Soon after our small Cessna touched down I bid farewell to the last week’s clients and hailed a cab downtown. Agnes sped through rough streets bobbing and weaving between school children in bright uniforms, old men on bicycles, and rusted buses packed with young men on their way from inland villages to work in the big city. Making her way to the Princess dock in record time, she once again secured her reigning title as my favorite cab driver in Belize.
Juni eased up to the dock at exactly 8:00 am and after a quick “how’ve you been,” we were motoring north to the mouth of the Belize River. As we cruised along in the early morning stillness, I rummaged through my luggage digging out rods, reels, and flies. Three weeks worth of gear was stashed in two bags under the bow of the panga.
We reached the river quickly and Juni eased back on the big outboards. An incoming tide surged against the river current and we drifted slowly upstream with the advancing sea water. I hastily worked at tying on a pink and black size 1/0 tarpon bunny that was produced from a tattered gear bag in the bottom of the boat. A quick survey of my boxes showed nothing with a large enough hook.
“Dem big bastards aint straightened out this one yet,” Juni scowled.
As the 80lb test snugged up against the gorilla hook, I heard a yell from the back of the boat where Juni was perched atop the transom staring through green water at the brown shape of a 100 pound tarpon. The big fish was gliding, inches below the surface, back up the river with the tide. In a swirl of line and leader I frantically worked out 50 feet in two false casts dropping the fly like a dirty sweat sock three feet from the fish. In an instant that prehistoric eye and bucket mouth bore down following every strip as if it were going to inhale the fly, the boat, and anything else in its way. With all of the fly line stripped back into the guides and the fish close enough to mount like a cowboy in a spaghetti western, the now chrome colored fish disappeared in an explosion of silver dollar sized scales and water. Sopping wet and gripped by a mix of adrenaline, humility, and awe I looked back at Juni who supportively said “nice try mon, maybe we see more before the tide goes slack.” We saw several others from a long way off, but had no other shots.
By 10:30am the tide was slack and we were on our way north again out over open water. We reached Hen’s and Chicken’s Cay in no time, and Juni was back on the transom. This time he had the push pole in hand and his eyes scanned the lush, turtle grass flat for bonefish. I stood in the bow with the heft of an eight weight in one hand and the fuzz of a tan shrimp fly in the other. We peered across the matts of waving green hoping to see a silver shape or a shining tail. Reaching the end of the first flat a small school of bonefish appeared cruising along the edge of the grass. Juni shoved the pole into the soft bottom and the boat lurched to a sudden stop . Four nice bonefish fed in a single file line ducking in and out of the grass forty feet from the boat. Juni swung the bow around, I let go of the fuzz in my left hand, and tried to lay that shrimp a few feet in front of the lead fish. The fly plopped down and began to sink, but not fast enough for the first fish to see. As the second and third fish cruised by, the shrimp was finally at the right depth and two short strips were all that was needed to elicit a strike. The heft of the eight weight was suddenly dwarfed as the five pound fish screamed out across the flat towards deeper water. Two runs into the backing later he was brought to the boat and released. We visited many other flats through the course of the morning and found similar results at each spot.
Morning evaporated into afternoon in what seemed like a matter of seconds, and our meandering from flat to flat had taken us a good distance from Belize City. As the time neared 1:30pm, the matter of our schedule began to worry me. You see, I was expected back at the Princess boat dock no later than 2:00pm to meet the next week’s clients and catch the boat out to Turneffe Flats.
I hadn’t hit the panic button just yet as I’ve grown very accustomed to being a little tardy when it comes to commitments and fishing. No matter how well I convince myself before going to fish, that I’ll leave with plenty of time to get to work, that party, high school graduation, I inevitably find myself in a pickle. By 1:50pm we were still fifteen miles from the harbor, and Juni was beginning to look an awful lot like the Vlassic Stork as he did his best to convince me that the boat would never leave without me, and we just could not leave such good fishing.
“Don’t worry,” Juni pleaded. “They’ll understand, mon.”
Reaching way down deep past that obsessive, pickle-prone part of my psyche, I was somehow able to convince my headstrong guide to fire up those outboards and get us the #@&% back to the dock.
The afternoon winds created a small swell from the south forcing the panga to climb against each wave and crash down the backside. Over the roars of outboards and the sea, Juni regaled me with crazy gringo stories and tales of big fish.
We reached the harbor in surprisingly good time, and I was finally starting to feel a little relief when suddenly the motors slowed, the bow rose, and we were turning sharply away from the dock and the waiting boat. I turned quickly in my seat to see Juni with a devilish look on his face, and his arm held high pointing at what looked like an abstract painting of water, air, fish, and birds all colliding in a violent dance . Frigate birds circled like vultures over the explosive water as bait fish vaulted into the air to escape the onslaught of wolf-packing Jacks. A school of thirty or more fifteen to twenty pound Jack Crevalle screamed through the harbor ruthlessly chasing baitfish inches below the surface. Streaks of yellow and blue blurred by the boat at break neck speeds, and then disappeared. After seconds of silence, frigate birds repositioned over a new spot, baitfish appeared, and right on their tails were the jacks.
I balanced on the bow of the boat doing my best impression of Teen Wolf riding on the top of a delivery van while swells slowly lifted the boat three or four feet and slammed it back down. The wolf-pack swam in random directions around the boat keeping both Juni and I spinning in circles. I jumped at the first opportunity to get my fly close to the school when they finally appeared 40 feet in front of us. Somehow, I managed to chuck enough line out over the swells and into the wind to put the fly in the middle of the school. I tightened up and frantically began stripping the fly back through the school. A single fish turned away from the group and followed for several feet before refusing the fly and turning back to the others. As quickly as they appeared, the jacks were gone again. We stood quietly looking for some sign of the group’s position. In the distance I could see the boat that I was supposed to have boarded fifteen minutes earlier.
Juni and I noticed the birds at the same time and pointed in unison as they circled overhead. Seconds later baitfish exploded next to the boat, and the wolf-pack was right behind them. This time we were ready, and I put a cast right in front of the entire pack. Three strips later the line went tight and in an instant I was watching backing peel off my reel by the yard. Twenty minutes later we had our big bad wolf to the boat .
When we pulled up to the dock at the Princess it was 2:35pm. I hurried to gather my gear, bid Juni goodbye, and rush onto the boat. I leapt over the rail into the stern of the boat, and began apologizing for my lateness in mid-air. By the time I hit the deck, the lodge manager was in hysterics. Through tear laden laughter, he explained that several guests were delayed at the airport, and we would not be underway before 4:00pm.
“Those were some nice moves out there.” he chuckled. “We could see you dancing around on the front of that boat out there. You know, you guys should have stayed out a little longer if the fishing was that good. We’d have come out after you if it was gettin’ too late.”
For more Angling Journals check out the website at http://www.blueribbonflies.com/journal/AnglingJournal2005.htm
