Most fly-fishing anglers around the Northeast set their sights on Antillean grass flats for a quick-strike, midwinter respite with prospective fixes of bonefish, tarpon and permit whether we can afford it or not. Escaping the dark, cold metropolises to which so many of us are tethered is necessary to the survival of our species.
On such trips over the years, I’ve struggled to find expansive, easily accessible flats with as many bonefish as I cared to count. A trip to Ascension Bay, where I lived in a small thatch hut for a month, for instance, was stifled by dead-end strolls on promising flats only to hit impossible dropoffs that called for a panga I was in no position to afford. So when I pored over satellite images of the 50-mile stretch of flats spanning the southern shores of the Turks and Caicos — and particularly, the miles upon miles of bleached-white, wadable flats — I had a feeling I’d found a spot that’s a relatively easy pair of flights from home. Further research, which included perusing every forum post I could dredge up and finding mention of a scant few guides, dictated that, for whatever reason, hardly anyone was fishing here. I viewed this as a good sign.
FINDING A WADABLE FLAT
I am a largely unsuccessful bonefisherman without a guide. Bonefish tend to see me before I see them, but I can no longer blame my eyes; my ability to spot the gray ghosts is improving. Getting them to feed, however, is still a struggle. I could begrudge the wind, but that’d be a heinous cop-out.
Bonefish flats, apart from those guarded by mangroves, are almost exclusively exposed and as such are subject to incessant winds. Any aspiring flats angler must learn to contend with wind or give up altogether. And most productive flats in the Western Hemisphere are tough if not impossible to reach without a boat. Turks and Caicos, particularly South Caicos, I’d heard it rumored, held healthy populations of bonefish, trophy size at that. But the best part was all you needed to reach them were a pair of feet. I pulled the trigger and made a plan to visit the first week of December to find out if where you choose to hunt bonefish might be more interesting than how you make out.
Upon landing, I find myself at Gilly’s, the one-and-only airport bar and grill in Providenciales, sipping local suds and mowing down the best steamed conch to ever meet my gob. English horse racing plays on a 13-inch, 30-year-old television above a wall of retired refrigerators and freezers while travelers and locals come and go. I take careful stock: not a single fly rod case. This, to me, is good news, suggesting little fishing pressure.
While waiting for a puddle-jumper to South Caicos, I scan Google Earth for the umpteenth time to get a lay of the sand flats bordering Sailrock South Caicos, my uncharacteristically posh outpost for the trip. After much confusion and a delay of more than an hour — “island time” is the tired-but-true catchall explanation for incessant unpunctuality in the tropics — I am escorted along with five or six others to a dual-prop plane for a 50-mile flight across the very flats I’ll be plying. I pick a seat with an unobstructed view and tell myself the specs I’m seeing on the otherwise blindingly blanche flats are bonefish (doubtful).
Contrasted with tarpon and permit, bonefish are the least-picky fish on the flats. They’ll almost always take a basic, easy-to-tie, low-profile Crazy Charlie, the tropical, briny equivalent of a wooly bugger. One Turks and Caicos guide I knew of was having luck fooling bones some years ago on barnacle-spat-laden mangrove leaves fished on the surface like a size-8 elk-hair caddis. As for the here and now, there’s no need to complicate matters. I’ll stick with Crazy Charlies.
With my flies sorted, I wander the shoreline, and sure enough, within five minutes I’m lit up by the sight of bonefish larger than any I’ve ever caught. What’s more: They’re within casting range from dry sand, one fish after another. Talk about fish in a barrel.
Back at my room, I’m licking my chops at the seemingly easy pickings I’ll have as soon as Ben Zirin arrives. The resort’s director of activities, Zirin has assured me he can supply a fly rod. I’d decided against bringing my own rod after losing one recently to travel snafus and being told I could find a suitable combo on island. It’s a decision I would regret.
Come early afternoon, Zirin is rapping at my door, rod case and reel in hand, along with a spool of fly line and Dacron backing — the thing hasn’t been set up. No one is fly-fishing anywhere around here. The setup is a budget affair, and I wonder whether the reel is up to a duel with a double-digit bonefish like the one I’d just spotted and photographed, but what the hell, I’ll roll the dice.
Only after spooling the reel with backing and fly line do I realize it’s a double-handed 12-foot Spey rod. Slightly frustrated, I laugh but also realize that my suspicions are being confirmed yet again. This is, after all, the very reason I was able to approach the bonefish this morning with so little trouble. I ring Zirin and ask if he can hunt down another rod.
Zirin arrives with a weathered, medium-heavy spinning rod and a 4500 Penn Battle that’s seen better days but is still serviceable. I’ve never fished for bones on spinning gear, but the tip is light enough that with a few split shots, I figure I can cast a size-12 shrimp pattern in front of a few fish.
Back at it the next morning, I cast at fish with the spinning rod. Over and over, and over again. I’m feeling a few suspicious bites that don’t quite register with me before, finally, a fish eats right in front of me, only it’s not taking the fly. It’s going after the 1/32-ounce split shot sitting a couple feet up the 16-pound leader. You’ve got to be kidding me. I can’t help but think these fish have never seen a fly, let alone fishing line. Sharks, sure, but anglers not so much. There are lemon sharks everywhere, and you’d think their presence alone would keep the fish wary enough. Not so. The leader means nothing to them. They carry on, chewing on lead, which evidently looks good enough to eat. Resembling what, I still can’t say.
Another day goes by, and I’m offered a trip on the resort’s center console to fish for snapper and dive for conch. The mutton snapper are thick, but so are the predators. We hook 10, but the sharks and barracudas nab all but one. We retire to the shallows where the conch are large and plentiful and the presence of sharks scant. In 10 minutes, we’re out of the water with more table fare than we need.
That night, I have my fill of conch salad, cracked conch, steamed conch and a large fillet of braised mutton snapper. By the grace of Zirin and the only fly-fishing guide on this side of the island, a 9-weight setup that can be put to good use is presented to me tableside. What class! Thankful, if a little perturbed (at myself), I retire to my room and make sure everything’s in order. The reel is corroded to the point that the knob is frozen in place. Other than that, I’m good to go.
The next morning, I’m set up with the guide who lent me the 9-weight. He introduces himself as Ganger. His “real” name, according to the resort, is Capt. G. Man Lockhart. He appears to be in his late 40s, and has a big paunch and a happy Buddha sort of disposition about him. Our excursion is met with heavy winds, current and cloud cover. And because the resort’s custom, 15-foot side-console skiff isn’t equipped for poling, we fish from our feet, just as I had the days before. Only this time we are miles from shore.
I hook a fish a few minutes in and, with a reactionary trout set, pull the hook. I assure Ganger I’ll have my strip-strike working in time for dry-fly season on the trout streams back home. He gives me a small nod. He has no clue what I’m talking about.
To my surprise, a member of the same school I’ve disturbed with my botched hookset readily eats a fly Ganger offers, and after tearing into the backing at least twice, we have a healthy, 6- to 7-pound bonefish in hand. “Average,” Ganger shrugs, nursing the fish until its gills are flush with water and it kicks off.
A lot more wading and a handful of opportunities arise, but neither of us manages to connect again. All in all, it’s a charter of average success considering the tough conditions. I part ways with Ganger, grateful that I’ve at least partaken in landing a bonefish, and bank out on my own in the midday sun that finally shows itself.
The procession of bonefish running the trough between shore and a barrier line of turtle grass seems unending. Per usual, I’m either lining the fish, or the fly is not landing right. The afternoon goes by with more than a dozen poorly placed casts.
KINDNESS OF STRANGERS
An ebullient gentleman and his wife approach as I’m dragging a kayak —grab-and-go, sit-on-tops are at the ready at Sailrock South Caicos — asking how I’d done. Leaning against his table at the beachside bar is a fly rod. We get down to chatting, and Chris Czeschin, a Southern gentleman if there ever were one, tells me he found this resort by way of Google Maps, too, and he’s visited with his wife multiple times a year for several years. His wife, who introduces herself as a “fish widow,” loves the resort, and the fact that her husband doesn’t have to book a guide and disappear for entire days on a skiff. He fishes a couple of hours in the morning, a couple in the evening, and is otherwise at her side.
Czeschin tells me he’s logged 20-fish days here, and I’m the first fellow angler he’s crossed. We agree to walk the shoreline together that evening, and meet up at a point where we’d both seen fish — him arriving by bike, me by kayak. Czeschin and I convene as the sun begins to set with a few clouds arriving. Visibility is hopeless.
Approaching a sandy point with a small corner of turtle grass that’s marking something of a rip, the glint of a half-dozen dorsals and tails is all we need to lift our spirits. I dart ahead toward the point thinking these bonefish are on the move and that I might get just one shot at them. Until now, I’ve seen no more than three fish per school, and they were all prowling at speeds and on courses that made them hard to target.
I cast, and the tails immediately disappear. They’re gone, I think. Wrong. Two strips, and I’m tight, but I fail to clear the line from the reel knob and pull the hook. Czeschin hooks up not 15 feet from where I’d hooked mine, and his fish peels off for no-man’s-land. I gather my line and drop in another. Tight once more, we’re doubled up, but I pull the hook again. We land Czeschin’s fish and turn it loose. “That one’s about half the size of the fish I caught this morning,” Czeschin says. I eye the fish’s weight, calling it at least 4 pounds. “Somewhere around there,” he says indifferently.
We hook three fish in as many minutes from this school, at the same little point, in the same little pocket. They’re lined up and feeding like striped bass in a rip, I say to myself. Czeschin implores me to take another cast, this time with his rod. I oblige. Hardly a strip, and I’m tight again. Fish in a barrel, indeed. I can’t believe it. It’s a smaller fish, but after all the trials of the day, I’ll take it. Even this humble catch won’t come to hand without some drama, though. As soon as I edge the bone into the trough at my feet, a lemon shark every bit as long as I am tall jets after my fish. After all that, I’m feeding sharks? I don’t think so. I double down on the drag to hopefully save this bone. It’s a tight chase, and at the risk of scraping off the bonefish’s antibacterial slime, I beach the speedster rather than chance an encounter between my hand and that shark, which remains a foot from the waterline. Two pounds, maybe a bit more? But what’s the difference?
I took great delight in a chance encounter with a fishy companion and all the wisdom that came along with him. So much for going it alone. It was as fun and lighthearted as any fishing sojourn between a pair of old friends could be. It’s paradoxes like these that keep a peripatetic angler on the move. Never mind the fish score.
