Patience alone proves insufficient

Up to my knees in the bath-warm, azure, coral bejewelled Caribbean Sea I followed Roberto as he scanned the water for bonefish.
Fly fisherman Roger Beck on the River Rye at West Ness near Malton.Fly fisherman Roger Beck on the River Rye at West Ness near Malton.
Fly fisherman Roger Beck on the River Rye at West Ness near Malton.

Occasionally he would raise his right hand, fist clenched; this was our agreed signal for me to stop and not move a muscle.

Bonefish are very easily spooked; in the shallows a stealthy approach is essential to avoid scaring the entire shoal. One false move and they are gone.

When Roberto lowered his fist, I could continue.

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The sign I eagerly awaited was the raised index finger; that means “quarry spotted, prepare to cast”.

Soon, the finger was raised and by the time I waded to his right shoulder, the same digit pointed to my target. “Forty feet, you see?”

Now, the question was superfluous. This was my third day of salt-water fly-fishing from San Pedro Island, just off the coast of Belize; I had caught lots of bonefish but so far, had not seen one before I hooked it.

At this stage I was still completely reliant on the amazing fish spotting abilities of the guides.

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“No” I replied, staring 40 feet beyond Roberto’s outstretched finger. “t’irty five feet now!” he replied with just a little edge to his wonderful Caribbean drawl.

With no further delay I launched my fly in the required direction at the requested range.

I had learned that if I was on target, my guide would remain completely silent but adopt a stork-like predatory posture. I saw Roberto’s head drop very slightly, so I knew the shot was a good one.

I allowed the fly a few seconds to sink and then began the jerky retrieve that attracts the fish’s attention.

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Nothing. Roberto’s brow furrowed, he pondered for a brief moment and then announced “dat fly no good, we try de Gotcha.”

Dutifully, I opened my box and handed over said fly. I swear his eyes never left the water as he tied it to my leader.

As he passed it back, eyes still fixed forwards and with just an element of doubt in his voice he nonchalantly enquired “ can you do 75 feet?”

“Yes” I affirmed, trying to remove every trace of doubt from my own voice. The forefinger shot out: “75 feet.”

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I hastily stripped line from my reel, flipped the back cast, mentally allowed for the crosswind before hitting the delivery cast.

As the fly touched down, I breathed a sigh of relief; not a sound from my left.

Seconds later the rod was nearly ripped from my hand as a bonefish began its first searing run.

Roberto’s grin said it all. The finger appeared again, and by the time I was in position the advice came: “50 feet, big shoal.” The superfluous question was omitted. At the same instant as I released the cast, all hell broke loose 50 feet away; a mighty splash and broken water as bonefish scattered in all direction.

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“ Barracuda!” I was informed “I do not like dem very much, dey are all fornicators and of doubtful parentage.” I was further advised. “dat one have to go.”

Roberto handed me a stout rod baited with a sardine, the finger told the story :“10 feet.” I said.

Roberto did not see the joke. The barracuda grabbed the sardine as it touched down. I raised the rod and 30lbs of very angry barra launched itself from the water.

The rod bucked in my hand and line fizzed from the screaming reel. The fish leaped into the air several times and tail-walked, shaking its head back and forth.

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Eventually I could see the spectacular dentistry as the predator neared the shore.

“Gotcha!” I yelled as I drew my prize onto the sand.

“No, sardine” laughed my new friend as he slapped me on the back enthusiastically.