Joining the Club

Words by Greg Thomas

HOOKED A PERMIT DURING THE FIRST FEW HOURS I EVER FISHED THE SALT. DIDN'T TOUCH ANOTHER FOR 20 YEARS.

That first one was a fluke. I was in the Florida Keys, casting a Cockroach for tarpon. Spotted some fish, figured they were permit, and didn’t have time to change flies. Threw a cast. One shot in a million. A fish peeled off the back of the pack and didn’t even hesitate. Proved that being lucky is sometimes better than being good.

I’m not the only one who could tell that story, although a first-day permit is rare indeed; going 20 years without hooking another is a tale far more saltwater anglers could share.

Basically, you have to want a permit to catch one, because not catching fish, as we all know (unless you fish with DuPont Specials, a.k.a. dynamite), is no fun at all. When you’re fishing permit, there’s a whole lot of waiting and very little catching. One eat a week would be acceptable. Three or four hookups means you’re pretty darn good at your craft.

The truth is, choosing to chase permit is a commitment to fail—a choice that says you’re willing to battle it out in your head, trying to keep that white flag at bay. It also demonstrates that you understand challenge and reward, the power of keeping faith, and stars eventually aligning. Saying, I do, also means long days on a boat, possibly heaving on the tide, shins and arches aching, all while scanning the water for those dark tails and dorsals, or a subtle, almost imperceptible silvery flash.

When you spot a fish, the real pressure is on. You may get one good shot a day and nobody wants to be the guy who blew the cast when the fish were happily feeding, just 30 feet away. In the moment, the successful angler somehow slows time and makes a pinpoint cast. Anything but, and your permit is gone.

You can want a permit too badly, and wanting something too badly spawns all sorts of issues . . . whether that's with a new car, an old girlfriend, a six-point bull elk on the opposite side of the mountain or, um, a neighbor’s wife. Chill is your goal. Panic is the enemy.

If permit are worthy of your time, you’ll understand how many things can go wrong while pursuing them. It’s all a game of compromise.

—They are easier to spot with high sun and calm water; however, they are less spooky with cloud cover and a chop on the surface

—You want a guide to help you spot fish and put the fly where it belongs; however, trying to put a fly where it belongs is very difficult when a super excitable and possibly frustrated guide—who laid into you the last time you blew the shot—is screaming, “Two o’clock. Moving right. Forty feet. Cast! Cast now!”

—If you put the fly in the right place you can’t strip it fast because the permit will spook; however, stripping a fly slowly makes it difficult to detect whether you’ve had a take or are simply hung up on bottom . . . again. 

—I could go on.

Those equations are part of the reason there are way more golfers and cyclists than fly fishers—at least some of the time a golfer gets lucky with their swing, and a cyclist’s day is guaranteed to be good, barring an unruly lightning bolt, or a grizzly claiming the trail.

If it all sounds like too much, best stick with those bonefish and tarpon or just pull the covers over your head and hide.

But why do that? There are good reasons to fish permit. Saying you’ve done so and, better yet, saying you’ve caught one, places you in a unique club, a band of likeminded anglers who’ve all pushed themselves to the limit. Why do people climb Everest? Why do some forgo oxygen and a rope? Why do some people hunt grizzlies with a long bow? Why do we bother with permit? Getting through it. Perseverance. Earning your turns. Whatever you call it, challenge and failure craft us. And permit craft pretty fine fly fishers.

The last permit I hooked, just a couple years ago, was almost as unexpected as my first. I was in Belize, at Blue Horizon Lodge, having gone two days without an eat. It was the last day and my optimism was fading fast. I was now paired with the junior guide, Kevon. The tides were average at best. We’d spent the morning running from one place to another without having seen a fish. Eventually, we took a break and played around with some bonefish. There was only enough time to try another flat or two. If you were betting, picking us over permit would have been a very risky play.

Surprisingly, we spotted two fish right off the bat and followed them up a flat to a sandbar. They were pinned in and had to turn one way or another, shallow or deep. They chose deep. Kevon held the boat in place and waited. A couple minutes later there they were, just off the port side, relatively deep, but within range. I cast, let the fly sit and was about to get bit when Kevon hollered, “Cast again.” Except he didn’t say, “Cast again.” I heard his words, thought he’d seen a better fish, and simply pulled the fly right out of a permit’s mouth. Kevon yelled, “Why!”

I was already reloading, knowing I’d misunderstood him, and let another cast go. The crab landed softly and sank to bottom. Two permit turned and one of them ate. I set the hook and a few minutes later was cradling a 12-pounder for the hero shot. Again, when it comes to permit, maybe best to be lucky versus good.

That evening I accepted a Sharpie from the lodge manager and signed my name on a beam, right next to dozens of other fortunate anglers who’d earned the right to do so. I was the only one to get a permit that week and was now part of the club. I was already promising to be calmer next time, telling myself, It’s just a permit, right?

Before I left Blue Horizon, I took a last glance at a sign on the wall, knowing it was written for all who dare to chase. It reads:

EVER TRIED.

EVER FAILED.

NO MATTER.

TRY AGAIN.

FAIL AGAIN.

FAIL BETTER.

That pretty much sums it up, unless you get lucky.