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Fly Punk - Issue 3

  • Text
  • Fishing
  • Fishing
  • Trout
  • Carp
  • Lure
  • Dordogne
  • Suir
  • Flies
  • Thailand
  • Sharks
  • Reel
  • Pike
Fly Punk - No tweed, wicker baskets or trousers tucked into socks. Just a free digital magazine aimed at the fly fishing punk ... Read on and join the party ...

when we spot our first

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. 16 | 17 www.fly-punk.com

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