When tarpon fishing by sight, especially with a fly rod for sleepers, everything counts.
First, we just want to see if we can see one, if we see her first, before she sees us, it counts.
Next, if we’re lucky, we might get a chance to throw. A “Chance to Throw,” counts.
If you chance a throw and don’t spook it, ‘You’ve Made the Cast! …Making the cast counts.
If you’ve made the cast, you’ve entered the realm of presentation. Every presentation counts.
Jerk, twitch and bump. Slide. Switch to a Dying Racoon Fly.
If the tarpon deigns to swim over and take a look, we got a ‘follow,’ and every follow counts too.
Then, if it bites, we’ve stuck one, and every strike counts.
This brings us to the “HooWah,” stage, the chance to stick ‘em good, re-strike, to jump ‘em, the hook can still pop out but you have stung one good, got her into the air at least once, or halfway anyway, this is also known as ‘Look at the Freakin’ Mud!’ not to mention the whitewater foam and silver scales and the rattling gills. The broken leader.
The next step is to hang the hook, get it buried, hook the fish and get her through the first set of lungeing, running jumps without breaking the leader. When that happens all hell breaks loose. Mud blooms across the cove and, if she is big enough, there will be mud and whitewater everywhere, there will be a silver meteor from heaven, seven feet long and careening across the bay, tail walking and furious. She will be airborne in a Giant Panic, in all likelyhood there will be a few mangrove branches scattered in her wake and two men trying to tie her down with a slender thread from a small boat. The chromium shine of her scales in the air will equal the brilliance of mercury and somehow, in all that chaos, you will remember seeing her eye at the same eye level as your own standing upright, her body upside down in the sky with her tail pointing at the remnants of the moon and the sound, like barrels of rattlesnakes colliding in anger, gills rattling.
At that point you will have jumped one, and jumping one counts. Big Time.
Now that, particularly the last paragraph, is a sweet piece of writing!
Comment by Todd Cox — November 14, 2008 @ 8:02 pm
That poetic narrative lends depth, context, and perspective to my own experience with you last May, when you spotted the fish, one I would never have seen myself, and put me in a great position to throw a cast up under the mangroves. Then, to have that tarpon sit still through no fewer than ten casts and two hang-ups, and finally strike was reward enough. To have stuck him long enough for him to go airborne twice and to experience first hand, for the first time, the sights and sounds you so eloquently describe, was, and remains the highlight of my fishing life to date. I can’t wait to do it again! Thanks Ned.
Comment by Craig Masterman — November 15, 2008 @ 1:35 pm
Thanks guys, that was originaly an email I sent to a friends wife who was incredulous at the idea that we were celebrating hooking a fish that we didn’t catch!
Comment by Captain Ned Small — November 18, 2008 @ 3:14 pm
This is pretty much how I see it too, guys. I keep a log of tarpon encounters – unlike other types of fish where I just log fish caught. There are a few different kinds of encounters I track – tarpon I get to cast to (shots), tarpon that react to the fly – either chase or flee (bumps), tarpon in the air (jumps) and tarpon at hand (land). I tried to explain this arcane system to a fly fisherman who had never been tarpon fishing and he did seem pretty surprised at all the fuss for a fish that might just roll on a fly. I guess I’ve got it bad.
Comment by John McMinn — November 18, 2008 @ 5:10 pm
Hey John,
I’ve got it bad too. Thanks for all the fun!
Comment by Captain Ned Small — November 19, 2008 @ 6:49 pm