2014 Tarpon Adventure

2014 Tarpon Adventure continued Day Two found me a tad tired and a lot more sore from having stood on the front of the boat for many, many hours. The wind was up a little, maybe slightly less than 10 knots, but very fishable with regard to visibility and casting. As alive as the flats were the day before, they were that dead this day. Except for one wayward Nurse Shark and Tarpon, nothing was moving, even the turtles were not poking their heads up near the boat then speeding, yes speeding, they can swim faster than one can imagine, away.The morning found me casting to 17 pods of fish. Even though I did fairly well with regard to accuracy, albeit nowhere near as well as the previous day when I was fresh, no fish even showed a passing interest. They seemed like they had moving on their mind and nothing else. The worm never even got a second glance. Two pods showed themselves during lunch, but they were way too close when spotted for me to do anything about it. Further, I doubt that I could have gotten up quick enough to make a decent attempt. Stiffness was now setting in as well as fatigue.The wind continued to build into the afternoon, but it was still fishable and, to be honest, it was probably enough to mask errors, kind of like picking on rising trout in a riffle rather than a mirror-like pool. There were more fish moving in the afternoon too. I ended up casting to 31 pods of fish by the time we called it a day. Pod # 19 had about a half dozen fish in it. They were spotted at about 100 yards which gave me plenty of time to make a good cast. Finally the lead fish showed an interest and made a move toward the fly – I think – the worm is really, really hard to see in the water compared to a Tarpon Toad and I am never really sure I see the fly. When that fish made its move, a Tarpon from the middle of the pod sped past it and inhaled the fly. This fish was the smallest I have ever seen on the ocean-side of the Keys, probably somewhere in the 30 pound range, more suited for the Belize River or maybe even a resident in the back country of the Bay-side. But at this point a Tarpon was a Tarpon and I gave it a good strip strike. The fly bit, although it didn’t feel all that solid. The fish tailwalked most of its body out of the water, right at the boat. I kept stripping line and it kept dancing on its tail until it was a few feet from the boat. At that point I could not strip fast enough and the fly flew over my head. And that was the excitement for the day save for Duane asking me to make a 90-foot backcast at some fish and I actually did it, with a little help from the increasing wind, without smacking the fly into the back of my head. The fish ignored it anyway, but it was a beautiful cast if I have to say so myself. And I guess I just did. We tried another new place for dinner, as Jimmy sings, “In the tropics, the people come and they go,” and that seems to be the case with eateries as well, us having lost a few favorites over the years. This was the Buzzard’s Roost and the food was okay, while the frozen drinks were excellent. The place has a history of pirates and drug smugglers because of its hidden from the ocean location, but with canal access. We will go back. Hog Fish was again the star of the plate. A Smashed Buzzard and a Fuzzy Buzzard from the Buzzards Roost.  The last fishing day had darkened, but useable skies. The wind was up around 15 or so – not ideal, but I have fished a whole lot worse many times. This was a do or die day and I felt like I was dying from a muscle perspective. My non-fishing Spring, extra pounds, and the blazing sun of the last few days was more than taking its fair toll. Again, for whatever reason, the flats were dead. But this time, that included the Tarpon. I only cast to 7 pods in the morning. None even looked in the direction of the fly. Lunch went unmolested as no fish came by while chow was going on. The afternoon was a little, darn little, more active with casts going out to 12 pods of fish. Pod # 5 was a trio, two smaller males and a decent female, maybe 90 pounds or so. The males rushed the fly and then split at the last second, as if they were challenging each other to eat it and both chickening out at the last moment. The female, perhaps spurred by their interest, moved on the fly and her whole back arched out of the water as her head crashed down on the hapless concoction of hair and a leather strip. It was a perfect take. Typically, the first strip strike scrapes the shock tippet across the jaws and either the fish turns to one side or the other where the next strip sinks the hook into the corner of its mouth or the scraping causes the fish to clamp down hard on the leader, thinking the victims is getting out of its maw, and the second strip buries the barb into the roof of the fish’s mouth well behind the bone. Typically. Of course, this was not typical. I could feel the leader bumping across the boney jaws on the first, second, and third strip strike. And then the fly emerged from the still open mouth. The fish neither turned nor clamped down. It was like it didn’t care and just burped the offering out. And that was the last interest anything showed in anything. At some point in the afternoon, I ran out of gas. Second shots at fish were collapsing a dozen feet short and frustration set in. During a weak moment, I had about as cross a words as Duane and I ever had. I flopped a second cast like I never had a fly rod in my hand before and his advice was to backcast twice and it will go. I snapped back that I could backcast a 100 times and it wasn’t going to go. It got a little quiet after that. He put me within 60 feet a bunch of times but I needed to be 40 or less with where my skills had eroded to. I was starting to get jacked that he wasn’t working harder to get me closer, after all, that is what that pole is for, you know. If I wasn’t reaching them, he needed to do better. Finally the time rolled around to reel it up and call it a year. This was only the second time in 15, or is it 16, years that I failed to catch a Tarpon. That other failing year was during Super Storm Sandy where the sea was bad and my three days of fishing was more like half a day total water time. This year everything was perfect and I still crashed and burned. I was mentally grumbling about Duane’s lack of effort as we cut across the flats between the moored sailboats that some folks call home. It was a very dark angling place to be. I was trying to figure out a generative way to express my displeasure with the boat positioning, the fly, whatever was going to bubble to the surface, when a ray burst out of the water right in front of the speeding flats boat. “That was close,” was all Duane said, meaning we darn near hit the thing. Smashing the ray with the boat would not have been good, especially if it ended up in the boat, dead or alive. The flying ray and its subsequent re-entry into the sea showered us with fresh, warm saltwater, and it snapped me back to the real issue at hand – me.  Duane had done his job, although I still think a fly change just to perhaps have a fresh start somewhere among the refusals was in order. I had failed. A bit of sadness started to set in, okay, more than a bit, as I realized that in the past I could overcome a lack of practice with either skill or shear power. A few years older and a few pounds heavier and that was no longer the case. My skills had eroded to the point that without practice, even perhaps more than normal, I was destined for Tarpon failure. The wave of almost despair washed away with the salt taste as I vowed that next year would not find me in such a poor preparation mode. I would make it a very solid point to fish more in the Spring in order to get the rhythm of the rod. I would once again stand on top of a rocking garbage can and make cast after cast after cast to plates in the yard as Nancy called out direction and distance at random. I would run the dogs more in order to get my legs back to where they needed to be – including wearing a pack with ever increasing weight so that I dropped the roundness that was impeding my casting stroke. Next year would be different from my end. The next adventure was not going to end in failure on my account. I can live with bad visibility and picky fish. But I would not tolerate having a perfectly set stage and me being the reason no fish were busted back to the boat. As I wrote out the check for the balance of the trip, agreed to a trip next year, and said my good-byes to an old friend, I was able to walk tall down the drive to the Key Largo Hilton knowing that this year’s utter failure was no one’s fault but mine alone and that I had some say in changing that. And I would. I also realized that each passing year would require more and more preparation on my part and I was actually good with that. It is far too easy to become comfortable with life and if this was the kick in the shorts I needed to back on my game, in angling and in life in general, I relished the challenge.  Stuffed Jumbo shrip from the Fish House. Wednesday night is reserved for the Fish House. It is our usual celebration of fish caught and lost and marks the end of the fishing part of our vacation and the beginning of whatever the Key West part brings. As usual it is the best food we have found in the Keys and it was still a celebration – but instead of it being about recalling the giant leaps by giant fish, it was a little quieter on my part as I celebrated getting out of a head where I had no longer taken responsibility for my actions or lack thereof. This vacation, and that is what it now was, not a fishing trip, would adjust my attitude about work, the folks we need to take care of, and a general outlook on life and the coming challenges. Final sunset from the Hilton for this trip. On the way to Key West we stopped in Marathon and keeping with the tradition of trying something new every trip, hopped a 20 minute flight over the 7-Mile Bridge in a Raven R44 helicopter. The view, like the fishing trip, put a different perspective on what had become, after all these years, routine. Of course, a pod of Tarpon had to be clearly visible, just to mock me. But I simply smiled and gave them the “wait until next year” BS as I visualized a perfect cast at 90, in less than perfect conditions, and one of the Silver Kings engulfing the fly, maybe even that terrible worm fly, and the strip strike coming tight as it had so many times before. Our ride over the 7-Mile Bridge. A pod of five Tarpon -- lower center. All seven miles of the 7-Mile Bridge looking from North to South. The gap in the old section of the 7-Mile Bridge where Arnold pulled Jamie Lee Curtis from the sunroof of the limo in "True Lies."" Next year I will stop counting how many years it has been and start acting like it is a totally new adventure – one that I am really, really ready for (I have dropped 11 pounds since returning). But as for this year, when asked, I will reply that the fishing was good, the catching not so much because of my lack of preparation, and the vacation was the best ever, knowing inside that the reason it was the best is that it took my head to a different place – one where it needed to be to set up the final quarter century of my life.

DarDys,
Thanks for the story/replay of your last tarpon adventure!  It's been about four years since I've
I've fought the silver king, but I will be going back to the Keys in the near future hopefully.  My fishing buddy 
Tom hit the worm hatch in June while fishing with guide/writer Bruce Chard.  Tom had many, many hook-ups on the worm fly that Bruce set him up with, but never landed any after two days.  That's fishing, so don't be so down on your self.  Thanks for the tale!