While I ran home against the falling tide, a happy Jimbo indulged a reverie about his grandparents, Osceola and Naomi, who fished for gars with whole croakers. “Benny Jones worked for us then and he cut those gar into steaks with an axe and took them to Gertie Pearl to sell in her nightclub.” Jimbo smiled, either at the memory or at the Gulf of Mexico; it was hard to say.
But that was a whole other story. George was still looking for a fish.
The Hard Way
I’VE BEEN FISHING for permit for thirty years and I will simply not state how many I’ve caught. I once lived next to the permit flats and I have caught some. Fishing alone, with friends and with guides I have had the meager success that generally must suffice. But each one of those fish has meant so much and the struggle has been so enduring in memory that I know I’ll go on trying, however feebly, to catch another for as long as I can cast. Anyone who has ever caught a permit feels the same way. New flies have proven effective and new fisheries have developed in Central and South America. The definitive permit though is still a fish from the keys, where for so long anglers have attempted to make some sense of its habits.
This year I again borrowed a spare room from my brother-in-law in Key West, scattered my clothes and tackle about, established the code for the CNN news loop, bought the Key West Citizen and a book of tide tables — in general, raising all the antennae for local orientation and preparing myself for four days of fishing with my friend and guide Gil Drake, who has dedicated forty years of his life to understanding permit. I doubt any other fish could have held his attention for so long. I caught my first one in 1969 and have felt the same unwavering passion ever since.
We left Key West and headed southwest along the Gulf of Mexico flats in a glaring stillness. I stripped off enough line to present the fly and stood in the bow as Gil poled us across what seemed to be a large, vague area of shallows. Until you acquire enough knowledge of flats fishing to convert this lack of definition into the intricate and highly patterned habitat that it actually is, the sport is little more than a series of accidents, and maybe not even that. There are times when it is an impenetrable tedium from which you emerge desperate for home waters.
Because of the stillness of the day, the low mangroves stood mirrored in a chromium glare. Small flocks of migrating gannets passed by, the blinding white of their bodies shining against the green shallows. These excellent birds winter at sea but their advent among the islands in search of nesting sites accompanies spring permit fishing and the first runs of tarpon. Warblers have begun to appear, mangroves to put on new foliage; the storm-clouded waters are clearing and the flats are astir as global heat starts north.
A squadron of permit appeared on the flat, feeding steadily, tips of dorsals and tails making incisions in the slick water, their deep bodies taking on their surroundings as they moved. At a range of about a hundred feet, Gil began to position the skiff. I checked and rechecked the loose fly line on the deck, made my best effort at estimating our closing speed, and raised my rod to begin casting. The fish exploded in the general direction of Mexico.
With this slick, transparent water, we were hoping for intent, feeding fish. Any fish that looked up at all was bound to see us. We hoped, too, for an afternoon breeze that never came. Instead we found through this long day numerous permit, some of very substantial size, but all well out of reach; some simply dematerialized in the glare. They induced futile casting, among other defiant gestures; so when the water jug was empty and the last Cuban sandwich swallowed, we felt as far from catching a permit as we had when we began.
To pass the time, Gil and I talked about how we’ve changed the way we fish for permit. The flies are heavier and more realistic. We cast much more directly to the fish, as close as possible, instead of the long leads we used to throw out for fear of spooking them. Knowledge of tides and seasons, as well as the extremely specific “trails” used by permit, has improved. Catching a permit on a fly has gone from nearly impossible to extremely difficult. The fish are around in good numbers, thanks to a persistent practice of releasing them. Key West remains at the center of stateside permit fishing, and if the attempt to ban Jet Skis from the White Heron National Wildlife Refuge is successful, we may look to a long future for this exalted fishery.
The breeze picked up the next day and our ability to reach the fish rose accordingly. Of course the wind makes accurate casting harder. And there were fewer fish around. One fish after another refused the fly; several lifted in the chop as I cast, and saw the boat; another tried to tail on the fly but lost it in the grass. And then the sun went down. Afterward, I drove into town to buy sandwiches for the next day at Uncle Garland’s. We went from Cuban Mix, to roast pork, to a belly-buster called the “Midnight Special.” So far, lunch was providing the only punctuation in the search for fish.
The third day enlarged our sense of struggle. The nice cobia I caught off the back of a stingray early on did little to mitigate our frustration. I had several opportunities through the long hot day and none of them came to anything. You find yourself looking at jet contrails, wondering when they’re going to open up Cuba, trying to remember the names of the bartenders at the Anchor Inn on Duval Street in 1971. The light was at a low angle and the cormorants were homeward bound. We crossed a shallow flat at the middle of which was a kind of trough. A nice permit was swimming up the trough with the lazy movements of a feeder; I could just make out the edge of fins around the deep, shadowy body. I made a cast and the fish responded. From his vantage point on the platform, Gil called out suggestions for working the fly. My hope was still low when I felt the slight tightening in my line. I struck and the fish streaked off so fast that I had loose fly line ten feet in the air. Once he was on the reel, a satisfying whirr from the drag indicated his progress throughout a long, fast first run. Fighting a permit is pure worry. I worried about my knots and about the line to backing splice I’d done the night before. I worried about the hinging effect, after hours of casting, on the knot at the fly. I worried that fishing with a barbless hook had been taking sportsmanship too far. I desperately wanted to land this fish.
I began to believe the permit was coming to the boat but at the range of sixty feet, he went on another wild run, this one ending in a dogged halt a long way off. Gil kept up our pursuit with the push pole and after a while the fish was a rod’s length from the starboard side of the skiff. But when Gil started for the net, the fish shot straight under the boat. I plunged the rod tip underwater to keep the line clear of the hull and waited for the fish to continue his run out the other side. He didn’t reappear. My hopes began to vanish. I reeled until the leader was inside the rod and felt the dread certainty that my leader had fouled on one of the trim tabs under the hull. I lay the rod down and hung over the transom. Below the hull, the tail of the permit projected, finning evenly, the leader fouled on the bottom of the boat. I had one chance left. I reached down and tailed the fish and lifted him into the boat with one motion. Caught! I felt the cool solidity and strength of the fish between my hands. After Gil removed the hook and eased the fish back into the water, I watched him surge off into the evening glare.
Tomorrow, we were going permit fishing.
The Sea-Run Fish