Colombia: Yellowfin Tuna on the Fly

Colombia:

Yellowfin Tuna on the Fly

Not so long ago, Colombia had a reputation as a broken, lawless state, riven by civil war and violence. The country’s very name was synonymous with murderous drug cartels and fifty years of internal conflict that had left well over 200,000 people dead. However, since the remarkable work of President Juan Manuel Santos, the winner of the Nobel Peace Prize in 2016, the civil war has finally ended, and Colombia has started on the long road to recovery.

By MATT HARRIS

It is now safe to visit the country and those willing to leave their preconceptions behind are in for an exhilarating rollercoaster ride. A vibrant Latin culture is now thriving, and the country can offer an incredibly colourful spectrum of environments and experiences. Colombia is one of the world’s only 17 ‘megadiverse’ countries and boasts the second-highest level of biodiversity of any nation-state in the world. Its territory encompasses Amazonian rainforest, highlands, grasslands, and deserts, and it is the only country in South America with coastlines and islands bordering both the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans. Colombia also offers some truly remarkable fishing, and pioneers like my good friend Beto Mejia at Fish Colombia are helping to expose the rest of the world to some of the exhilarating opportunities the country has to offer.

SPECTACULAR FISH MIGRATIONS

Every year, along Colombia’s Northern Pacific coastline, one of the natural world’s most spectacular migrations takes place.

Literally millions of sardines travel from the Bay of Panama down along the coast, and as they make their way south, they seem to attract every predator in the Eastern Pacific. Whereas in Panama’s celebrated Pinas Bay fishery, just to the north, the oceanic shelf is around 30 miles offshore, at Bahia Solano it is right on the doorstep, barely five miles from the beach. This means that the migration comes very close to the shore, and small artisanal boats can catch huge numbers of sardines armed only with a cast net.

For the last decade or so, the local communities have worked hand in hand with the Colombian Government to create ZEPA, an exclusive zone for artisanal fishing, allowing only traditional methods of sustainable fishing, and banning long-lines, purse-seiners and all the black magic of high-tech tuna and shrimp boats. As a result, the sardines and the species that predate on them have flourished. The sardines attract a huge range of large predators.

A panoply of wonderful sportfish queue up to compete for the angler’s attention. Superstar sport species like Roosterfish, Marlin, Sailfish, Cubera Snapper and even increasing numbers of Tarpon that have found their way into the Pacific via the Panama Canal all feed on the huge bait schools, but the main staple that follow the sardines down the coast are the vast hordes of Yellowfin Tuna. These precious fish provide a sustainable fishery for the local community, and for the fly rod fanatic, they are a truly wild ride.

ON TRACK TO COLOMBIA

I was invited to explore this incredible fishery in May 2019 with Beto. but at the last minute, my friend was called away on urgent business. No matter: I headed out with another friend José Bravo, a talented and likeable young angler from Colombia who has fished all around this amazing country.

I met José in Medellin, and his brighteyed enthusiasm for his country’s diverse fishing opportunities was infectious. I knew immediately that we would have a blast. We flew west and landed at José Celestino Mutis Airport in Colombia’s Choco district.

“Literally millions of sardines travel from the Bay of Panama down along the coast”

A short taxi ride over rutted tarmac brought us bouncing into Bahia Solano, a remote, colourful little community, wedged between the jungle and the eponymous broad bay on the Pacific Ocean. As we sank a few icy beers and rigged the twelve weight rods in the late afternoon sunshine, José told me all about the fisheries conservation work that the Colombian government had done here in the Choco region and elsewhere in his country. It was impossible not to feel optimistic about our chances.

The first day was a disappointing wash-out as a nasty cold front blew down from Panama, but the following day dawned clear and bright.

The bustling little harbour was alive with all manner of craft as we arrived at the jetty in the early morning sunshine. We laughed with the local kids as they crowded around us at the dock and helped us carry our gear to the boat, and we showed them the bizarre array of flies that we were hoping might snag us a tuna or two.

HEADING OUT

We stashed our kit onto El Bizcocho, Beto’s fast and well-appointed boat and then, having eased our way carefully between the flotilla of little fishing skiffs and dug-out canoes, our captain opened up the big twin Yamaha engines and we fizzed out into the ocean. Heading north, it was fascinating to see that the shore was protected by mile after mile of dense jungle, with virtually no sign of human incursion. The water was clean and clear, the endless golden beaches were immaculate and deserted, and the entire environment felt utterly pristine.

We explored a jagged headland that jutted out unto the ocean and gazed in amazement at the tens of thousands of sardines hugging the rocky promontory. Dolphins frisked in the tropical sunshine, and pelicans and frigate birds hovered over the sardines with murderous intent. It was surely only a matter of time before the tuna turned up and tucked into this enormous, all-you-can-eat-buffet.

YELLOWFIN EVERYWHERE

We scanned the water expectantly, rods at the ready and line stripped on the deck. Just as José predicted, we didn’t have to wait long. Suddenly they were all around. Yellowfin. Everywhere. The feeding activity was astonishing. Everywhere we looked there were myriad busts as if dozens of hand-grenades were being thrown all around the boat. The water was literally churning with activity, as hundreds of tuna fizzed through the waves like supercharged torpedoes, slicing through the bait-ball in a frenetic blizzard of mayhem and slaughter.

“Yellowfin soup!!!” I laughed to José, as we pitched our flies into the melee. This was surely going to be a turkey shoot.

After three monstrous busts, our flies - tried and tested subsurface sardine imitations like the Gym sock, the flashy profile and various Deceivers, Surf Candies and Clouser minnows had all been singularly ignored. Our excitement quickly turned to frustration and humiliation, as the feeding frenzies yielded a lot of excitement but precious little to the boat. Some turkey shoot!

Our likeable skipper was new to flyfishing, and he was clearly less than impressed with our daft bits of fluff and their inability to lure even one fish from the vast schools of ravenous tuna. The issue was clearly that there was too much bait - our flies were needles in the proverbial haystack, lost in amongst literally thousands of easy little meals. We needed something that stood out from the crowd. I had an idea.

NOT YOUR AVERAGE TUNA FISHING

I’d rigged a second rod for throwing big poppers for cuberas and jacks, and as we bounced towards the next big bust, I snatched it up and stripped the line onto the deck in readiness.

The fly attached to the leader was my old friend James Christmas’s brilliant creation, the NYAP, on an 8/0 hook.

NYAP stands for Not Your Average Popper, and it’s the perfect sobriquet. James designed it to solve a specific problem. Most popper patterns are designed to offer water resistance (so that they ‘pop’ ) but this also makes them air-resistant and renders them hard to cast. James’s invention slices through the air and casts like a dream, even when waist-deep in the waters of the Seychelles. However, once in the water, the fly pops and sputters with the best of them, causing as much commotion as any number of other, more unwieldy designs. It is a work of genius.

As we approached the next bust, I wound up a cast and sent the NYAP out into the chaos. For long casts to busting tuna, the NYAP was perfect. It cut through the air just like a regular fly. Unlike the sub-surface patterns, however, the big surface ‘pop’ that the NYAP made was like a dinner bell to the depraved yellowfin, and it was instantly demolished in a thrilling heartbeat. The line shot off the deck in a split-second, and suddenly the reel was fizzing wildly as the fish disappeared across the bay in a blur.

RAW POWER

I don’t care what anyone says - for sheer strength, pound for poundnothing and I mean NOTHING is as strong as a tuna. A twenty-pound tuna will amaze you with its turn of speed. A forty-pounder will beat you up, and an eighty-pounder? An eighty pounder will have you crying for your mother.

“The main staple that follow the sardines down the coast are the vast hordes of Yellowfin Tuna”

Thankfully this was a relatively modest fish of around twenty-five pounds, and after a protracted tugof-war, I finally wrestled the fish into the boat. I grinned at José as I prized the NYAP from the fish’s jaws and watched the captain unceremoniously dispatch the tuna with a baseball bat to provide us all with a delicious sashimi supper.

The bust was over but another one was blowing up half a mile away. I fished another NYAP out of my fly wallet and gave it to José. We went rocketing towards the action and set about those tuna with an appetite that verged on bloodlust.

“We watched entranced as a huge whale shark came gliding through the bait-ball and swam right under our boat”

That first fish wasn’t a fluke. James Christmas’s fly transformed the fishing, and for the rest of that long day, the action was as frantic and as relentless as any I can ever remember. We caught and released countless Yellowfin. Fish would sometimes grab the fly as it landed, often before we even had time to induce any movement. Mercifully, most of the fish were between 15 and 30 pounds, and we soon lost count as fish after fish climbed onto the big poppers and went rocketing for the horizon.

“MIS CONDOLENCIAS!”

Eventually, it had to happen. José got lucky - or perhaps unlucky, depending on your perspective. A big Yellowfin burst through the surface and my friend was instantly attached to a really big brute of a tuna. “Grande!!!” He hollered, as the rod buckled down to the cork, and I grinned at my friend as he winced in pain. “Oh dear!” I winked, “mis condolencias!!!!”

Small Yellowfin are some of the most fun you will ever have with a fly rod. Being attached to a tuna of fifty pounds and over with a flimsy fly rod, however, is nothing short of a living hell. Jose’s fish looked 70 pounds and more. I sat down lazily under the boat’s central canopy and opened a frosty can of “Aguila”.

“Salut, amigo” I grinned, catching my new friend’s eye as he scowled theatrically, wiping away the sweat and settling into what we both knew would be at least 30 minutes of unremitting attritional torment.

Hats off to José. He put everything he had into battling that fish, and, after a tortuous battle, he had the fish to the gunwale. Our captain expertly gaffed the fish and swung it aboard. José was thrilled - a tuna of seventy-five pounds on the fly is a remarkable achievement, especially if your rod remains intact. I photographed my friend with his spectacular catch, and then we enjoyed a laugh and a cold beer in the sunshine and watched entranced as a huge whale shark came gliding through the bait-ball and swam right under our boat. The action and the laughter continued unabated all through that long golden afternoon, and we never tired of watching our NYAP flies being swallowed by the voracious tuna, mostly the moment they hit the water. That night, we strolled into the vibrant little town, ate delicious sashimi, drank a few more cold beers and laughed at our good fortune and the countless line-burns on our thumbs. I was asleep before my head hit the pillow.

EXPLORATIONS TOWARDS PANAMA

The next few days were extraordinary. We went exploring all the way up to Panama, and although we couldn’t find a sailfish, we walked on remote, immaculate beaches and caught yellowfin almost at will. Our captain showed us how to throw a cast net, and we filled the Bizcocho’s live-well to the brim with sardines. Throwing them overboard would have the fish exploding around the boat in moments, and after catching a few fish, it was simply fun to watch the water churning with feeding tuna.

The Whale Sharks put in a regular appearance, and dolphins frisked around the prow in their hundreds as we headed for home.

Then, one evening, as we rolled back into the dock, we were met by an ominous sight. Moored in the beautiful little bay was a hideous, incongruous blemish - a huge ship. It looked like the Tirpitz, but this was no battleship. The little yellow ‘spotter’ helicopter perched on her superstructure gave her away. This was a state-of-the-art industrial purse-seine tuna-fishing boat. Our captain scowled, and as we pulled up at the dock, the little harbour was alive with animated chatter. It was clear that the boat was an unwanted presence in this utopian little Garden of Eden.

The next day it was gone. So, sadly, were the sardines, and to a large extent, the tuna. It was, most likely, coincidence: the sardine migration moves in waves down the coast, and the pelagic species follow them. However, it felt like a dark portent. Bahia Solano‘s incredible fishery had shown us in a few short days what a sustainable fisheries policy like the one imposed by ZEPA can look like - plentiful fish for the entire community that can be caught in sustainable numbers, while allowing the resource to flourish. As we roamed the bay, looking for the last stragglers of the run, I thought a lot about that huge, malevolent-looking tuna boat. It felt like a glimpse of the future, and I didn’t like it.

“LAST CHANCE SALOON”

The last hour of the trip was as exhilarating as any. We found a horde of Yellowfin only half a mile from the dock and set about them with the ‘last chance saloon’ enthusiasm of those that know that the start of a long trip home is only hours away. As what I knew would be my last yellowfin of the trip sizzled out into the blue, I knew I would come back to this magical place, perhaps to target the roosters, the snook, the cubera snapper, and maybe even a marlin or two as well as the yellowfin.

I hope Bahia Solano stays as pristine and as beautiful as it was in those few short days I spent there. It felt like paradise.