A FLY ANGLER’S EVEREST
Fishing village has emerged as hot spot for permit anglers, thanks to bounty of the species The permit holds an Everest-like draw for passionate Caribbean fly anglers. Nelson Mathews, left, and guide Scully Garbutt show off Mathews’ second permit of the t
To catch the picky, challenging, madddening permit in Belize, one must do everything just right,
I was standing at the front of a sevenmetre-long panga in the Bay of Honduras, some 16 kilometres northeast of Punta Gorda, Belize, as my angling partner, Nelson Mathews, was perched in a seat below.
The low-lying Maya Mountains were just visible through a thin haze to the west. My right hand held a 10-weight fly rod; my left, a size-6 Bauer Crab fly. At my feet, 12 metres of fly line lay coiled.
The blue-green water danced before my eyes, assuming different shades from the ever-shifting substrate a metre below. This did not make it any easier to spot my elusive quarry, the permit.
From an elevated platform in the back of the boat, our guide, Scully Garbutt, pushed the boat along silently with a five-metre graphite pole. His eyes seemed at least as sharp as those of the ospreys that patrolled below the frigatebirds. After a time, he called out calmly, “Permit, 10 o’clock. Point your rod.” I pointed my rod to where I thought the fish was.
“A little to the left.” I adjusted. “Yes. Do you see it?” “No.” “Go ahead and cast.” I whipped my rod back, lifting my fly line and crab fly high into the air behind me before moving the rod forward, stopping suddenly to send the crab flying in the general direction of the fish. The fly dropped with a small plop.
“Good. Now strip. Slower.” I stripped my line back, securing it against the cork of my rod to keep tension on the line. “He’s on it.” I stripped the fly again. “He spooked.” “Did I do anything wrong?” “No, man. That’s how it is with permit.” As Everest has long attracted serious mountain climbers, the permit holds a similar sway for passionate Caribbean fly anglers. Readily distinguishable by their broad bodies, large round eyes and blunt faces, the permits’ hydrodynamics give them tremendous strength; specimens, which can run from five pounds to more than 40, can tear off 135 yards of line once hooked.
To catch a permit on a fly, one must do many things right — accurately cast a heavy fly 12 or 15 metres, often into heavy wind; mimic the halting gait of a crab with your retrieve; and play a very strong animal on light line around coral heads that wait to part you from your prize. Just as important, you need Mother Nature’s co-operation. Anglers pray for a modicum of sunshine to illuminate the fish in the shallows (or “flats,” in angling parlance), and a modest breeze to create a ripple on the water’s surface — enough to make it difficult for the fish to see you, but not so much that you can’t see them.
“Permit are the true Holy Grail of the flats species,” said Jim Klug, founder and operations director of Yellow Dog Flyfishing Adventures, a Montana-based company. “They are, hands down, the most challenging, picky, difficult and maddening fish to pursue with a fly rod, and 99 out of100 times they’re not going to eat whatever it is that you put in front of them. When they do, however, it is one of the most rewarding experiences in the entire world of sport fishing.”
Some anglers will seek permit for many years before finally bringing a fish to hand for a quick photo and a gentle release. (Catch-and-release angling is the law for permits in Belize.)
In the past decade, Punta Gorda, a smallish fishing village on the southern coast of Belize, has emerged as the hot spot for permit anglers, thanks to the great numbers of fish present.
Arelative abundance of permit doesn’t mean that individual fish are any easier to catch. But it does afford anglers more chances. And few are better than the Garbutt brothers — Scully and Oliver — for finding fish and capitalizing on those opportunities.
Scully, the dean of Punta Gorda guides, has been leading anglers to permits for more than 20 years.
“I always wanted to make my living on the ocean,” he said. “But we knew little about sport fishing and nothing of guiding when we were growing up.”
The Toledo Institute for Development and Environment, a nongovernmental organization, helped co-ordinate training for some area fishermen to make the transition to guiding in the late1990s. As word got out of Punta Gorda’s permit bounty, the Garbutts (under the leadership of eldest brother Dennis) constructed their lodge to house visiting anglers.
The property, as Dennis has said, was “built by fishermen, for fishermen” — which is to say it’s simple but clean and functional. Air-conditioned rooms rest upon stilts above the Caribbean and have decks for taking in the sunrise and moonrise, as well as en-suite bathrooms with hot showers. Most socializing is conducted in the bar, a bright and open room with walls festooned with photos of anglers posing with a permit and a bottomless cooler of Belikin beer, the local lager. (Cashew wine is also available, for the adventurous oenophile.)
Meals, often prepared by the fifth Garbutt sibling, Betty, feature fresh fish and chicken, rice and fresh vegetables, and are served in the bar.
Late on the afternoon of our first day of fishing, lady luck smiled on my angling partner. Scully had been poling us around much of the day, with no takers. At the point of a mangrove island, he called out, “Fish at 12 o’clock, 40 feet.” Though facing a stiff wind, he made an accurate cast.
After one strip, he was tight to his first permit — a smallish specimen, around six pounds. Nelson dubbed it his “learner’s permit”; photos were taken and the fish was gently returned to the brine. The next day, he repeated the feat — at almost the exact time and place as his first encounter.
As we motored back to the lodge, I was still fishless — at least in part because of a vision challenge. Although permit are silver and some have a silhouette the size of a garbage-can lid, they can be incredibly difficult to see, despite the clear, shallow water. Scully could see the fish, but I was usually guessing. And putting the fly a foot behind a fish as opposed to a foot in front is the difference between fishing and catching.
But after two days on the flats, my eyes began to adjust. And on the morning of Day 3, when Scully announced “Fish, 60 feet, 11 o’clock,” I could see the black tips of the fish’s dorsal fin and tail, and make out the direction it was moving. I dropped my cast, with the same Bauer Crab fly, a few feet in front. Ten minutes later, I was cradling an 8.5-pound permit.