The fish continued swimming gently along, undisturbed by the excitement pulsing through our trio of veins. (Sometimes, I wonder if in addition to beam-me-out-Scotty technology, flats fish might also have some super secret radar tracking system that identifies high levels of adrenaline. They can sure disappear in a hurry.) The fish kept coming to us. They were only forty feet away. There were definitely two of them and each weighed about ten pounds.

They were beautiful. The light was great, unlike my earlier experience in this area with Jose. I could see the permit perfectly. As they were gliding toward us through their habitat of crystal clear water, I could make out the dark fins behind their eyes, the black dorsal fin and v-shaped tail and their lovely shape. I could even see their searching eyes. The image is carefully stored in my memory bank.

As I said, Don could see them, too. He made a couple of back casts to get the right angle and amount of line out. We were close enough to each other that I could hear Jose coaching Don on the cast. The false casting didn’t bother the fish at all. Everything was going great! Wait! How could it be great when I wasn’t making the cast?

Go Don, go.

“Gently, Don. That’s right. Let it go right there,” said Jose.

And Don did.

I didn’t move a muscle, other than those that operate my eyes. I didn’t want to scare these fish off.

“Perfect, Don. Let it sink,” said Jose.

I didn’t say anything either. Jose was the captain of this expedition. He’d make the right call. But my thoughts went something like this: “Yeah, let it sink, sonny. They’ll probably both eat it. You’ll catch two at once. Your first flats fish will be a brace of permit. Boy oh boy. Mom always liked you best. Come on; eat it fish. Take the fly. I am so glad to be here with my brother. I sure hope he hooks one of them.”

The crab was sinking in front of the permit. They got a little more animated as Don began stripping the fly back. Jose was still coaching and encouraging. Things were going great. Then, the fish started following the fly for crying out loud! The punk was actually going to hook a permit. I can’t believe this is happening!

They were following the fly towards Don and Jose when I lost the fish in glare on the surface of the water. I knew they were getting closer to us, and I continued to stand blue heron still. I watched between the spot where the fish had gone into the glare to where Don was holding the rod low to the water while stripping line, Jose at his side. Anticipation was on every face. I could feel the potential enthusiastic explosion that was about erupt from all of us if one of the fish ate that fly.

Suddenly, Don lifted the rod! He set the hook like a trout fisher – which is the wrong way to set the hook on a flats fish, by the way - and the rod responded by bending deeply. What in the world was happening here? He blew the set, but the rod was still bending in response to the hooked fish. Had my first time fish-eat-sleep flats-fishing snot-nosed baby brother hooked one – or maybe both - permit? This just isn’t fare! Is this really happening?

Go Don, go. You got him. I can’t believe it, but you have a permit, son.

“Shit! He hooked a permit, man,” I thought. “This just isn’t fair.” The thoughts continued to race through my mind while the rod continued to bend.

“Keep the rod up! Keep the line tight! I want you to land this fish,” I said. Jose is a great guide, but I couldn’t help but add my two cents worth of coaching into the fray. “Get him brother; this is great!”

Then, I realized that the fish wasn’t really running much at all. The rod was bent, but there wasn’t any line ripping from the reel. I was disappointed; I had expected more of a permit. After all, saltwater fish are fast, real fast. All of the flats fish that I had seen or hooked didn’t like being hooked at all; they all tried to get away and break me off as quickly as possible. What was wrong with this fish? Had he hooked them both? Were they fighting against each other? What in the world was happening, anyway?

I looked at the spot where the line entered the water and saw both permit: they were swimming to me, and they weren’t hooked. As a matter of fact, they didn’t seem concerned about much at all. Before I said anything, Don lifted the rod, hard. He had indeed hooked his first flats fish and it was a triggerfish! I started laughing so hard that I missed my cast to the permit as they raced toward me. I gave them a shot as they sped at me and continued casting as they went off in the direction of the reef.

It was a triggerfish! He hooked a triggerfish. Poor Don. Heck, poor Dale, too. And what about Jose? A great shot at a pair of permit like that doesn’t come along every day. Guides love to go back to the dock bragging on the permit they landed that day.

The triggerfish got off. The hook pulled out of its small, soft mouth, I guess. As we walked toward each other, our looks were a combination of mirth and dejection. Fly-fishing the flats is such a treat. There’s never a dull moment during the moments of unfettered excitement.

“So, Jose, triggerfish won’t eat a fly, huh?” I asked. “Maybe we should write a book on triggerfish fishing technique. Do you think ESPN would like to do a segment on The Challenge of the Triggerfish? We could be famous.”

He laughed. “Dale, you never know what’s going to happen on the flats Mon; you just never know.”

Flats wisdom, spoken by a wise flats angler.

Yah Mon. You right about dat one, Mon.