BONEFISHING THRILLER
By Roger Hutchings
My rod bucked, Bonefish Joe howled, the reel jabbered crazily as 20 meters pulled off and in the skinny water the force surged across the lagoon wrapping the fly-line round a coral outcrop. Coral is a razor, cuts a line like it were gossamer. Joe was in the water moving quickly to free the snag. “Get off the boat,’ he said, ‘you gotta walk through the reef.’’ I was charged with adrenalin, blaspheming, mildly hysterical. Instead of sliding prudently over the gunnel into the shallow water I sprang, catching my foot, pitching into a a bellyflop, winded but with the bucking rod held high like Excalibur. I struggled to my feet as the fish ran madly for some mangrove roots; peeling away the backing line, it turned towards the boat. I walked backwards winding in a frenzy to keep the line taut, then the fish switched tack and went hell for leather towards the deep. We sparred for what felt like 20 minutes but was likely10 until I drew it, spent, into the green meshes of Joe’s landing net. Hooting, he turned to congratulate me, ‘it’s a big bone, real good fish,’ he beamed, crushing my aching rod hand. ‘Aaaargh!’ I yelled, though I was grinning so broadly I looked like a half-wit. My fish weighed a decent 7½ lbs, but even a small bone (say 3lbs) is suprisingly powerful and exciting to play.
Bonefish live in tropical saltwater ranging over the shallow coastal strips called ‘flats’, that extend from the Florida Keys to the coasts of Mexico and Venezuela and even out to the shores of Christmas Island. The Bahamas, easily accessible from Miami or Fort Lauderdale, offer good fishing and provide all types of accommodation from spartan fishing camps on the remote islands to luxury hotels on the well known ones like Andros.
Fly fishing for bonefish has become popular among freshwater anglers, particularly trout fishermen in search of extreme thrills. The attractions are simple. Albula Vulpes is one of the fastest fish in sea or river (a trout, for instance, has a burst speed of 4-9 mph, a bone 22.5mph). It lives in crystal clear shallow water and thus can be stalked by sight, yet it is a tricky quarry with powers of invisibility. It is capricious, fastidious about fly patterns and wary. It has keen hearing, eyesight and sense of smell. The merest hint of danger - an awkward step or clumsy cast -will spook it. The tackle is familiar – usually a 9ft saltwater fly rod with a No 8 or 9 floating weight forward line, leaders with 8lb tippets and flies such as Crazy Charlie and Gotcha which imitate shrimps, clams and small crabs. If you suffer from the fishing bug to any degree, be warned: once you have hooked your first bonefish you will be addicted; that moment is electrifying . I first caught bonefish in 1999 at Acklins Island Bonefish Camp. This Bahamian island is considered remote and primitive and is untouched by tourism. There are no hotels and only one telephone at each end of the island. It is a scrubby little place, which looks like an open claw from the air; between the pincers, the Bight of Acklins spreads out, over 1000 square miles of bonefish-infested flats. The bi-weekly Bahamas-air flight from the capital is an occasion for the islanders. They congregate in the airport car park, reggae spills from open truck doors and windows, people chill under the Gonomolie trees or play dominoes in the bar. It pays to be relaxed because flights to the outer islands are erratic and often late or maybe do not come.
We were met at the airport and transported, perched on plastic garden chairs in the back of Amos’ red Chevvy pick-up truck, stopping importantly at the liquor store for whisky and vodka. Soon the road gave way to a dusty grit lane and we arrived at Lovely Bay, where the camp is situated. The accommodation is a newish bungalow, its front patio strewn with pink conch shells, a water pump mumbling at the rear. A man, our host, steps through the doorway to greet us, wild-eyed and unshaven, sunburnt and smothered in sandfly bites. ‘I hope you smoke.’he says. He is more Mr Kurtz than a European fly-fishing instructor – but three days later we all sport the same look. Red-faced, fly-bitten, unshaven. The flats are so exposed that you must wear protective clothing (preferably something which filters Ultra violet), total sun-block and a hat. The average fishing day lasts eight hours which is a long time to be exposed to sun, sea and wind.
The camp is clean and there is plenty of hot water. There is a bar and a pool table but that’s it. Barbie the cook serves typical Bahamian food: conch, fried chicken, barracuda steaks, corned beef hash. It’s a place for fishermen only, a non-angler would go bonkers within 24 hours.
The flats are reached by boat, small skiffs about 17 feet long, powered by 90 BHP Yamaha outboard motors and skippered by fishing guides. A guide is essential, he’s there to find fish for you and no matter how smart you think you are you’d be lost without him. He can see fish when all you can see are ripples. He will quickly assess your ability and work out what he has to do to give you a sporting chance of catching fish. (Although local knowledge is invaluable, it is essential to have a guide who understands flyfishing and the American or European psyche. The best guides in the Bahamas are trained at the Guides School on Andros Island. At Acklins I felt the guides, whilst knowledgeable about bonefish, were too uncommunicative and occasionally. SULLEN We were a pretty laid back bunch but I can imagine a group of brusque executives from Germany finding the guides nonchalance challenging while the heavy Bahamian/English patois can be hard for Europeans to grasp. Communication is vital when things have to be done quickly otherwise there are missed opportunities and frustration can set-in. ( If anything the fisherman must be an opportunist.)
By the end of my week I began to acclimatize and come to terms with the nature of the fish. My casting was pretty rusty which was a huge drawback as with bones there is only one shot. Two if you’re lucky. The guide points to a fish ‘10 o’clock, ten o’clock, shoot, shoot,’ and you must immediately make the cast, a little ahead of the fish. If you make a couple of false casts like a trout fisherman, the bones will be 20 meters away before your fly touches the water. If you need to brush up on your casting, practice before you go or the trip will be the most expensive casting lesson of your life.
The last day was the best, especially the afternoon. The blistering sun was low above Long Cay, throwing a blinding reflection onto the water. A school of bones was feeding hard following the ebb tide. We stalked them, bent like herons to the water, squinting into the light, wading stealthily. The shoal remained just out of casting distance, then stopped and started mudding, forked tailfins three inches out of the water, waving and rustling in the utter quiet. Chest thumping, I cast – a foot short. ‘Cast again,’ the guide urges, and this time it’s dead on. The fly sinks for three or four seconds, I strip the line, making the fly dart like an escaping shrimp, the line tightens. I’m into a fish, it moves away with that thrilling strength. A searing 40 metre run and the line bellies slack. The fish throws the hook. Neverthless I’m content, having already caught a beauty. Unlike some fishermen whose obsession is the number of fish caught the quality of the experience, the environment and the company matter as much to me. In Aklins both were excellent.
It’s nearly dark and time to return to the skiff before the tide drops too far. We roll aboard exhausted after 8 hours wading, the engine burbles and, beneath the lilac sky and a smiling crescent moon, the skiff makes for the settlement of Lovely Bay. A spotted eagle ray keeps pace alongside the boat. Gorgeously coloured its effortless speed is mesmerising. The essence of fishing is a sense of oneness with the wild that allows you to forget your cares leaving the mind balanced and peaceful.
A fishing guide hunting for a shoal of bonefish in the bight of Acklin
