21 minute read
CHRISTMAS LISTS
ON THE ANNIVERSARY OF HIS FRIEND RAY MONTOYA’S 12TH TRIP TO CHRISTMAS ISLAND, PETER COETZEE JOINED THE VETERAN SALTWATER FLY ANGLER FOR THE PILGRIMAGE TO ONE OF THE WORLD’S FABLED SALTWATER FLY FISHING DESTINATIONS. DETAILED IN ANECDOTAL SNAPSHOTS - FROM TITANIC TRIGGERS AND MOODY MILKFISH, TO CRUSTY CHARACTERS AND LUSTY LOCALS - THE DUO HAD A CHRISTMAS EXPERIENCE TO REMEMBER.
Photos. Peter Coetzee
THE TRUTER TREATISE
The Crazy Charlie’s simplicity as a fly unsettles me, and while tying a few one night in preparation for my trip to Christmas Island, I recalled reading about Ed Truter’s experiences fishing them in the Pacific. Ed’s a pioneering angler (both fly and heathen-ware) who has been to more places than most. He’s not an academic per se, but he might as well be because his knowledge of fish species, behaviour and ecosystems is encyclopaedic. I decided to call Ed to ask him about flies and tactics. Unexpectedly, he immediately questioned my decision to go to Christmas Island at all. “You can fish almost anywhere in the Indian Ocean for the price it will cost you to get to Christmas Island and back, let alone the time it’s going to take to get there.” He wasn’t wrong. A Pacific Ocean atoll that makes up 70% of the Republic of Kiribati, Kiritimati (aka Christmas Island) is the literal definition of “the middle of nowhere”. But what Ed didn’t know was that, for me, going to Christmas Island (CXI) was more than just another saltwater flats trip. CXI was the 90s poster child of atoll and flats fishing and, although the articles I’d read over the years seldom showed anything other than bonefish, it had become a critical part of the imaginative development of my odd fly-fishing tastes. In my mind, going there was a rite of passage for any serious saltwater fly angler. It was also my friend Ray Montoya’s 12th anniversary trip. Once I’d explained myself, in his deep voice with that unmistakable, thick Eastern Cape accent, Ed said, “I had a feeling you’d say that. Good for you.” He then proceeded to impart the usual specifics that I froth for: “Incorporating this fluorescence in a fly triggers X…” “These legs move just like those of Y crab…” “Use this dye to achieve this effect, especially on a full moon…”
I hung up before the fly confusion hit. A short while later, while discussing the upcoming trip, Andre van Wyk of Feathers and Fluoro told me to call Eugene Burzler. A South African living in the UK with enviable fishy profile pics, Eugene had recently spent a lot of time in CXI.
“Peter, you WILL see 20lb triggerfish. I know that sounds ridiculous, but you will.” Eugene had also encountered milkfish on foot. “20lb triggers.” “Milkfish on foot.”
The thought of those two things was enough for me to forget the four-day journey it would take to get there. All I hoped was that The Burzler Brief would hold true.
Gluten intolerant tailing milkfish.
THE BURZLER BRIEF
As the plane banked, revealing almost endless sand flats, holes and other likely-looking spots, Eugene’s tale of 20lb triggerfish was about the only thing I could focus on. It would take only five days for the fairy tale to come true. Ray and I had been looking for the famed GT haunt named Huff Dam when we got lost in the impossible maze of waterways that eventually becomes Y site. This is a name that derives from British military ordinance, like many other areas of the atoll. Deciding we’d spent enough time lost and with enough fishable water around, we headed off further into the unknown. Ray picked the bonefishy-looking stuff to the right while I headed towards a braided lagoon scattered with deep holes on the left. The most alien saltwater ecosystem I’ve ever experienced, it looked almost man-made, like a lagoon with 50 craters, or a saltwater golf-course with triggerfish lurking in the bunkers. I’d walk around each crater while scouring the edges for any sign of life. I was starting to feel a bit despondent with my choice of direction, when I spotted what I thought was a turtle in the metre and a half deep edge, just off one of those ominous holes. Then the turtle stood vertical. It was a hideously large yellow margin trigger. I’d seen big triggers before in Seychelles, Egypt, Maldives and Sudan, yet nothing came even close to what was in front of me. In comparison to anything I’d ever seen before, this was a fish of Belgian Blue cow proportions. I doubted my ability to fool what must have been a fish as old as me as the cast turned over, but the sink or drift didn’t spook the fish and I quickly read the interest in its body language. A few strips in and it ate. I clearly remember setting three times before the fish reacted, its scarred mouth probably weathered by 10000 crabs. I was fishing 25lb fluoro and fancied my chances in a 20-yard draw. The fight was quick, I was in shock and I soon had it next to me. On closer inspection I was even more gobsmacked. It didn’t look in proportion with the two eyes like tiny vents on the top of a blimp, its fins dwarfed by its body. It was the size of a dustbin lid and disgustingly ugly. I reached for my net and as I lifted the behemoth’s head, the fly pulled out. I was devastated but, two crater walks and a swim later, I would land what was easily my personal best, although a fraction of the fish I’d lost. Even that fish was much larger than anything I’d experienced before and I was amazed to see it was bigger than the entire rim of my XXL floating net.
RUBBERBAND MAN
Kirimati marked the first time I’d ever departed for a fly trip fully satisfied with my fly selection. Bonefish all eat spawning shrimp. Right? Therefore, I had every variation of spawning shrimp. I had variations of my fool-proof crabs, EP shrimp and other Indian ocean triggerfish killers. You name it, I had it in every colour, sink rate and size. The problem was, nothing worked. Between the hundreds of patterns in my fly boxes and Ray’s, we could not get a bonefish to look at a fly, let alone a triggerfish. ‘Crazy’ this, ‘Spawning’ that, ‘Fleeing’ this - all useless. The bonefishing, (and the code for them), was so difficult that eventually only tiny worm flies fished completely static worked - static to the point of waiting to see your leader moving before setting. Clearly, these were not the starved bonefish of fly-fishing lore, but I was happy to be here regardless. The triggerfish were different, not so much in choice but in approach. These were for the most part deep water fish, and extremely spooky. Just in terms of numbers, over 100 fly fishing guides call Kiribati home, so the bulk of these triggerfish have seen more fly patterns than you or I. That may seem disheartening, but they were here and I welcomed the additional handicap. They had to be catchable somehow. The other anglers’ advice of telling us not to even bother trying, was fuel to the fire. Knowing none of the patterns in my fly box would work, I set about deconstructing and reconstructing crab flies for deep water, where drifting flies into fish in heavy current was the required technique. The hardware store hunt in Tabwakea revealed only one useful material - vinyl glue. I had brought some EP fibre and decided the best way to make realistic bodies would be to use bottle tops to mould EP shavings and vinyl glue into crab bodies. EP fibre and impressionistic patterns did not work, so I needed to figure out what would, using the feedback to date as my reference point. Somehow the realistic patterns designed for the circumstances worked and worked well, and the puzzle was unlocked. We could finally get the triggers to eat.
Flies made on site from vinyl glue, EP fibre shavings and bottle tops unlocked the triggerfish of Christmas Island.
ENTER ANDYMAN
Bad Andy, an American truck driver from Chicago with a pony tail and a distinct absence of un-tattooed skin, entered the guest house like Charlie Sheen in Major League. Although Wild Thing wasn’t playing, the Polynesian ladies visibly melted at the sight of him. He took one look at the two misfits in Room 8 and decided we were his kin.
Like Ray, Andy has a way of integrating with people in almost no time. Substitute Ray’s honey-tinged voice and old man charm for nervous energy and a great sense of humour and you get the same net effect. We shared a dry wall with Andy who was in Room 7 and one night we heard what was either a muffled murder or fornication. Andy appeared soon after with an even more mischievous smile than usual, telling us that one of the ladies had pushed him against his door and shown him (as he put it in his Chicago accent that somehow also sounded Southern) her, “tiddies.”
Like one playground kid to another, I was unable to resist the question, “And? What were they like?” Andy has a laugh and a way that reminds me of Goofy. “I don’t know, brown, you know, nice, good… ha ha.” As often happens on fishing trips, catch phrases develop from things that happen. On this trip ‘brown tiddies’ became a meme for the rest of our time in the Pacific and daily, without fail, one of us would laugh under our breaths and whisper the line. a I met up with Andy in Chicago a few months ago for some chicken wings in a sports bar and reminded him of the moment. As I write this Andy is in Mexico doing what he does - looking for bonefish and…you guessed it…brown tiddies.
*disclaimer – With an understanding that we live in a sensitive time in history, I was pretty nervous about telling this story, but on considering the universality of lust and the anatomical presence of tiddies on all of us, (brown in Ray’s case), I decided to hold faith in The Mission readership’s sense of humour.
THE FIGHT STARTS IN THE HOLE
I’m painfully slow at rigging and, as I walked down the steep beach onto the coral flats, I could see that Ray was on, and then stuck. Whatever it was had given him a hell of a fight so I was excited to hear the story. I found him perched on a rock, rod bent parabolically down, sporting a silly smile. “It’s under here.” “What was it?” “Sweetlips, a big one.” Ray calls Spangled Emperors by this name. With a bachelor’s degree in coral triggerfish extraction, I quickly assessed the cave and decided Mr Emperor was going nowhere. ”Ray, just wait for it to come out.” “What?” He laughed at the thought. ”Ja, just wait for it,” I said, “it has to come out some time.” Tickled by the thought, Ray decided to give it a go. Lo and behold, 10 minutes later I looked back and there was Ray, fish in hand.
I walked back to him laughing at the fact that it had worked. “He just started reversing out, and I grabbed him”. So often when a fish like this finds a hole, you just decide it’s over and break the fish off, particularly with triggers. On the drive back that day I decided that from that point on, the fight only starts in the hole. There will be no more hiding.
DON’T TELL ANYONE
After an entire day of casting every pattern you can imagine at milkfish on foot, I decided that we’d try chum for the bastards. We stopped at the small line of shops that separated the newer section of town from the coconut harvesting houses, and bought enough bread to put me (gluten intolerant) in anaphylactic shock. Ray and I found the milks again and, with the hope of what we decided would be the pledge, turn and prestige* in one baked package, we stumbled down the banks like a couple of drunken catfish noodlers.
We chummed a small bay area that the milkfish seemed to patrol, but got nothing. For an entire tide we discarded loaf after loaf in milkfish-size bits before deciding it was hopeless. The surprise of the day however was that the lock jaw bonefish could be fooled by Garden Route fly tying genius Leroy Botha’s green clam fly. It happened when a bone that was shadowing a formation of milkfish quickly scoffed up my desperate offering. * The three parts of a magic trick.
THE PARTY STARTS AT 7
You can blame the international date line that Kiribati sits on, the nuclear tests that were conducted by the Brits and the Americans in the 50s and 60s, or simply time’s relativity, but everything about time behaves a little bit differently in Kiribati.
Ray tells a great story in this regard. On one of their earlier trips, he and his long-time fishing buddy, Kamal, were invited to a party by some friends on the island, and had been told to arrive at seven o’clock. They had a great day on Banana flat, caught a few bones, probably had a nap or two (knowing Ray) and then set about an early return to freshen up at the lodge before heading out. Sporting collared shirts, and with some car tunes to get them in the mood on the 30 minute drive from Tabwakea the village in the north, they talked the party up and considered some co-ordinated dance moves.
What they saw on arrival was both amusing and confusing. In the darkness they could make out two large topless passedout women, their deflated zeppelin breasts hovering above the coconut mats, bottles, other bodies and dogs that were littered all over the yard like a battlefield scene. Eventually they spotted the guy who had invited them. His eyes glazed over and smelling of the local fermented coconut sap toddy, he said, “Where have you been man?! We started at seven.”
Kamal and Ray finally realised their mistake. “Oh, you meant seven am!?” If you think about it, you can’t take electricity for granted in the middle of the Pacific, so an early morning party makes perfect sense.
SAVING PRIVATE RYAN
The morning of day four, I was in an almost trance-like state. Other than the fact that nothing wanted to eat our flies, I was completely relaxed. The presence of other humans on the bonefish atolls meant that Ray and I would fish the windy reef flats of the outer atoll. We parked in the mangrove-like trees and headed towards the sound of the waves. In typical Ray and Peter fashion, we’d wander off in separate directions, usually only finding each other in the early evening before heading home. Introverts unite! Separately. On your own flats. The cuts in the coral looked phenomenal, and I quickly spotted some parrotfish tails emerging out of the wash with every receding wave. Not willing to eat any of my flies (now standard procedure for Kiribati fish), I decided to explore the shallower sections behind me. A decent bluefin appeared and I cast the small crab I’d tied on for the parrotfish at it. It ate on the drop and I was elated to have it in the net.
I have spent a fair amount of time trying to decode what happened next. I took my backpack off, and lay it down on the water, my Fuji camera on the strap. Then I just kind of stared at it before I shook myself out of my daze, realising I’d just drowned all chances of decent imagery. The thought of coming all this way and only having cell phone and GoPro pics made me sick to my stomach. I spent the rest of the day in denial, trying to think of a plan B should the ‘immerse the camera in rice’ gods not smile down upon me. They didn’t, so I would spend the night on my back myopically thinking of options. By morning I had a plan. We had one friend on Hawaii, Sean from Nervous Waters Hawaii (the fly shop on Honolulu). I knew I’d be able to find a camera on his island, but then we’d have to find a mule to get the parcel to me on Kiritimati. We’d start at JMB, our one-stop-shop for everything, hoping they could be both the courier and freight forwarder too. One awkward knock and Mary (the M in JMB) answered. I quickly explained my predicament and she mentioned that her sister Anna would get it on to the next flight. With some tricky low phone data throughout to process, after WhatsApp calls to a camera store in Honolulu, some Instagram chats to Sean and his ground work on Honolulu, eventually, around midnight, I got an image on Instagram of Anna holding my box marked “Peter Coetzee, Ronton, Kiritimati.” There was hope. It was inbound flight day, so we decided to fish Banana flat, our closest bonefish haunt. I watched the 737 arrive in circuit and hoped to hell the package was on there, and would somehow arrive at Mary’s. There was some idle chatter, an Arizona iced tea or two and then Mary appeared, holding my box, blissfully unaware of the stress I was hiding. I could not believe we had pulled it off. Owing so much to Sean and the incredibly kind nature of the Kiribati people, I only had a few days with shoddy imagery. We were now back on track, my OCD forever triggered by the moment I unconsciously drowned my camera.
THE FADS OF HUFF DAM.
Ray and I were now good friends with the guiding population of Kiribati, regardless of our DIY status. Almost daily we’d shoot past one of the trucks, usually with Anderson Paak on the stereo, courtesy of DJ Ray. “Trump’s got a love child, and I hope that bitch is buck wild, I hope she sip mezcal”…
We’d had one other incident with some other DIY anglers, who, upon hearing of our trigger successes decided to follow us to our exact spot. To their dismay, they popped their heads around a shipwreck to find Ray draining the old lizard.
“I knew it,” he said, “You guys are trying to see my dick.” That dispatched them with record speed. Despite connecting with our guide friends, we’d yet to come face to face with some guided clients, until we finally found ourselves at Huff Dam. I soon learned that the famous GTs of Huff Dam were in fact trapped in the system with a series of boulders at its drainage point. In order to survive, they had almost no choice but to eat the chum (and often a brush fly mixed in with the milkfish presentations). I decided against the canned hunt and walked off to look for big bones instead, on the windward outer edge which formed part of the active lagoon system. In usual Peter fashion, I hiked myself nearly to death to get there and, as a gesture, the guides who’d driven clients out to the area and had been watching me, came to get me to give me a ride back to our trusty but rusty Rav 4. The guide gestured for me to hop on the back, where two benches held some rather large clients from another southern hemisphere destination that South Africa quite often competes with in sports. Stoked with my ride back, and with the sight of other anglers, I reached out to shake the first guy’s hand with a, “Hi!, I’m Peter!” To my amazement, the khaki clad man shook his head and looked away. ’Alright then,’ I thought, and tried the next guy, until all three had very awkwardly refused the gesture. I looked up at the guide who was grimacing and shrugging his shoulders. I sat in amusement for the ride back, after which the guide jumped off, lit up a smoke and said to me, “I don’t know man, they’re miserable, they don’t tip either.” In all my years I’ve never been denied a handshake, and I cannot imagine traveling half way across the world to a coral paradise in misery. The Fat (insert country) Dickheads were now a thing.
EAT YOUR ENEMIES
We set off out of port on the postcard red and white outriggered boat. I’d decided while waiting at the dock that, like a tinny, the design was somehow less offensive in photos than a traditional fibreglass hull. I had two boat mates, one who apparently knew how to find the milkfish, and a boat driver whose primary talent was breaking the pull cord. We shot up and down the area outside the atoll’s mouth, me refusing multiple gestures to troll my “lure” for tuna. My boat mates were unimpressed by my great selection of algae and other weird flies. “This won’t bring home dinner,” was the response I could see on both of their faces as they inspected what was in the fly box. As we aimed for a current line heading straight out of the atoll, I heard a familiar name “manta.” As we sat just off the stream, a few milkfish appeared in and among a pod of manta rays and a free-swimming sailfish. I tried my best to explain to my boat mates what sort of proximity and drift was required in order for me to have a shot. I was trying to stay hopeful, but the odds just didn’t seem high enough. There were maybe 14-20 fish around. I’d spent enough time chasing milkfish to know that a wall of open mouths is usually required to pull your fly through for hopes of a conversion.
A few casts in I spotted three milkfish swimming directly at the boat. Standing in the nook of the rigger, I watched as they swam within casting range, and then came even closer. At two rod lengths away the three started daisy chaining in a tight radius. I was toying with the idea of taking photos as it didn’t seem like an eat would even be possible in this configuration, and in the calm outside of the current. Before reaching for the camera, I decided to have a throw and lobbed a short backcast into the circle of water made by their daisy chain. Then something remarkable happened. One of the fish broke formation and swam into the centre eating the fly. I set the hook, the fish sat and paused, before shaking its head. Then it swam forward a metre, stopped, and shook its head again. Strange I thought. Maybe this happens with other fish, but we just don’t see it from far off. There was enough of a pause for me to glance at my two companions who, amusingly, both did a thumbs up. Then, all hell broke loose. The fish shot off in an enormous arc, way into the backing. Just at the end of eyeshot it took to the air. My heart was in my throat knowing I’d likely not get another eat or chance this trip. Then the milkfish dived like a tuna. As it sounded, I cursed the lack of backbone in my Scott S4s. I eventually got the fish to the boat, and on two occasions the guys failed to net it, instead hitting the leader, resulting in a long blink each time from me. Finally, on the third attempt, they did it and I let out a scream that would rival a Bieber fan. The two Kiribati men looked at each other, paused, and then burst out laughing. I remember reading somewhere that the cannibalism between Papua New Guinean tribes is largely as an insult. Something along the lines of, “I hated that tribe so much we killed and ate a dude. That’ll show ‘em”. Well, I ate my enemy that night too. Juvenile yes, but somehow satisfying. A fitting end to my milkfish tale.
