The Loop Army.

Legend tells of a chance encounter in Russia between two groups of fly fishermen. Two Americans run into a special forces unit on a helicopter ride over the Kola Peninsula. The unit, armed to the teeth, not with military weapons but with cutting edge and bad ass fly fishing gear, jokingly referred to themselves as the "Loop Army". The name stuck and since then, the Swedish Fly Fishing Company: Loop has been gathering a North American army of followers, including this writer. As I released my baby tarpon in a mangrove on the island of Tortola, the last thing on my mind was a chance encounter with some Generals of the Loop Army.

As the baby tarpon returned back to the emerald green water, I surveyed my leader for abrasions and quickly retied on a fresh toad. I began surveying the water for a fresh cruiser when a large SUV stopped on the bridge to my left. Normally, I couldn't care less about observers. I was hounded all week by cruise ship tourists asking me if I caught anything, or how the fishing was. These observers were not your typical tourists. The first thing I noticed was the large pontoon boat strapped to the top of the SUV. Mind you, we are in the British Virgin Islands, not on a flowing river. These were fly fishermen, no doubt. Serious fly fishermen to be hauling a pontoon boat around the world to be used on saltwater flats and in the ocean surf. The second thing I laid eyes on was the hat of the man in the driver side window. I own that hat. The Loop logo of the anthracite hat was unmistakable. They drove off the bridge, parked the SUV, and three men came out to the bridge.

As they came and rested on the rails of the bridge, I recognized two of the guys. I guess Facebook networking was about to pay off. Matt and I exited the water and became the annoying tourists about to ask some stupid questions. I was hesitant at first due to my beginning years as a young fly fisherman looking for answers. I usually was disregarded, laughed at, or ignored. As we approached, I realized that my instincts were correct. It was the Loop Pro Team, evidenced by their emblazoned logo's on their fly fishing shirts. Soon, Matt and I were shooting the shit with Stefan and Alex Haider of Austrian Outdoor Sports and their friend, also named Alex. We talked about our successes, local hot spots, and the terrible conditions with the constant storms and rain. We exchanged numbers and off they went, looking for "the fish".

Matt and I packed up and headed back to his place to plan our New Years Eve festivities. As they planned and made phone calls inside the house, I was out fishing the front yard. Later, I packed it in and set up shop on the sea wall looking for tail or any sign of movement. Then, another chance encounter happened as the SUV and pontoon boat came down the road and I found myself once again talking to the Loop guys. They parked and came up to meet my sister and Stacy and we discussed their success on a local flat landing two bonefish and a shark. We invited them over for a afternoon BBQ and some drinks and they obliged.

That night at my brother's place was an epic New Years Eve. A variety of food and drink was enjoyed by all. It was awesome to talk about fly fishing and conservation efforts in America and in Europe and how unregulated our waterways are in the U.S. compared to overseas. We talked about the Pebble Mine and the grave danger Salmonids face in a lot of our waterways on both coasts as well as in the Great Lakes. We talked about the state of the British Virgin Islands and other Caribbean islands and how development and overfishing effect fish populations. We also compared pictures and videos from the past week and their previous excursions to Venezuela catching tarpon and bonefish.

We also discussed Loop tackle and the growing status of the Loop Army. Loop has always been on the front lines of innovation in the industry starting with the large arbor reels and now once again with composite cork and their new x-grip. While other companies remain stagnant they produce innovative new products that cater towards passionate anglers, especially young anglers that are the future of the sport. The new rods and reels and especially the clothing coming out in 2010 meets the needs of form, function, and style. Two new lower priced rod series in the Xact and Evotec (Once Epic) and a transformation of their wading jackets with a new 4-way stretch fabric similar to that found on Patagonia's SST. The guy's were pumped to talk about this stuff and it sounded like a new fleet of destroyers will be coming out soon. I received my first Loop rod two years ago and have since bought two more. They perform flawlessly and I am constantly surprised at how well they fish and cast. Check them out the next time you buy a rod.

New Loop 2010 gear here & here.

Stefan and Alex Working a Flat in the Distance.

Lexi's First Time Out in Saltwater.

After our BBQ, we headed to Jolly Rodgers, a bar and restaurant situated along the water where you can see tarpon and jack weaving in and out of the lights alongside dinner tables. We met up with two local fly fisherman, a father and son duo that also knew the Loop guys and for New Years Eve the only fly fishermen on the 12 mile island celebrated New Years together. It was an old crowd but fun nevertheless. My sister tangoed with an old fella that looked and danced like a zombie. It was hilarious.

Matt, Lexi, & I Celebrating New Years.

Myself, Alex Haider, Alex, Stefan Haider, & Matt.

The Crew Formed a New Years Train.

On the final day of the trip, I worked a local flat, hoping for one last chance at a bonefish. I was later joined by Stefan, Alex, and Alex and we worked our way down the flat. I spotted one large bonefish that came straight at me but he easily spooked. I resigned to blind casting with a small shrimp pattern working the ledge along the flat. I was rewarded with a long distance hookup and run. The fish ran hard twice and I was ecstatic thinking I was on my first bonefish. It turned out to be a good sized Blue Runner. My dying "waterproof" camera (a victim of the salt) took its last image ever as I released the snapper. We all went out to a local bar for some appetizers and more drinks before saying our goodbyes. I was heading back to the freezing cold of the Northeast while the Loop Guys and my brother and sister remained on the island.

Stefan Haider Working a Small Corridor.

I Wonder Why They Call It a Blue Runner.

Goodbyes.

It was awesome to run into a group of professional fly fisherman and have the chance to fish and hang out with them for several days. It's amazing how a sport such as fly fishing can unite anglers from around the globe and how we can all share the same passion towards fishing and conservation. It was also cool to pick the brains of two guys that are directly involved in the development process of one of my favorite companies.

A Silver Prince.

On New Year's Eve, Mark and I decided to fish a narrow channel that I haven't fished before. I have seen numerous species of fish travel through it in the past and was waiting until my bro came down to actually fish it.

We saw huge schools of baitfish massing near the mangroves and numerous tarpon cruising through them. We rigged up and waded in.

In such tight quarters, I was the spotter while Mark fished. I stood on some mangrove roots to get a higher vantage point from which to spot any gray slabs moving through the baitballs.

Slingshot casts required.

Consistently, tarpon cruised through. Mark had a bunch of looks, but no takes. The fish would go nose-to-nose with his fly while his leader was in his guides and he was standing in waist-deep water. This was truly close quarters fishing. I was looking forward to the inferno of leaps and thrashing that would signify a hookup at such close range. A 60lb fish would deal a swift ass-kicking and leave us shaking our heads in astonishment at their power.

With so much bait in the area, pelicans were diving all around. If you have ever seen a bird with a 6ft wingspan fold it's wings to it's body and dive, beak first, into a baitball, you wouldn't forget it. For all of the splashing of these birds, the tarpon seemed unfazed. They were clearly the clean-up crew for any maimed fish that the birds missed.

A school of baby tarpon, the first I have seen around the island, came into sight cruising towards us from the west. Mark flicked a cast in front of them and during the ever so slow retrieve, a pelican cannonballed into the water inches from his fly. I thought we were going to have one pissed-off bird in a second when it realized the fish it grabbed was made of marabou and rabbit strips and contained a sharp surprise. Thankfully, the bird missed.

On his next cast, only seconds after the bird took off, the school of baby tarpon came towards his tarpon toad as one. The fly pulsated in the water a few feet beyond the end of Mark's 10wt.

Mark told me once that baby tarpon are probably a hell of a lot of fun on the fly; all of the acrobatics without the grinding bulldog dead weight you've got to haul in afterward.

In a sudden acceleration, a baby tarpon inhaled the fly and Mark set the hook. Still, as you will see, as if a rainbow had taken his Adams. This time, however, it served him well.

Check out the video below which shows the miss by the pelican and the complete duel with the baby silver king, set to some tunes by Death Cab.

It was a gorgeous, perfect fish.

After that, we walked West towards a sandy flat and observed some 'cudas chilling under some half-sunken boats. We gave the tarpon channel a breather and explored for bonefish. After about an hour, we returned to the spot and began to fish again.

Reviving before release.

It was at this time that some very unexpected visitors stopped by and began watching us fish...

This Ocean Is Wild.

There I was, perched a top ragged piece of dead coral, scanning the water and the horizon for any sign of movement. The higher position granting me mere feet of visibility, I squinted in the bright sun looking for something, anything. Perhaps a shadow, a tail, or the disturbance of a small bait ball being corralled from below, desperately fighting for their lives. Nothing now, hours have passed, and still I wait. The blue over white clouser fumbles in and out of my fingers in one hand and a sandy death grip clutches a piece of cork in the other.

Wishing, Watching, Waiting.

I step down from my gargoyle position careful to position my feet on level ground. Living coral once consumed the seascape below my feet but years of development and runoff leached all life from the precious organism. The shards left behind fit perfectly into every nook and cranny in my wading shoes. Perfectly rubbing and slicing against pruned skin. Trench foot and sharp coral do not go well together but I brush it off. I am in fishing mode and nothing gets in my way. I begin to blind cast off the coral and into the deep blue abyss hoping for a jack, a needlefish, or maybe even a ravenous barracuda waiting to explode. Nothing once again. My first afternoon out fishing the coast of the British Virgin Islands, thus far is proving to be difficult. Extra difficult on my poor feet.

Rainy, Windy, & Wavy Airport Flat on the BVI.

The Bluegill of BVI.

Schoolmaster Snapper.

Frustrated, I reel in the intermediate line about to give in and begin the treacherous walk back to the shallows. I glance back to my brother heading down to the beach and realize, he is coming to join me. Might as well take a few more casts. My head whips back around and it happens. Something catches my eye a hundred yards at my ten o'clock. The mental image of the scene frozen in time, taking milliseconds to register in my mind. I know exactly what it is, despite never seeing one face to face before. I've seen enough of this fish posterized in videos, magazines, and angler photos for years. It's go time.

The Hoist.

Fun Barracuda.

I begin a calculated bee line to the fish's position never taking my gaze away from the image ingrained in my mind. Without looking down, I attempt to switch to a crab imitation in stride while still trying to fixate on the goal on the horizon line. Suddenly, my line becomes taunt and my fixation is cut as my eyes follow my slack line yards behind me, beneath the waves, and onto the problem. Immediately I curse my poor-ass decision not to buy floating fly line and rely on an intermediate line. The waves wrap the line around, under, and over the coral. I begin screaming expletives that would make the father in a Christmas Story proud when finally all comes loose. I lose my cool and begin a brisk jog to the destination at the expense of my feet and ankles. The coral takes care of them, but still I push on.

Steep Cliffs, Coral Flats, & Deep Drop Offs.

The Scene of an Epic Duel.

Island Life.

Two Hours on a Flat, Zero Bonefish Spotted.

At this moment in time, I was not to be bothered, my mind was warped by buck fever and the frustration of the hunt. My brother catching up from behind casually asks a question to which I struggle to find the words to answer. What comes out of my mouth resembles a scene from the movie, Jaws. A young woman in shock at what she sees in front of her barely got out the words, S, Sh, SHh, SHARK!!! My mind, body, and soul also in a state of chaos tries letting out the words, P, PP, PPp, before finally rolling off in all their sanctity, PERMITTTTT!!!!! As I utter the words, the massive bluish black sickle of the permits tail once again breaks free of the water in between the leisurely waves. In my mind I hear the shaking of the tail almost beckoning us in for the challenge, laying down the gauntlet. Mortal kombat.

It's Time.

Fishing a Drop Off.

One of Many Yellow Tail Snapper.

Release...

The battle lines are drawn. In one corner, a permit of the Virgin Islands that has been hounded by a myriad of challenges his whole life and has survived. In the other corner, a noob, first time saltwater fly fisherman with a sinking line, and a hand tied crab pattern that was the first thing he felt in his box. Advantage: Permit. I lay out the first cast without false casting about fifteen feet in front of the permit in the direction its moving, stripping twice, then pausing. The permit disappears. I Spooked him. He reappears a considerable distance away and we give chase. The situation repeats itself two more times. The permit wants nothing to do with a crab imitation but seems to love picking things off the coral. Sea urchins perhaps. After an extended period without seeing our new acquaintance my brother begins to lose patience.

Matt- "Mark, we told the girls we be back two hours ago. All their stuff is in our car, & they can't get in the house. We need to get going."

Mark- "Then GO."

Strip, Strip, Strip...

Boom.

My brother, having lived and fished on the island for five months has seen exactly two permit while fishing, having a shot at only one of them. Here I was, my third day in the BVI, and I was locked in combat with a permit. How could he walk away from this? My brother, realizing my intentions gives me more time. After awhile, I too cave into my brother's repeated demands to pack it in. We begin walking back to the car, the pains of my feet finally sinking in. I decide to take one last look back in the vicinity of my last cast. In between waves, the sickle once again emerges seemingly calling us back out for another go around. This time, I choose a different pattern, a much lighter crab pattern that I was pretty proud of.

Please Don't Jump Into My Face.

Some Find Them Annoying, I Find Them To Be Pure Fun.

I wait for the permit to cruise directly in front of us before laying out the cast. The permit turns and casually stalks in closer to my fly. I pause, frozen, as a wave encapsulates the permit, diminishing the afternoon glare, and revealing my adversary for the first time. It is HUGE. The massive alien eye peers through the wave reaching deep into the very chasm of my diseased soul. For the first time, the permit lays his eyes on his pursuer and for a brief moment time stands still. I stand on the precipice of one of the many pinnacles of fly fishing but it is not to be. Just as soon as the moment arrives, the permit refuses, and disappears into the depths of the ocean.

The Permit Wins.

Second Needlefish of the Career.

When I arrived on the islands, one of my goals was to SEE a permit. I met that goal and took it one step further. I battled with a very large permit across the coral coastline of the British Virgin Islands for a half an hour. This was one of the highlights of the entire trip. Yeah it would have been tits to actually catch a permit but this more than quenched my appetite. I was beyond content with this experience. Even if I had somehow been a lucky son of a bitch and actually hooked this fish, there was no way I was going to land it amidst a field of sharp coral heads. I would have been schooled.

Fly fishing in saltwater is an entirely different animal. Your regular east coast trout stream is entirely predictable. The trout are usually in the same exact spots day in and day out and will usually fall for the same old patterns. Saltwater with the various landscapes, tides, and openness for a beginner is entirely unpredictable. Once mastered, for a seasoned vet, I am sure it can be predictable but more or less things are left up to chance. If you put the time in, you will be rewarded. The thing is, time can be hard to come for all except the those that live the dream. I will be back to the British Virgin Islands in the summer for an extended stay. No work. No worries. No restraints. That permit is going down.

Tarpon Slime.

I am not exactly sure what woke me up first, the incessant bites from the many mosquitos in the room or the howling screeches of the resident roosters outside the window. All I remember is waking up in unfamiliar territory. Shirtless and blanketless on an air mattress in the spare room in my brother's apartment in the British Virgin Islands. Two days earlier I was waking up in the cold of Pennsylvania. The night before I battled my first Tarpon on two full days of no sleep. The lure of the tarpon ensured my senses were operating on all cylinders before I took a nosedive and crashed. Hard. Day two in the BVI and I slept in. Already nearing 9 o'clock, I just wasted nearly four hours of daylight & fishing. What a waste.

As the residents of the household converged in the living room, plans were formed for the days events. One of the many perks of my brother being a teacher on the island are the lavish gifts that his students bestowed upon him. Among them were bottles of wine, a dive knife, and the best one just happened to be the keys to a condo on a nearby island. We decided to head there and spend the night. My brother promised there would be some great nighttime tarpon fishing to be had. I was willing to sacrifice a day of fishing for an exotic beach and amazing scenery. Just as long as I got a chance to redeem myself from the night before.

The Sweet Rental. Suzuki Carry 1.3

Virgin Gorda Beach Front.

Playing Catch With a Coconut.

Jay-Z's Yacht.

After a day of ferries, hiking, lush beaches, and interuppting photo shoots, we finally embarked on the mission. Luckily the spot we visited had enough light to attract schools of small baitfish. Where there are baitfish, there are tarpon. From a distance greater than fifty yards we layed our eyes on a spotted eagle ray some five feet across slowly making its way through the water. After a minute of admiration the tarpon began lurking in and out of the light. I tied on a large purple tarpon toad and got into position.

Matt Trying Out for the Final Season of LOST.

The Baths.

Snorkeling in the Baths.

Tying a Tarpon Leader in the Dr. Seuss Condo.

Before arriving on the island I half jokingly told my brother that I was going to land the first tarpon I saw, on the first cast I made. I got schooled that first night. A decade plus of trout fishing has a way of hardwiring your casting arm to lift the rod at every take. Bad news bears when fishing in the salt. If you lift the rod, a tarpon will sometimes give you a few precious seconds of chaos before seemingly spitting out the hook. You need to strip set hard. Much harder than you think in order to plant that steel in their prehistoric hinged jaw. These thoughts ran through my mind as my shot at redemption slowly meandered his way straight at me. I decided to let him swim under the pier and have my toad waiting for him on the opposite side. I casted the toad out about fifteen feet and waited. The tarpon swam out from the darkness directly between my legs inspected the fly briefly before inhaling it.

Lone Shot of the Battle.

Tailing a Tarpon. DUMB.

This Didn't Work Out Too Well.

It was more sheer luck than skill, that I caught my first tarpon. The first mistake I made was not strip setting. As soon as that fly disappeared in the mouth I lifted the rod. For weeks leading up to the visit I would practice strip setting while daydreaming about catching a tarpon. I even think I did it a few spontaneous times in public in front of people. All that practice and I was about to blow another shot at the king. However, this time I partially realized my mistake and dropped the tip and clamped down on the line just as the tarpon erupted. The fish took off and lept out of the air before heading to my right peeling line off the rod. He jumped directly next to the big ship at the end of the dock clearing the rail. He easily could have ended up in that ship and I was worried the second time he went for it. Of course this was all during the first ten seconds of the battle. I realized that this fish wasn't going anywhere and dropped my gaze on my reel. It was a tangled shit show. My line was wrapped around the butt of the rod and almost knotted in the spool. Despite this, the tarpon was STILL taking out line. Crazy.

Man Sized.

"O" Face.

My brother and I worked together to get out of that mess and when everything was clear he went on a little run. I kept the rod tip at my waste working him down and dirty in the opposite direction he was heading using the butt of the rod to wear him out. I walked him down to the beach and after a few tense moments and leaps in the surf, I wrapped my hands around my first megalops atlanticus. The whole show ending in less than ten minutes. I struggled to find the right thumb placement in his mouth. It was a pretty unfamiliar feeling sticking my hand in his mouth, it might as well have been a steel clamp. I led him out into the surf pushing water over his gills. I hoisted him up onto my chest using both arms holding him tight for an epic grip and grin shot.

Yeah, I Was Happy.

That night back in the condo, I slipped out to the pool and recounted the nights events under a star filled sky. The situation I found myself in was pretty ridiculous but it was made even sweeter by the fact that I had just caught my first tarpon. I reached out of the pool and grabbed my soaking wet shirt. It was coated in a layer of tarpon slime that reeked of fish. The entire front of the shirt was destroyed. I spent a few minutes scrubbing it in the pool to no avail. I placed the shirt in a plastic bag that eventually became several plastic bags as the week progressed. The shirt still reeks of my tarpon. It is a reminder of one fine night in the BVI.

Buck Fever.

After a short tour of the island, I brought Mark and Lex back to my apartment for lunch. Mark crossed the street and stepped onto the stone wall to peer at the rubble-bottomed flat opposite our porch. Dotted with coral heads and channels between, I've seen tarpon rolling, permit tailing, baitballs getting mauled and sharks cruising at various hours of the day and night.

Eyeing the channels.

...and way over yonder...

Seeing the bluish water up close for the first time, albeit somewhat stirred up from the offshore storms pushing in a swell, Mark peered at me through his polarized glasses and a smirk spread across his face. He hopped down off the wall and unpacked his ten weight in record time.

On the porch table he assembled his leader with shaking fingers. Asking my advice about flies as if I know what I'm talking about, he settled on a needlefish imitation in an attempt to entice a stout 'cuda we may have spied between some coral heads.

Stacy made some sandwiches and mark took a momentary break to wolf his down. He forgot to chew and choked on a bite, coughing and sputtering a question about wire tippet as he regained his composure.

'Calm down, bro, you've got a week,' I said, shaking my head as he finished his sandwich in three gulps.

He picked up his gear, crossed the street, hopped the wall and was in the water before the meal reached his stomach.

As the week progressed, I noticed Mark occasionally possessed by a plague that all fishermen have succumbed to when an opportunity to cast to a big fish presents itself. The symptoms include, but are not limited to: blown casts, weak or premature sets, lined fish, tangled reels, line snarled around arms and legs, trips, falls, slips, stumbles and the occasional epithet hurled at a departing wake. It is all to be expected the first time you're fishing the salt and get a shot at some of the fish we had shots at this past week.

The only treatment, the only way to relieve the pressure, is to land something...

That evening, we headed to the local beach where I have landed three tarpon in the past few months. We casted off both jetties until darkness overtook us, and headed home without a strike.

Near dark at the Sugar Mill.

Inconsistent tarpon at the Sugar Mill.

After dinner, we drove to Cane Garden Bay for a chance at some tarpon who usually cruise around a lighted boat dock. We spotted their shapes before the car was in park. We rigged up and began fishing. About 20 minutes in, Mark let out a primal yelp as a nice tarpon cleared the water, heading directly at him. He lifted the rod high over his head and striped is as much line as possible, but it was too late. The fish had expertly ducked underneath the dock, rounded a post and shook the hook while somehow imbedding it in the barnacle-encrusted dock pillar. Mark's first tarpon encounter.

He's gone under the dock!

Humbled after getting his ass kicked by his first tarpon.

That 80lb tippet isn't going to snap any time soon.

As the night grew later, I tried to coach Mark toward a solid hookup. He painfully learned the value of waiting for the fish to turn before setting the hook with a violent strip set as he pulled fly after fly right out of the hinged jaws of three tarpon. The coup de grace came with the largest tarpon seen so far, gleaming in the dock lights as it rounded a corner and headed for us. Mark perfectly presented the fly and the giant ambled over for a closer look. After a breathless eternity of being nose to nose with the purple toad, the tarpon made up it's mind and gently sipped the fly. No sooner had the tarpon engulfed the fly did Mark yank it right out of it's mouth by lifting the rod as if a rainbow had taken his Adams.

I hung my arms limply and slumped in my stance as Mark stood up straight and took his first breath since seeing the great fish. I could literally see his heart pounding in his chest at the excitement.

After their red-eye flight and 48 hours of no sleep, buck fever was all that was keeping him going. A landed tarpon on his first saltwater day was not to be. However, lessons learned on the first night would reap rewards in days to come.

Patrolling the wall.

Always on the lookout.

Searching for tail.

The day draws to a close, and still he waits.