The Tug Is the Drug 37 Fly-Fishing Essays from the New York Times & Beyond
Chris Santella
STACKPOLE BOOKS Guilford, Connecticut
A Ferocious Gift Lures Anglers to Christmas Island
As a non–fish eater, I was taken aback when Peter Kairaoi, lead guide for Christmas Island Outfitters, took a healthy bite from a dead and rather pungent milkfish he was shredding and tossing into the water for chum. My gag reflex was preempted by a burst of adrenaline as Kairaoi interrupted his sashimi snack to yell “Trevally!” A large shadow moved onto the flat, zigging and zagging in search of its next meal. It sped toward us in the shallows until half of its immense head was above the water. I cast my 12-weight—a telephone pole of a rod—in the fish’s direction, hoping that my offering would prove tempting, or at least discourage its advance. Giant trevally are a little bit scary. Giant trevally (GTs) are the largest of the 33 species of trevally that swim in the Pacific and Indian Oceans. Silver shaded with prominently forked tails, they are easily distinguished from other trevally species by their steep head profile. GTs will prey on anything they can catch and squeeze into their capacious mouth—mullet, juvenile milkfish, even bonefish. Generally found in deeper water, they will sweep onto the flats—often in groups of three, four, or five fish—in pursuit of prey. Giant trevally can reach weights of 120 pounds and more, though anglers are more likely to encounter specimens in the 10- to 50-pound range. Many are thankful for that. “Anyone who has had the opportunity to fish for giant trevally knows that if you get an opportunity at a trophy GT—a fish of 50 pounds or better—many things need to go right to get the fish to hand,” said Brian 1
The Tug Is the Drug
Gies, co-owner of Fly Water Travel. “More often than not, somewhere in the string of events something goes wrong—a rod breaks, knots give way, or a coral head severs the line—and you’re left standing on the flat, heart and mind racing, knees weak, playing the situation back in your mind.” It was the promise of bonefish that initially lured anglers to Christmas Island, an isolated coral atoll some 1,200 miles south of Honolulu, part of the island nation of Kiribati. Since the early 1980s, the atoll’s vast interior lagoon—a mix of sand and coral flats interspersed with deep cuts that usher tidal water to and fro—has been renowned as one of the world’s most prolific and reliable venues for the sleek, finicky sport fish. In the course of stalking bonefish, anglers discovered GTs—sometimes in hot pursuit of the bonefish they attempted to play to hand! There are three ways that fly anglers can pursue giant trevally on Christmas Island. One can establish a post on a flat adjacent to channels with a healthy current and chum, waiting for the fish parts to draw in other baitfish that will (hopefully) in turn lure in the GTs; one can slowly cruise the edges of the flats in one of the island’s motorized catamarans, scanning for GTs that can then be stalked on foot; or, one can pursue bonefish on the flats while carrying a 12-weight rod in your pack, and switch rods if you happen upon ambushing GTs (easier said than done). Chumming proved most productive for my group, though it was not until the fifth day of fishing that our flies found purchase. After capturing a brace of milkfish in a seine net, guides Moana Kofe and T. John anchored our cat on a small coral island and positioned four anglers opposite a channel. Darkening hues of turquoise hinted at the deepening water before us—the domain of trevally. As Kofe and John tossed chunks of milkfish into the water, great frigatebirds hovered just above them, occasionally plucking a morsel from the surface. GTs materialized in less than 10 minutes—two fish at the point of the island, a gang of four in the shallows in front of the channel. They moved deliberately in search of food, churning the water and swirling at our flies. Two anglers hooked up in rapid succession; one had only six feet of leader outside of his rod tip when the fish took. Soon we had all hooked and landed fish from the melee, the largest approaching 40 pounds.
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A Ferocious Gift Lures Anglers to Christmas Island
Before the fishing slowed, I flipped my streamer, a concoction of long white chicken feathers, to the edge of a group of circling trevally. A leviathan—Kofe estimated it at near 60 pounds—charged out of the depths, seizing the fly on the run. Though my drag was tightened to maximum tension, the fish peeled line and backing off as though I were using a toy reel. The fish raced toward the channel at the far end of the island, and I chased after it, dodging under the lines of my fellow anglers in an attempt to keep the leader and fly line high and away from coral heads. After 75 yards, I could go no further. My rod pulsed as the reel gave up line—100, 150, then 200 yards. For a moment, I entertained the vision of my rod shattering under this immense pressure, shards of splintering graphite piercing my carotid artery. I would perish by trevally on this lonely coral isle! There was nothing I could do but hope that the fish would stop and let me regain some line. Then there was simply nothing. I reeled in several football fields of backing to learn that my 100pound leader had been sliced. At least I had not lost my fly line, too.
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