BAHAMA BONES: PART III
By Zac Glaser
I woke up for my final day of fishing in the Bahamas with a spring in my step and a sunny disposition. I walked outside to wind, clouds, and rain. Excellent.
If you’ve ever been bonefishing before, you know that still water and sunshine are an angler’s best friend. It was not a great start to the day, but I reminded myself once again, I was on vacation. Enjoy it.
As we made our way out to the fishing flats, the wind died down but the rain persisted. All those little droplets made it nearly impossible to see fish for Frankie, which made the probability of me seeing fish similar to the odds of Taylor Swift writing a breakup song about me. Luckily for me, just like Taylor, when Frankie pointed out a fish, and I didn’t see it in time, and I was able to shake, shake, shake, shake it off, but you know what they say, Anglers gonna angle, angle, angle, angle, angle.
Okay, I’m done. Bet you didn’t have “Taylor Swift fly fishing lyrics” on your bingo card for this blog, me neither, but here we are.
After the first miss, we made our way into a little tributary surrounded by mangroves. The rain held up for a bit, and we quickly noticed that there was a school of Bones at 11 o’clock. Frankie pointed them out and noted that one of the larger fish had peeled off the back of the school and was coming towards us. It couldn’t have been more than 25 feet from the boat. Before Frankie could even say anything, I started my cast and dropped the fly about 15 feet from the boat, ten feet in front of the fish. The fish slowly meandered over, and when it was about four feet away, I gave it a little twitch. I watched in slow motion as the gray silhouette quickened its pace and slurped the fly up. I strip set like my rod was a chainsaw that had been sitting all winter in the shed. The line went tight, and the rod doubled over, luckily, I barely had any line out, so the fish hit the reel almost instantly. It darted directly at the mangroves, and I pinched down and pulled it away with all my might. On a low visibility day like this, we had beefy tippet, so I wasn’t worried about snapping it off. Once it started to run towards the open water, I let the reel scream, and boy, did that thing take off. Somewhere between the cast and the fish running, it dawned on me that I had tuned Frankie out. It was just me and the fish. No disrespect to Frankie, that dude is an absolute legend. In fact, I give more credit to him for the job he did, getting me ready for that experience. It’s odd, but this moment, this particular fish, was pivotal in my fly-fishing career. It’s the first time I felt connected to a saltwater fish. It’s an intimate thing being able to watch a fish in the way it behaves when it thinks no one is watching — watching it approach the food as it did, waiting in anticipation as it decided, “Yeah, this is food.”
I know, reader, I know, “Hey Zac, if you love the fish so much, why don’t you marry it!” Hey reader, my marriage track record is exactly zero for one, so that’s probably not a great idea. Also, I would marry a bonefish if it meant I could bonefish more often (careful, there’s no space between “bone” and “fish” – settle down) so shut up and let me romanticize this shit.
Honestly, it’s hard not to get romantic in times like this. I think about all of the decisions in my life that led to that moment. How if one or two things had gone down differently, I may not have been there. It’s easy to write things off as “right place, right time,” and, of course, there is an element of that. However, it’s important to remind yourself who put you in that position and who made all of those decisions leading up to that moment. It’s hard to be proud of yourself and a lot easier to chalk it up to chance. Even writing this feels trite. Screw that; it takes balls to travel the world alone in search of fish. It takes some guts to put yourself in an uncomfortable situation and to humble yourself over and over, mistake after mistake until you start to put it together. That, for me, is the foundation of my fly fishing journey. A true trial-by-fire approach. And in that moment, somehow, everything came together exactly as it should, and I was able to do exactly what I was supposed to do. There is nothing more rewarding than that it’s that moment that you realize — okay, I know what I’m doing, I do belong here.
For the rest of the day, Frankie and I chased fish from one flat to the next. I landed a total of five that day, just like every other day. However, even Frankie agreed that my fishing was the best it had been on the entire trip. My casts were quick and clean. I didn’t spook nearly as many fish, and when I hooked a fish, I landed it. There was no pressure, no stress, just a relaxing day on the water. When the weather blew in around lunchtime, I was fully content with how the day and my trip had gone. We motored back to the dock, unpacked the boat, and cleaned off the rods, and as we walked back to our rooms, Frankie gave me a subtle nod of approval. It was like a scene out of a movie and I half expected him to walk off into the cornfield, never to be seen again. Only there was no cornfield (cause, ya know, the Bahamas…), and it was pissing rain, so instead, we ran for cover, and I slipped on my way into the room and smoked my knee on the corner of the bed. Cool as the other side of the pillow, baby.
The next day I flew back to the main island and began my trip home. I arrived in Boston on a blustery 13-degree day, feeling like Jonah from The Giver only in reverse. All the colors were gone, and all that remained was the grayish concrete jungle I called home. As I went to sleep that night, images of blue water and chromed-out bonefish danced around in my head, and all I could do was smile at the week that had transpired, and the lifetime of fishing I had ahead of me.
Tight lines, and don’t forget to wipe your feet before you run on tile floors — safety first, then teamwork.