PROBLEMS WITH PERMIT

by Joe Doggett

The first day I fished for permit, I caught a permit. Well, naturally. Of course. That’s the upside. The downside is that the 5-pounder grabbed a Wiggle Jig on a light spinning rod.

The hookup occurred on my fledgling trip to Mexico’s Yucatan during the late ‘70s. We were stationed at the old Pez Maya camp south of the ruins of Tulum. The same afternoon I caught several bonefish on a fly rod and a 20-pound tarpon on a topwater plug on a casting outfit.

Wow, I thought, a grand slam! This is easy! Back at the lodge I was crowing over my accomplishment and a pair of huffy anglers from South Florida exchanged a stony look.

“No, no, Tex, you don’t understand,” one corrected. “A grand slam means catching all three in a single day on a fly. On a fly.”

I’m still a bit miffed. I mean, the ability to utilize the three separate light-tackle disciplines sounds pretty salty, the badge of a well-rounded angler. Put another way, some excellent fly-rodders would be redfaced trying to drop five consecutive free-spool shots into a floating ring at 50 or 60 feet. Plug Casting 101.

Drilling a positive sidearm shot straight into the honkin’ afternoon trades on a wild Caribbean beachfront and placing the jiving Heddon Spook about 8 feet ahead of the rolling school of surf tarpon says something about an educated thumb, of having the ability to command the delicate but violent interaction of blurring spool, flexing tip, and arcing lure. Being from Houston, my levelwind casting roots run deep.

But, technically, they were correct. The next day, while wading the same flat behind the pass, I vowed to correct the ledger. Several small bonefish ate the fly, then a school of small permit finned across the crescent of turtle grass. The first school was joined by a second, and the whole mob came my way.

Step aside, I thought. Watch the A-Team in action!

A decent loop with the 8-weight dropped a size-8 Pink Shrimp ahead of the waving tails and weaving dorsals. Several strips later, the line came tight and a permit blasted across the flat. The clicker reel screamed (a cliche, or maybe a clickche, but the whirring spool of the simple design does indeed impart a shrill scream). The line and backing swept in a wide arc and the permit rooted in the grass and the miserable little fly pulled free. Dejected and irritated, I cranked in the backing. The cheap thin-wire hook was too small, too weak for a real fish. Lesson learned.

I failed to hook another permit on that expedition.

The next trip occurred several years later at the new Casa Blanca Lodge, located on the southern headland of fabulous Ascencion Bay. Again I was wading. Incidentally, regardless of tackle, putting the best foot forward is my favorite way of one-on-one contact in shallow water.

Two big tails flashed and waved in knee-deep water near a nook of coral rubble. The fly was an early crab imitation fashioned with rubber legs and a hard epoxy body. It looked very crabby but proved to be a bitch to cast.

A struggling 9-weight loop lumbered

forward and the offering plopped down like a baby conch shell. I down like a baby conch shell. I winced, but the nearest permit winced, but the nearest permit absolutely nailed it. Line tore from the disc drag reel, followed by souldeadening slack. A close look at the fly revealed that the gap of the long-shanked hook was too narrow. The stiff body failed to collapse and the carapace acted as a hook guard—or permit guard, as the case might be. A bulky fly of any stiff construction demands a wider gap to improve the odds of reaching the fish. But the fly was a proven producer and, as my sophomoric supply of permit patterns was sparse, I juryrigged it by tying a short stinger hook to the shank. The modified lashing looked a bit odd but the whole business of permit fishing is a bit odd. No doubt, the Florida aces from No doubt, the Florida aces from the previous Pez Maya trip would the previous Pez Maya trip would have been scandalized. have been scandalized. What the What the hell, I thought, maybe it’ll pass for another claw.

A day or two later, I waded with that awkward magnum into my first flyrod permit. It was a “pocket permit” weighing maybe 3 or 4 pounds, but a gorgeous permit is a gorgeous permit, and the stinger was planted firmly in the hinge of the jaw.

I’ve caught the occasional Trachinotus over the past decades—one here and, a year or so later, one there. That sort of thing. But my record of failures has been woeful. I’m not talking about the hundreds of decent presentations met with magnificent disregard—that’s permit fishing. I’m referring to losing hard-won hooked fish. The percentage is way out of balance with the success ratio on other species (except maybe the “cheatin’ Triggers” of Christmas the “cheatin’ Triggers” of Christmas Island). Island).

A few years after the first fly-caught permit I was back in the Yucatan at Boca Paila Lodge (near the site of old Pez Maya—excellent permit water). The guide had me staked out near one of the amazing blue holes in the lagoon. The deep cenotes feed tidal currents from the distant Caribbean.

A school of perhaps two dozen 8- to 10-pound permit was cruising around the tight perimeter of the blue hole, doing whatever it is that permit feel necessary to do. The cast was long—70 or 75 feet so as not to spook the quirky fish. They were oblivious to our position.

The black sickles and chrome sides were spellbinding. I was almost hyperventilating, burning with the Permit Fever.

On the third or fourth shot, one of the lead fish turned and the line yanked tight. Shocked, I reacted with all the fanatical gusto of Captain Ahab hurling his cruel harpoon. I lacked only a black stovepipe hat, a heavy topcoat, and a whalebone peg (“Aye, have some of this ye curs-ed and damn-ed permit!”).

The 12-pound tippet vaporized. The lesson is simple: If permit are a real possibility, don’t give away cheap shots with the 10- or 12-pound leader used for “banana bones” in the Yucatan. It’s easy to over-amp. And, worth note, permit seldom are too far from rubble of some sort. A 16- or 20-pound tippet is a superior shock absorber. Besides, it’s my experience that a deranged permit determined to strike is not particularly leader shy, especially in the deeper, choppier water (relative to tailing bonefish) where they’re often encountered. But I’m not finished. The school was still circling, doing whatever it is that permit feel necessary to do. Trembling fingers re-rigged, again with 12-pound (maybe that’s all I had; if so, a rookie mistake).

Several casts later another fish hit. A short strip-strike sealed the deal and the fish dashed across the flat. Then the line sagged slack. My windblown comments reverberated against the dark mangroves.

Reeling in, I glared at the fly-less tippet and noted with a weird mix of alarm and relief that the improved clinch knot was intact. The eye of the hook had not been crimped all the way shut, thus allowing the thin mono to pull though the gap.

No pigtail, no clean snap, no cut or fray. The empty knot simply formed a miniature hangman’s noose, remarkably fitting under the circumstances.

The takeaway: It costs absolutely nothing to inspect the fly. And don’t always trust a guide to do this. Following successful flats releases, I’ve been handed flies with broken points, opened bends, and twisted bead eyes.

Once, at Playa Blanca (north of Cancun, another excellent permit and baby tarpon venue), I was seriously working on a coveted fly rod super slam (bonefish, tarpon, snook, and permit). The first three were on the board and a taunting dark tail flashed in the afternoon light. The permit was tilting in the marl near an island spiked with mangrove shoots.

The panga poled into position. Out went the crab fly, down went the

busy tail, and the line came tight amid a lusty swirl. The permit took the fly line and some yards of backing, then slowed and stopped. A single mangrove shoot waited between me and rare glory. The permit plowed past the stickup and the line caught on the rubbery stalk. Startled, the fish shot to the right and the rod countered by hauling back to the left. The line stressed tight, then sprang loose with a dreadful twang like the drawn string of the longbow I released with no arrow nocked on the archery range at Ozark Boys Camp.

But the permit remained attached. Yeah! I exulted. I’m still in the game! Two second later the hook pulled. The different angle caused by the frantic tug-of-war apparently unseated it. The drag knob should have been loosened to allow the tiring fish to run with minimal resistance as we poled closer to free the snag. And sometimes things are not as they appear. In Belize, a guide set me up for a classic shot at a school of large permit. The fly dropped well ahead in the 3-foot water and a fish crushed it.

I whooped as backing poured across the open flat. I stood on the bow and did a textbook job of playing the fish. Most of the fly line was back on the reel and my career permit was plodding though the afternoon glare.

I glanced back, expecting to see my man scrambling excitedly for the net. But his stoke level wasn’t exactly where it needed to be. He stood on the platform with an arm nonchalantly curled around the pole.

“I’m gonna need help here pretty quick!” I barked.

He shrugged and pointed. “Toro grande.”

My grasp of Spanish is sketchy but, regardless of Latin latitude, there’s no way that “toro grande” translates into “giant permit.” Assuming a bullring was nowhere nearby, it meant “big jackfish.”

I got a closer look at the yellowtipped fins and blunt bull snout of a 25-pound jack crevalle. The confounded jack had been shadowing my school and raced in for the kill. These are among the examples of the bad juju that seems to follow me across tropical tides. Magic (and I have no prejudice as to origin) does seem to be at play. But there are positive exceptions. Or perhaps hexes can be cast on either end of the line. For example, again in Belize, I took a hasty off-balance shot at a sudden permit and the quick pivot caused me to step from the left side of the bow. Okay, I fell from the bow. Well, conditions were a tad choppy.

I led with my feet, relying on the celebrated catlike reflexes of my surfing youth.

Regrettably, coordination has deteriorated into the oxen-like bumblings of the Golden Years.

I went in flailing and honking and landed more or less upright in waist-deep water. But I kept my funk and pointed the rod and started stripping—and the permit hammered the fly. The guide was helpless with laughter, but I was able to handle the fish while wading —again, my favorite technique, even if unplanned. Strange forces surely were on my side when a permit 40 feet away decided to strike during the commotion of a man-overboard drill.

And last spring in Honduras I fished eight solid hours with a 9-weight outfit and hooked only three fish. Of course, the odds of a bona fide grand slam with only three grabs all day are utterly preposterous.

The first was a nice 5-pound bonefish and the second was a small mangrove tarpon. The third was a freshly minted double-digit permit.

Joe Doggett was an outdoor columnist for the Houston Chronicle for 35 years. He also was on the masthead of Field & Stream as a contributing editor. He is retired but writes occasional features for various outdoor magazines. He enjoys traveling to fish, hunt, and surf.