The Bottom of the 9th

Dan's 40th Birthday Trip

It can be tough to live up to the hype of something deemed legendary. For those that have read this blog since the beginning, you may have been most captivated by our trials and tribulations fly fishing out on the far end of the Lesser Antilles. You wouldn't be wrong to say that it was our peak, or our "good ole days". It was a blend of storytelling, adventure, successes, failures, photography, combined with the fact that Instagram didn't exist yet. In those days, Dan was a reader that became enthralled by our experiences which led him to reach out to us. We ended up meeting, and becoming friends, at the Somerset Fly Fishing Show. Afterwards we fished occasionally in Pennsylvania and New York before he moved to Florida where he worked for the Bonefish and Tarpon Trust. After several years, he moved back to Pennsylvania where we've only grown closer as friends. Currently, he serves as the president of his local Little Lehigh TU Chapter and he's a board member of Keep Fish Wet. When the opportunity came for us to return to those islands, it was only natural for us to invite Dan for part of the journey. Once invited, my brother and I realized that we suddenly had to make a decade and a half of anticipation, hype, and stories live up to the legend...

The Search...

A Walk Off Bonefish...

Surf Bones

Paradise

Outside of permit, the salt species that I get most excited about are bonefish due to the sight fishing opportunities they provide and how they truly test ones gear on the flats. On this particular trip, I had multiple shots at some mega-sized bones. When I say "shots," I actually mean glimmers. The moments were fleeting due to where I encountered them, which was typically in the surf. The geographic features of these volcanic islands do not produce the traditional flats that one would find in the Bahamas or The Keys. They are smaller, rocky, and full of dead coral that make landing a fish incredibly difficult. A lot of these micro flats have waves rolling across them. When combined with wind and glare it is very difficult to spot a bonefish and get an accurate cast off before they vanish. Here, it is rare to see a grouping of bones with more than 2-3 fish. More often than not, they are solitary prowlers. Another area where a lot of these larger fish are encountered are directly on the beaches where the unpredictability of the waves, and the backwash they produce, give you such a short window to make a presentation to sighted fish. On top of that, the presentation of the fly becomes difficult due to the sheer power of the current moving in and out along with the changing turbidity. The task is an exercise in patience as you have to wait for a viewing window that is only open for a precious few seconds before it closes again. More often than not, you don't see anything. Sometimes, you see the image of solitary giant bonefish that will haunt your dreams at night...

Wind, waves, current, and a lot of sharp objects...

A good one found in the surf...

Balancing Act in Blue

The Return...

In 2009, Matt and Stacy went to an international job fair for teachers in Boston, Massachusetts. They left with multiple offers at various destinations around the world. They ended up accepting positions on the island of Tortola, in the British Virgin Islands. The decision for them was bittersweet. The act of leaving their inner city Baltimore teaching gigs was the easy part.  The more difficult one was leaving friends and family behind and embarking on a journey living in multiple countries over half a decade. On my end, I was definitely going to miss my brother and future sister in-law. On the other hand, their decision meant that I had a free place to stay and fish in a tropical paradise whenever I had the time to go. Looking back on those trips sleeping on deflating air mattresses, small couches, bare tiled floors, hammocks, tents, and in the sand, I've come to realize that they were some of the best days of my life. At the time, I was young and naive, so I didn't truly appreciate the moments for what they were. However, I have very fond memories chasing bonefish, casting at the rare permit, and dancing with tarpon under street lights at night. I last said goodbye to these islands in 2012. Deep down, I always knew that we'd eventually go back. Twelve years later, we finally did...

Finding the balance between family and fishing time...

A tanker in between being "Uncle Mark"

"Sun"

The sun sets in the Caribbean...

I fondly remember a story from my childhood of an image my mother took well before I was born. She was into photography in those days and had a Pentax film camera that she used to document college, marriage, and building a family. She took a photograph of my Dad walking my young brother down the road we grew up on. The sun was setting in the background between the trees and casted beams of light down onto my father as he held his first born's hand. I only saw the image a few times, but I distinctly remember the story behind it. My mom entered it into a local photography contest. In its entry, it simply had a one word description, "Son". That story was on my mind during my first night back in the Caribbean on a chain of islands I hadn't seen in over a decade. I was watching my brother play with his son in the pool as the sun began to set on the horizon. As I framed the shot, the image my mother took a long time ago came back into my memory as I realized I was recreating it for my brother and his son. I was glad to capture the precious moment for Matt and preserve a memory for Isaac, who will most likely not remember it. Maybe one day, he'll capture his own version of my Mom's image and add it to the family line...

"Son"

My mother's photo unearthed...

Returning to a special place from our past...

The Old Man

Old man, take a look at my life, I'm a lot like you...

The old man made the walk every evening I was there. I never saw where he came from and I never found out if he was a local, or like me, a tourist. His walk passed directly by my van on his way down to the beach and into the water. We usually exchanged pleasant nods, no doubt due to the language barrier, which was for me a subtle recognition from one fly angler to another. Nothing more needed to be said on either end. He represented his era with a fiberglass rod, Pfleuger Medalist, neoprene waders, an old-fashioned vest, and a hat that had seen plenty of sun and rain in its lifetime. The gear was simplistic, well worn, and honed to the specific task at hand. From his perspective, he found me tinkering with my spey rods, changing out shooting heads, tying flies, or gearing up the single hander for a striper session. The exorbitant nature of my equipment, and its volume, stood in complete contrast to the old timer's approach. I usually felt a slight sensation of embarrassment as I overthought and complicated the most simplistic of fly fishing pursuits...the swung fly.