Where was I? Bonefishing, that was it, and with apologies to Tom McGuane, a fine writer, who has given us so many wonderful fishing essays and stories, I would like to share another story about my holiday encounters with Albula Vulpes. No, I am not talking about the elusive Permit that McGuane wrote about so well in his piece, “The Longest Silence.” But as he stated in that essay: “What is most emphatic in angling is made so by the long silences – the unproductive periods.” And that was certainly true for me when I went out for an unproductive morning of bonefishing with the only guide on the island, a big, taciturn man, who seldom spoke to me, and left me to contemplate in silence the beauty of my surroundings as well as the art and challenge of sightcasting to bonefish.
Upon arrival at the dock, I had introduced myself to this stern fellow, a Turks and Caicos “belonger,” and he had eyed my flyrod with scepticism as he stowed it below.
“There’s fishing and catching,” he said, beginning his longest discourse of the morning. “I like to catch fish. Last man I took out with a rod like that couldn’t put it out more than three feet.”
“Well, I hope I can do better,” I offered, confident enough that I could, but concerned, certainly, that we were not off to a good start on my half-day charter.
My guide, whom I will call "Mr. J.,” did not respond but quickly cast off and pulled away from the dock. I knew where we were going, the same shallow flats on the windward side of the island that I already had fished by myself, and we quickly arrived at our destination, where Mr. J. dropped anchor and started to climb over the side with a small spinning rod in his hand.
“We gonna wade,” he said, pointing with his rod. “This way.”
And so we started out. We were one hour into the rising tide, an ideal time, but the wind was beginning to pick up behind us and the water was choppy. It was an overcast day, too. Visibility was limited as the sun slipped in and out of the clouds from time to time.
For half an hour we walked slowly without sighting a fish. My guide did not speak but moved across the sand with long, slow, steady strides, and I stayed in step with him, stopping and starting when he did.
Finally, he spotted something and spoke up.
. “Over there,” he said, pointing in front of us.
“How far?” I asked.
“There.”
It was difficult to see, and wearing progressive lenses, I am sure this 65-year-old could not match Mr. J. in an eye exam. I could get my line out but I could not see the fish.
“About eleven o’clock?” I asked.
“There” he repeated sternly, but I did not give up.
“Ten o’clock?” I said.
“There.”
That was it.
Undeterred, I tried, at first, to loosen my guide’s tongue with friendly conversation, but my efforts only produced a few grunts as Mr. J. remained focused on the water in front of us. For two long hours we continued wading at this spot near his boat, and while he spotted fish four more times, each sighting was marked by the same dialogue.
“Over there,” he would say, and then there was an emphatic silence, broken only by the sound of the lapping water, the wind, and our footsteps as we moved in unison across the flats.
Oh, once I got “Keep stripin’!” That almost made my day, and once I even managed to hook up, but it was really a matter of chance because I did not see the fish Mr. J. had spotted. I was casting on blind faith. And, yes, I lost the fish when it swam right at me.
On we went, and there was another surprising break in the silence when my guide stopped suddenly and pointed to our right.
“There,” he said as he flicked a line out with his spinning rod. “Boxfish.”
Mr. J. did not catch the boxfish and with a disappointed air turned and led me back to the boat.
“Where we goin’? I asked.
“Over there,” he said pointing to another little island or cay, not far away.
This time I was able to make out what he was pointing at, and as we approached and dropped anchor, I could see that it looked like a good spot, another shallow flat leading to a deep drop off.
With renewed optimism and boldness, I dared to ask another question. “Do you think I should try a different fly?” I said as I opened my flybox.
“Pink,” he said, pointing to a Crazy Charlie.
I changed the fly as he dropped anchor. Again we began to wade and suddenly my guide became quite vocal.
“Big fish,” he said, pointing to my left. “Over there.”
I didn’t bother to ask for more specifics, but turning to follow Mr. J.’s arm, I did see a sudden ripple in the water.
Mr. J. shook his head. “He’s gone,” he announced as he started moving forward once more, and again I followed. It was becoming more and more difficult to see anything, but I threw a few random casts blindly into the area along the drop off.
“This looks like a good spot,” I offered as a small sand shark swam past.
“Catch a lot of fish here” was the thunderous response.
Then after another twenty minutes of silence, we headed back to the boat. I could see by my watch that it was lunch time and I did not bother to ask where we were going.
En route, my guide said nothing. When we reached the dock, I tried to be positive as another islander who worked at the hotel greeted me with a friendly wave and asked about the fishing.
“Well, it’s a beautiful spot,” I offered. “No fish but I always like being out on the water.”
Mr. J. said nothing, and as I climbed up onto the dock I wondered if his silence was an indication of his disapproval or disappointment. But all this silence was making me crazy, and I even asked myself if my guide’s refusal to speak was actually a sensitive concern about interfering with my appreciation of the setting and the long silence that often is such a part of the bonefishing experience.
But then he gave me an answer with a final outburst that shattered the silence once more.
“You got to see ‘em to catch ‘em,” he said as he pulled away again from the dock.
