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.

Not To Be Outdone

Last year Mark and I guided two of our friends to their first trout on fly. With both Krupa and Shocker being successful, our friend Kyle sparked an interest to pick up a fly rod for the first time. With Mark leaving for the islands it was up to me to show Kyle the ropes.

A few days of rain turned the Little Lehigh into a chocolaty soup but this did not stop Kyle. He arrived at my house wearing pink sunglasses, a hoodie, jeans, and wading boots...It was one of the greatest things I've ever seen. He wouldn't let me take a picture.

Kyle Still In Shock...

Delicately Playing Him Out.

Quite Pleased.

The Release

Once at the stream I set Kyle up in position to fish a slow eddy. After a bit of tough love on my part Kyle was accurately placing the flies and producing a sufficient dead drift. I left Kyle’s side and started to fish the tail out of the pool with a streamer, before I could take a second cast I heard splashing and turned to see Kyle engaged with a rainbow.

After Kyle caught his fish he retired for the day and watched me lose a few fish on the streamer before we packed it in.

Indicating Whats Up...

Congrats Kyle..Haha.

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.

Arrival.

There I was, standing alone in my bedroom packing a swimsuit and flip flops on Christmas Day. The weather outside is frightful but I am taking delight in the fact that I have a place to go. For the first time I am heading to the saltwater flats of the Caribbean to try my luck at the variety of saltwater species that make the place home. The following afternoon, in driving sheets of freezing rain, my sister and I depart for the Newark, NJ airport for a four hour flight to San Juan, Puerto Rico. As we make our way onto our first flight, my sister turned and reminded me that the last time we were on a plane, we jumped out of it.

The View From My Seat on the Cessna.

Lagoons That Hold Puerto Rican Tarpon.

We arrive late, and have an eight hour layover in the airport. I spend the time reading about the mangrove lagoon surrounding the airport and how it is one of the premier tarpon destinations in Puerto Rico. I occasionally glance at the ten weight and the freshly tied tarpon toads in my carry on. I am debating whether or not to sneak out of the airport and try and find a dock with some lights. I resist the urge to leave my sister behind and instead begin to contemplate the challenges that are sure to await me on the island of Tortola, of the British Virgin Islands.

Surf in Puerto Rico.

Flying Into A Rain Storm.

A Beautiful Tortola Bay.

I am considering calling this the first time I am ever fly fishing in saltwater. Yes, I have fiddled around for a few days in the backwater bays of the Outer Banks, but this is an entirely different ball game. Crystal clear water, shallow long flats, and extremely wary fish that are some of the most sought after species in the world await me and my decade plus of trout fishing experience. Will I be up for par? Will I be able to handle the power of a tarpon or the cunning of a permit? Will I even have a shot at these species? The thoughts are flowing at a mile a minute and I am left sleepless as I pull an all nighter in the deserted airport. Finally, it is my turn to depart and I make my way over to the small prop plane that is going to take me on the last leg of my journey.

Bro's Apartment.

The View From My Brother's Front Porch.

Lucky Bastard.

I take a seat directly behind the pilot and am treated to an aerial tour of the Caribbean as we make our way eastward over the Atlantic Ocean and the Caribbean Sea. Below boats of all sizes dot the open sea and resemble small ants making trails in the sand. We make our way over many islands all resembling something out of the helicopter ride in Jurassic Park. I make a mental note about how developed the US Virgin Islands are compared to the underdeveloped British Virgin Islands. Finally, after a brief forty minute trip the pilot veers and conducts a turn downwards into the runway. It was quite thrilling looking directly out of the cockpit as we swooped down for the landing. When the airline attendant finally opened the small door he had some kind words for our arrival, "Welcome to Paradise."

Moray Eel From a Small Lagoon.

First Day Weather. 

Would Be A Re-Occurring Theme.

Super Pumped.

Weird BVI Beer. Power Stout.

Strong Mocha Flavor With Some HGH Mixed In.

Awaiting me at the Airport gates are my brother and sister, ready to take me on a brief tour of the small 12 mile island. We zoom around the main highway that encircles the island and I take in the sites and sounds of Tortola. My neck (as it did for most of the trip) began to stiffen from all the time I spent scanning the water. Everything looked ideal to me and I kept asking my brother about the various spots. I had not slept for 36 hours but I was super excited to start fishing. My mind continued to race just like in Puerto Rico and when we finally stopped at his place, I immediately began thinking fish. For the majority of the trip I suffered not from Island fever but from something a lot worse. A fly fishing sickness that can wreck havoc on usually calm nerves. I was suffering from a strong case of buck fever.

Wish You Were Here.

I dig my toes into the sand

The ocean looks like a thousand diamonds

Strewn across a blue blanket

I lean against the wind

Pretend that I am weightless

And in this moment I am happy...happy

I wish you were here.

-Incubus

Greetings and Happy New Year from the British Virgin Islands!