Cuba - Driven Tarpon and Spaghetti Fly Line
Looking back, you can always tell the moment when everything changes. You meet the girl you are going to marry. You risk everything to buy that business. A first child is born. You get the picture.
For me it was catching – or to be precise, hooking – that Pemit at 9:30 on Thursday morning. Why so special? Look at the statistics. Four guys (Andrew, Pete, Stuey and myself) fishing for five days in Jardines de la Reina, one of the world’s best locations for flats fly-fishing. Three principal targets: Bonefish, Tarpon and Permit. Results: 64 Bones; 5 Tarpon; 1 Permit.
Ah, the elusive Permit! Thursday, our final day of the trip, had dawned bright and clear, with only a gentle breeze from the South West. “Good conditions for Permit” pronounced Cocky, our head guide, for the first time on the trip. At last we would have a go at this rarest of targets. And, who knows, if we’re lucky with the Permit then a Grand Slam is always possible. Pete went in the first skiff with Cocky; Stuey in the second with Miguel; while Andrew and I paired up with Keko, the most relaxed and easy-going guide you could ever hope to meet. (Of this, more later.)
Half an hour’s boat ride and we were on the first reef, ready to drift down looking for Permit. Andrew, consummate gentleman that he is, insisted I went first. Nothing. Off to the second reef, and Andrew’s turn. Somehow much ‘fishier’. You know what I mean. We saw one Permit, but he wasn’t interested. Off to the third reef, my turn again, ‘fishiest’ of the lot. Sure enough, “Permit . . . 10 o’clock . . . 15 metres . . . cast!” came Keko’s instructions. “Perfect cast!” And then the take. And the strike. And it was on.
Note the element of luck. I was simply the one fishing when we chanced across the three feeding Permit. It could have been Andrew. But it was me. Back to the fight. What a fight! Lost count of the number of times the fish ran, taking half the backing each time. No signs of tiredness yet – well, not from the fish. Shouted instructions from Keko. Clear sense that this was different. Lose a Bonefish and you’ll see more. Lose a Tarpon and you’ll probably have another chance. Lose a Permit? Doesn’t bear thinking about. No pressure.
Twenty minutes on and the fish was tiring. Keko put his pole down and jumped into the water, ready to grab the fish. “You, in the water! Hold the boat! Keep it pointing to the fish” he unceremoniously ordered Andrew. Finally the fish was landed. Many photos. Photos of fish (beautiful.) Photos of men (less so.) Men smiling. Men holding fish. Men kissing fish. Ten o’clock and we had a Pemit! About twelve pounds.
Andrew’s turn again, but only briefly. The implications of a ten o’clock Permit slowly filtered through. We were on for a Grand Slam. Keko’s first in five years’ guiding. Good chance of a Tarpon, and if we could do that then the Bonefish was a given. Right?
Keko was a man possessed. Back to the mother ship to load more fuel and drinks for the day. No lunch for us. The half hour’s trip out was completed in twenty minutes on the way back, a bone-jarring ride with the throttle hard against the stops. Scribbled note for the others and we were off.
You know that saying about time spent fishing not counting towards your three score and ten? Forget it. Time in pursuit of a Grand Slam is different. Very different. Counts double.
The first deep channel looks promising. Crystal clear water at the edge of the mangroves near the open sea. Sure enough, two Tarpon swim by. OK cast, but no interest, they swim on into the mangrove. “Wait here! Splash!” Keko is swimming for the mangrove! He clambers into the shallows and disappears into the foliage. Two minutes later: “Crash! Splash! Splash! Can you see them yet?” We don’t believe it: driven Tarpon! And, yes, six of them do come out into the channel.
My excuse at this point: sheer disbelief and mirth. Casting a fly – even only five yards – with tears running down your face and sides splitting with laughter isn’t easy. You try it. Coils of ten weight in the water, fly ignored, the fish cruise serenely by. So it’s off to another favourite haunt of Keko’s a few miles up the reef, stopping on the way to tell his brother (also a guide) the news. Bush telegraph at work.
The next half hour yields no sign of Tarpon, but we do see two Bones basking in the shallows. Quick change of rod, perfect cast, and one of them takes. Sadly, it’s not for long and he’s off again. Back to the Tarpon. Keko poles the skiff through an impossibly-narrow opening in the mangrove, into a completely-enclosed pool about twenty yards by five with three narrow channels at twelve, ten and six o’clock. This is Tarpon Central. “Tarpon! Ten o’clock! Cast!” They cruise past. Wait a couple of minutes. “Tarpon! Six o’clock! Cast! Twelve o’clock! Cast! Ten o’clock!” Again, no interest. And so it goes. Finally, “Tarpon! Six o’clock! Cast!” He takes. Solid strike, no nonsense, three strong pulls on the line to lodge the hook. He’s on. Not a big fish – twenty pounds – but a Tarpon, and that’s all that matters. All captured by Andrew (a.k.a. “Attenborough”) on his camera.
Quite a brief fight in the enclosed space and he’s into the boat for the obligatory photo opportunity, and then back into the water. Keko too, backwards flip to celebrate. We all pause a moment to take it in. Twelve o’clock and we’ve got the two most difficult species notched up. The Bonefish is now a given. Isn’t it?
Well, not quite. You know what they say about statistics: they lie. We may have caught 64 Bonefish that week. We now had the rest of the day to catch one. What does that tell you about the odds? Zip. Zilch. De Nada. Nothing.
Let me tell you, it’s difficult. This isn’t a fish you’re trying to catch, it’s a Grand Slam. So your casting deteriorates, but seriously. You understand how Tantalus felt – he was actually a Bone fisherman, not a lot of people know that. Keko poles the skiff over the shallowest of waters, hard work in the Cuban sun. Gets you into position. “Bonefish, colour black in the water! Twenty meters! Cast! Too short! Two meters more! Left two meters! Too short!” OK, here we go. “Splash!” The line lands like a pile of spaghetti right on top of the leading fish, and the whole shoal disappears in a flurry of boiling water. Agh! “Sir, you have three meters of leader! Just land the fly one foot in front of the fish, one foot further away! It’s easy!” And so it goes. Andrew remains the voice of calm encouragement and confidence.
It took forever, but given that you’re reading this, you know how it ends. Nearing five o’clock we pole around a corner of mangrove to see a nice, solitary Bone only ten meters away. Thankfully, he does the decent thing and impales himself on the hook. A spirited fight and he’s in the boat for a quick photo opportunity, and then off to fight another day. Phew. Andrew’s photos tell their story, even down to the soft fading light confirming just how long it all took. Best of all is the one of Keko, you have never seen a look of such palpable relief on any man’s face – great for a caption competition!
Pressure off, we cruise back to base, enjoying the warm breeze and admiring the sunset. Many Rum Collinses, back-slapping and retelling of anglers’ tales – half the fun!
Will I be back? Absolutely. Certainly another lads trip is called for. But also a family holiday – not just fishing, but snorkeling, waterskiing and just the pleasure of being together on the very comfortable Halcon. Peace and quiet, delicious food, cocktails to greet you after a day’s fishing and prepare you for an evening’s bridge.
And, who knows, maybe a Grand Slam?
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Location:
Jardines de la Reina
Saltwater:
Blue water, Flats skiff, Flats wading
Country:
Cuba
Capacity:
14 per week
Season:
Year-Round
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