PPS Destinations Report 

Sol Caribe, (near) Punta Allen, Mexico

Date:         2007

 Reported by Dr. Steve Marks, San Francisco, USA

Permit me,  

The bonefish was about as big as they get for this place.  I yelled to my guide.  “Get the camera!”  He yelled back “Reel! Reel! Reel!” Apparently I wasn’t reeling fast enough because he grabbed my fly line and snapped off the biggest bone of the trip.   

The day before, I had one on that was about half this size.  During the fight, I managed to slip into some quicksand muck, all the way down to my washboard abs.  No problemo for my guide. He hauled me out with one hand, not to mention my “Steve Jobs Keens” which were sucked off in the muck.  We maneuvered around a mangrove island, letting in and out line, slipping and sliding, most of the time with me on my knees and face, with one hand on his shoulder and the other on the rod, breaking off branches, and untangling shrunken heads of tropical flora and fauna from the fly line, and then we-he landed the 4 pound bone fish.  This, while he was keeping his smokes dry in his hat, preventing me from drowning and beating off the sharks.  

He took this opportunity to quietly admonish me to go barefoot from now on, not only because after retrieving my sandals, he was covered head to toe with slime-snot from the deep, but mainly because of the noise and vibrations.  Then, some more teaching on wading fast and quiet, feet feeling for spiny snail shells and other critters.  At this point I didn’t even worry about the Sting Rays.  This guy was good.  Real good!  I took his advice and trimmed my toenails and shaved my legs. (Is waterdynamic a word?)  

So when he snapped the big bone off, I kept my mouth shut and looked where he was pointing.  OH MY GOD!  Two jet black scythes barely moving in unison across the interface of atmosphere and sea.  He whispered, “Get the 10 Weight.” In a heartbeat he picked and tied on one of my store-bought, outsourced, all-purpose collection of saltwater flys.    We stealthily stalked this magnificent Denison of the shallows.  In whispers:  “Don’t splash”  “Good”  “O.K”   “Cast” “A little closer”  “No! No! No!”  “Closer!” “Again!”  “Too Short!” Then I remembered:  In getting prepared for this trip I tried various lines for this rod, picked one, but alas, never got around to putting backing on the reel.  I told you this guide was good.  He didn’t kill me.  He raced back to the skiff, on top of the water, grabbed the 8 weight with 8 pound tippet, and low and behold the permit was still there lazily pigging out on seafood cocktails, seemingly without a care in the world.  We used the ‘one foot rule’. Closer than that, or line the brute, and the fat lady will sing.  I could see the fish but not the fly. He would mimic the speed and length of the strip he wanted, using his fingers on my leg.  Super exciting!  “Strip, strip, strip, wait, strip, wait, strip, strip, strip.” At the last second I actually saw the foal take the fly and I set the hook.  I guess for some reason my guide didn’t completely trust me because he gave the fly line an extra little tug.  He wouldn’t let me tighten the drag and got apoplectic anytime I palmed the reel.  When we finally landed it, 45 minutes and 11 long runs latter, I think he might have been more excited than I was, perhaps for good reason.  Back at Sol Caribe, a Margarita never tasted so good, and I only slightly changed the story for the other guests.  Honest.  

I’ll be back.  For more information on this site, check out the Sol Caribe website.

Steve Marks

PS: Don’t forget to tell Michael and Dianne the Marks Brothers sent you.