Fly Punk - Issue 3

when we spot our first bonefish. “There
Steve, make a cast, queakly!” The fish is
barely thirty feet away and when I drop
a Strip Tease fly in its path-- BLAM, it
blasts off. I should have waited, wasn’t
really ready, maybe the drag was too
loose and the fish spat out the fly before I
could set it. I’m mad at myself for getting
caught with my pants down, but Ugo says,
“Hey Steve, don’t worry yourself. Many
bonefish here. Be patient.”
After a long wade we spot another
bonefish. I’m casting farther now, but too
hard.
I seem to be landing in the right spot but
the fish are uninterested. The reason?
@#!ing A. There’s no fly at the end of the
tippet. So much for my “special knot” so I
start tying Ugo’s preferred loops instead.
Then finally a nice cast to an incoming
bonefish. For a second I think I’m hooked
up when Ugo sputters, “ @#$ remora.”
The remora is hooked by the lip luckily.
Seeing its vivid blue flanks almost makes
up for its ugly sucker. At least the black
tips following us are not interested in
flies, only live or dead bait.
Another hour goes by and lots of bored
bones. Finally we see a customer about
12 yards away. I cast just right. “Steve,
come on, strip, strip, ‘ees following. Now
stop, strip one more time.” WHAM. It
was like catching one of Chris William’s
Vaal River yellows that mated with a Mark
48 torpedo. This time I had set the drag
correctly on my trusty Colton Terrapin
reel, and after a few breathtaking runs I
edge the bone to a very shallow spot. I
remove the fly gently and hold the 1.5 kilo
fish up just long long enough for Ugo to
snap a pic.
But instead of letting me
release the prize back to the
water Ugo says, “ Steve give
heeem to me now”. Ugo then
carries the bonefish several
yards away before letting it
go. He then begins shooing
away a pack of black tips as
the recovering fish leaves
the scene. He’s protecting
it from being mauled and
eaten. You dah man Ugo.
In spite of chugging liter
bottles of water, it’s all
getting a little hazy in the
high x-ray sun. But cloaked
in elastic handkerchiefs like
two shipwrecked terrorists,
we persist. Suddenly, Ugo
stops and raises his thick
arm. “Steve, there. Big
shadow. Fish very big I think -- 6-kilo
bone. Getting closer. Now cast to the
right. No good. Cast again now! ”
The huge bone inhales the fly and blasts
off for blue water stripping about 40
yards of line. I set the drag tighter and
manage to make the first turns on the reel
to work the fish in. I’m making progress
when there is an explosion of white water.
Ugo and I watch helplessly as a five foot
long lemon shark tears the fish to pieces.
I hear Ugo say, “That’s why the sharks I
never like. Not the first time I see this. Not
your fault.”
I am deeply grateful my two previous
catches got away. Losing the last one to
sharks dropped my adrenalized ego surge
down to a realistic level. The lemon shark
would never have eaten that big bonefish
had I not hooked it in the first place.
“It’s time we go back now. Getting late
Steve. We hadda a good day.”
Yes, Ugo is right. I had the best day of my
fishing life at Rangiroa.
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