My First Permit

For several years my wife, Shan, and I had been visiting Belize, Central America with a few friends from the shop. The trips were proposed as fishing trips, but many wives joined the trip as non-anglers. They would enjoy time together on golf carts, visiting Mayan ruins and going snorkeling and diving. Sometimes a few of the anglers would join them, and most of the time a few gals would join me for snapper fishing. We always had lots of fun.

After a few days of fishing, Shan was going to visit a ruin with some friends. I'd scheduled the day to fish with my friend and guide Jose Perez and it was just going to be the two of us. A special day for everyone. As Shan was preparing to leave to catch a plane to the mainland she reached to get the camera, then looked at me and said, "Do you want it today?"

"You know what will happen if I don't take it? I'll catch my first permit."

"Go ahead and take it then," she said.

"Now I'm sure I won't catch a permit, but at least I'll have the camera along to record the fact. Thanks, honey. Have fun today."

There were other folks taking cameras and we all shared pictures, so it wasn't that big a deal. I was sure that Murphy and his cronies would be out on the flats making sure I wouldn't hook anything today. After all, I had the camera.

When I met Jose at the dock he was ready to go. The sky was cloudy, which is not a good omen on the flats, but we were going one way or another. I loaded gear, we got some gas and puttered away from the docks and into the deep azure water. The colors on the flats are fascinating and beautiful and the ride inside and along the Belize Barrier Reef is always delightful. The sun was just up.

We cut through Congrejo, an area the guides have named and often fished. When we got to a good spot, on the southwest side of the island, Jose asked what I wanted to do.

"Let's see if we can find a tarpon out here," I said.

"It's awfully cloudy, Dale, and will be hard to see."

"Let's try, anyway."

Jose answered, "Well, we can try."

I rigged a 12-weight and tied on a tarpon fly. A dark one, so they could see it even if we couldn't see them. It was windy and the boat was rocking about in the shallow water. The cloud cover kept us from seeing more than a few feet off the bow; it might just as well have been dark out. After a few minutes of poling Jose and I were giving each other looks of despair. We'd been here, done this before.

Suddenly, I saw a large school of sardines swimming in a light colored hole in front of us. I turned to Jose and asked him if he had his net.

"What do you want to do, Dale?" he asked.

"Let's go snapper fishing," I answered.

"I didn't bring the gear with me."

"That's okay; let's do it the old Belizean way. You do have some line, hooks and wire, don't you?" I asked.

"Yes. Are you sure you want to do that?"

I think Jose was shocked as all we'd ever done was fly fish the flats.

"Yes. If you know where there are any snappers, let's go give it a try."

And we did. We caught lots of snappers of all types on the sardines we netted. Jose knew just the spot. The hand-lining turned out to be challenging. It's not as easy as it might seem, making fifty foot casts with 20-pound test line, a chunk of weight, wire leader and snapper attached to the rig. Try it. And keeping the seagulls off the bait is a real trip. I dare you.

After about sixty or seventy snappers the sky cleared. We played with some big barracudas who'd shown up for a free lunch, but they wouldn't take a fly. They'd follow, but they knew the fake from the real stuff. Jose hooked one that weighed about thirty pounds on his hand line, then lost it. He was upset. I was pretty glad as I didn't want my favorite guide losing fingers to such a big, fast fish.

Jose said, "We have enough snapper for supper. What do you want to do now?"

"What do you want to do, Jose?" I asked.

"Let's go catch a bonefish."

As we motored around an island I rigged up a six-weight with a fresh leader and bonefish fly. The sky was clear and we could see. We stopped in a cove, Jose grabbed his pole and took his position at the stern while I climbed on deck and stripped out some line.

"Bonefish are coming, Dale," Jose said.

"I see them."

I cast in front of the fish, which were swimming straight to us, and let the fly sit on the bottom until they were near. After about two strips one took the fly and we tussled with one another until he was worn out. Jose landed him.

"What do you want to do now?" I asked Jose.

"Don't you want to hook another bonefish?"

"No, one was enough for now. Let's do something else." I said.

"How would you like to hunt for some permit?" he asked. "I think I know where there might be a few."

"Jose. It's me! Let's go now!"

So, we went. While we idled across the shallow water and around a few more small mangrove islands I rigged a seven-weight with leader and crab. It was still really windy, and I wasn't sure where we would go. I assumed we'd get close enough - maybe 50 feet or so - for a cast and that a seven would work. Wrong.

As we coasted through a little cut on a flat and out the west and deeper water I glanced over the side of the boat. There were permit swimming under the boat.

"Jose! The permit are swimming under the boat!"

"That's okay. They aren't the ones we're after."

Jose got the pole and positioned himself on the gunwale of the stern while I crept up on the bow and got ready to cast. As soon as I was up and Jose was in position we saw permit off the bow. They were big!

Jose kept poling toward them and I kept the rod at the ready. The fish were probably over 100 feet away, swimming casually in a circle like daisy-chaining tarpon. When we got to about 90 feet I couldn't hold back and tried a cast. It was short, and I wasn't really surprised. That's a long way for me to cast a seven in the wind, but it was worth a shot.

We poled closer and I tried again. We just couldn't get any closer than 80-90 feet. Too far away. We chased the fish for some time across the flat. They were not spooked by our presence, but would also not let us get any closer to make a cast. They just kept drifting happily away, doing permit-like things together.

All of a sudden, the fish were gone. I was despondent. Jose was tired.

"They're gone," I said. "It was a good try, but no go."

"I think we'll find them again. Why don't you rig up a different rod," Jose said.

I did. The nine-weight I normally use for permit was set up for barracuda, which you recall we'd cast to while snapper fishing. It was sitting in the boat with a wire leader and a 'cuda fly. I cut all that off, opened a fresh leader, tied it on and added three feet of 10-pound tippet. Then, I tied on a fresh crab fly.

During this time Jose was idling back to where we started. By the time we arrived I was set. We assumed our positions and looked out at the water.

The permit were back, doing the same daisy-chain swimming as before, bobbing along in the water with fins sticking out of the water while flashes of sunlight reflected off their sides.

Beautiful.

Jose poled. I prepared.

I knew I could cast this rod. The fly line was 105-feet long and there was the leader, tippet and fly on the end. Jose poled closer. He was getting tired, trying to keep the boat aimed in the right direction in all the wind, which was pushing us toward the fish.

When we were at a good angle I asked Jose, "Where should I put it?"

"Try putting the fly on the right side of the school," he said.

I did. The fly landed right there with nary a splash. The fish got excited when I stripped the fly, but no one stopped swimming in the circle or stopped for a look.

"Where now, Jose?"

"Try hitting the left side of them, then strip it fast along the edge of the school."

I did that, too. They got excited, but no one moved. I could tell Jose was tiring quickly now, and I felt a sense of urgency about making one more cast.

"I'm going to put it right in the middle of them, Jose," I said.

"You can try," he said.

I'd made the casts along the edge of the school and had the distance pegged. I stripped the line back, took two back casts and let fly. The fly line stopped in the middle of the rod, so there was over 100 feet out there. The fly landed right in the middle of the school, and without a splash. I don't really think I could make that cast again.

I made a strip. The fish got excited. I made another strip. One fish turned out of the school and followed the fly. I made another strip and the fish stayed right with the fly, but didn't eat it. I made another strip and the fish followed again. This time I let the fly sink and the fish followed it right to the bottom, tipping its tail out of the water and hovering for a moment.

Then, it turned to return to the school, which was patiently waiting in its circle. The fish did not have the fly.

As it turned I made a hard, quick strip of the fly. The fish saw it and turned back onto the fly.

That was one of - if not the - most exciting moment I've ever had fly fishing.

I made another strip and fish followed, and on the next strip it took the fly. Jose said, "Dale! He took it!"

As I set the hook hard I said, "I know it."

Jose let out a whoop as the fish went ripping through the water with the school on its tail. We fought the fish for a bit, then landed it with a net. Jose and I looked at each other as one can only look at a friend in a special spot, at a special time. Both of us were ecstatic about the entire event.

We took a picture of the permit. Everyone, except the permit, smiled.

Jose said it was the largest permit he'd ever caught on a fly. We released the permit and watched it swim off.

We sat in the boat and had a cold swig of water. The smiles were still glowing on our faces and we didn't say a thing.

I stood back up on the bow and the school of permit were right back!

"Jose!" I said. "They're back. Want to try for one? I'll pole the boat."
"No, that's okay. I hooked one before," he said. "Do you want to try again?"

"No. One was enough for me. Let's do something else."