Phil H. Shook Journalist Author Photographer

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“Close To The Bone”

There is the briefest pause, then the fly line shoots through my line hand as if I am connected to a fish from hell...

Polo Magazine
By Phil H. Shook

The tail of a bonefish flicks in the light of the Islamorada dawn, and I feel caught under the same spell that captivated writer Zane Grey on these flats early in the century. Grey once expressed how difficult it is to put into words the experience of bonefishing. "I have never been able to tell," he wrote, "why it seems to be the fullest, the most difficult, the strangest and most thrilling, the lonesomest and most satisfying of all kinds of angling."

Islamorada, a town on Florida's Upper Matecumbe Key, is where the game of hunting bonefish was discovered and where the world's best anglers still seek to perfect it. Grey, who was as famous an angler as he was a novelist, was one of the first to cast a fly to a bonefish in these waters. The biggest, smartest, and most challenging bonefish in the angling world can still be found barely a five-minute run by boat from the town's marinas and open-deck bars.

"I have fished the Bahamas, Belize, and Honduras, but in terms of numbers of big bonefish, I don't know any other place that tops this," says Sandy Moret, founder of the Florida Keys fly Fishing School and one of the most renowned anglers in Islamorada.

Islamorada's bonefish are pursued year-round by some of the world's best guides and most dedicated anglers. To take one on a fly is considered one of angling's most satisfying feats. What makes this brand of angling intoxicating for so many is the mosaic it offers through Polaroid glasses. For me, bonefishing is about a creature that can make a fly reel hum in your hand. It is about savvy guides, sleek, efficient flats boats, and anodized fly reels with silky smooth drag systems. It is also about fly shops, famous old marinas, and lodges with sailfish and tarpon mounted on the walls.

Islamorada lies on the upper end of a 200-mile-long archipelago that curves southwest from Miami until it reaches land's end at Key West. The charm of this upper-keys community lies not in the strip centers and condos along the narrow Overseas Highway but in the marine landscapes and back-country flats on either side of it.

Islamorada has a population of 8,300, including about 200 fishing guides. During my two-day visit, I fish with a pair of the best: captains Bruce Stagg and Tad Burke. They are among the handful of top fly-fishing guides that can be booked out of Moret's Florida Keys Outfitters.

I start out early the first morning with Stagg, a husky man with a full black beard and a quick, hearty laught, he takes me to an oceanside flat near Snake Creek. Stagg has eyes like an osprey when it comes to spotting bonefish, and it isn't long before he sees fish tailing and cruising across the flat.

To an angler, the most electrifying sight on a flat is the flicking, exposed tail of a bonefish that has gone vertical to root on the bottom for food. The caster must learn to spot the "push" of wake that bonefish create when they cruise the flat, as well as the subtle "shake" they make on the water's surface as they turn to search the sand for small crabs and other prey.

It doesn't take long to discover the something has put the fish on edge. Perhaps it is the weak front that moved in overnight, clouding the sky over the ocean-side flats. Always wary, always temperamental, the bonefish seem especially agitated today. A bonefish doesn't go quietly when it senses an alien presence. Hop a fly straight at it instead of away form it or throw a fly line over its back and the next thing you will see is a churning boil of empty water.

As Day One winds down, the reality of bonefishing begins to sink in. Today, fish after fish will give us only one good look, one quick cast, before dropping from sight. There is always disappointment in a fishless day and this is especially true on Islamorada's flats, where bonefish offer so many enticing opportunities only to pull their silver rug out from under you.

Moret, fishing near us with Captain Burke, comes to our rescue. Moret draws on his 25 years of experience to deal with this day's annoyingly nervous prey. Bearded and ponytailed, with a gold bonefish on a chain around his neck and a smaller one in his right ear, Moret's smooth but powerful casting stroke and uncanny ability to land the fly softly in front of the target gives him an edge over the spookiest fish. We see him with his rod in a deep bow, fly line and backing tight to the long, laser-straight run that is the trademark of Albula vulpes. Moret is as excited as a beginner at his catch, a ten-and-a-half-pound monster that is landed, photographed, and gently revived at boatside, and released. (Bonefish are of minor food value and virtually all are released by anglers.) That evening back at the Lorelei Marina bar, we celebrate over conch fritters and Cuba Libres.

My second day on the water breaks clear and warm, but the wind has picked up to almost 20 mph, presenting us with different problems. The stiff breeze makes it more difficult for today's skipper, Captain Burke, to pole and to maneuver on the flats. It also whips around the fly line that must be stripped out on the deck, inviting disaster with every cast. With the wind, however, some things work in our favor. The fish are not as nervous and are feeding more aggressively, giving us more shots at them with the fly.

When a ray approaches the boat, leaving behind a big cloud of marl and sand, called a mud, Burke instructs me to throw a fly in the middle of it. Bonefish, which posses and adipose eyelid that ats as kind of a face mask, often go shopping for food in these muds. This time, though, there is no one at the market.

In between those times when I come up short or go too long with the casts, or when I can't see the fish well enough to make an accurate throw, there are some close encounters between bonefish and fly. The intriguing thing abut bonefishing is that success can come in the next cast or in the next millennium. "Let's get off this flat. The bonefish here are brain surgeons," says Burke as we cross a channel to another flat.

When we get back on fish, there is an edge of urgency in Burke's voice as he gives precise instructions in the language of the flats. For Burke, it is like giving directions to someone trying to dismantle a land mine. We both know that with one wrong move, the whole thing will blow up in our faces. "Strip it. Strip it. Now drop it," Burke says tersely, coaching me about when, where, and how to put action on the fly with the line hand. "Now bump it, bump it," he says, advising me to hop the fly to get the attention of the bonefish. "He's got us," Burke announces, meaning a fish has seen the boat and it's time to start looking for another target.

As we wind down on the final two hours of my last day, I am feeling more confident with each new opportunity. Under the eye of Stagg, Burke, and Moret, I am making adjustments , like laying the fly line straight out above the water so it will land more softly and not spook the fish. I have learned much about bonefishing over the last two days, but it still hasn't translated into a catch.

Just as the thought begins to creep into my mind that I will be getting on a plane the next day with memories of a great adventure but not a single bonefish, we spot several tailing fish downwind to our left. For the 15th or 20th time that day Burke was setting me up for another shot at the gray ghost of the flats.

We target a pair of tailing fish, and Burke quickly sets me up about 40 feet from them. I drop the fly near the closest fish, and as I give the fly a second short hop, I feel a little jump in the fly line. There is the briefest pause, then the fly line shoots through my line hand as if I am connected to a fish from hell.

Burke shouts at me to clear the loose fly line on the deck so it won't catch on anything. It doesn't matter, because that line already has shot through the guides. My reel is humming, and the fish is well into the Dacron backing, running at full bore. At this point there is not much I have to do except keep the rod high. Burke joins me in letting out a couple of war whoops.

After running 150 yards of line off the reel, the bonefish slows and Burke advises me to apply a little pressure on the exposed rim of the reel. With this the fish finally slows to a stop and is turned back toward the boat.

The bonefish's trip back is slow but steady. This is where a wide[arbor, fast retrieve fly reel comes in handy on the bonefish flats. There is still enough line suspended in the air between the boat and the fish to hang the laundry of a sizeable family.

Back near the boat, the wide-bodied bonefish hangs tough under steady pressur, making slow circles around the boat. A full 20 minutes after the hookup, I steer it into Burke's hands. The fish weighs in on a hand-held scale at eleven-and-a-half pounds-more than pound heavier than the current International Game Fish Association world record on 20-pound test tippet. Just another big bonefish that is back home on the flats of downtown Islamorada.

January/February 1998