OMAN
THE BAPTISM J O S H C O L L I N S , A C A N A D I A N L I V I N G I N Q ATA R , D I D N O T H O L D M U C H H O P E F O R F LY F I S H I N G W H E N H E M O V E D T O D O H A . T H E N H E F E L L I N W I T H F R E D D AV I S AND TIM OLSEN AND WENT ON A TRIP TO OMAN IN S E A R C H O F H I S F I R S T P E R M I T. Photos. Fred Davis Josh Collins & Tim Olsen
A
year ago, the Middle East was a distant land of camels, hijabs and shawarma. It was a place where my girlfriend went to teach at an international school, where I was going to join her, sadly leaving behind me the lush green valleys of Western Canada with their lakes and streams, salmonoids and char. I packed a fly rod and a mess of tying materials with a smidgen of hope. I mean, what fishing could I really expect to find in the Middle East? Little did I know that I’d find myself on a desert-lined beach waving my rod at a tailing permit, and that it would be completely surreal.
where I’d fish. Now I’d been introduced to a whole new side of fly fishing, and a new fire burned inside me.
In hindsight, committing to a fishing trip to Oman was a trip in itself. I barely slept in the weeks building up to it and more than once I found myself doubting whether it was actually going to happen. Even after flights were booked, there was this eerie feeling that something would go wrong. And when that damned dude at the airport disappeared into the bowels of Hamad International with our visas and some story about mismatched professions, I felt an empty hollow churning through my guts.
Crabs, crabs, crabs! I needed crabs. The fly tying before the trip was an onerous mission. I already had a box full of saltwater flies, but mostly baitfish patterns. There were Crazy Charlies and the likes that I had tied when I first arrived in the Arabian Gulf. With limited materials and a realisation that proportions and action were everything, it was a steep learning curve. Permit possess these huge round baby doll eyes that seem supernatural. Would any self-respecting permit eat my measly scraped-together flies, especially when my first flexos kept flipping upside down? But after some late-night tying sessions, with much needed beer, along with advice and some materials from Fred and Tim, I eventually got them to a point that, hopefully, something would eat. I was stoked now and I spent every evening only half-listening to my very understanding better half, while churning out versions of the flexo, that I prayed would catch those big round baby doll permit eyes.
I’ve never done this before… climbing on a plane with the sole intention of targeting a single species of fish. Yes, they eventually let us board, thanks to some serious hustling at the airport by my fishing buddy Fred Davis. Hell, I’ve never even travelled specifically for fishing before, and now I had been (very easily) talked into chasing the holy grail. Until I got to Qatar, I’d never considered the ocean as a place
More than ten years of fishing in Western Canada barely prepared me for salt, but I took to it like a dog to a fresh bone and, in a few short months, caught fish I could not have dreamed up. Having listened to the beer-fuelled stories about sickle-finned swine and thousands of ignored presentations, I quickly learnt that the permit was THE fish to catch… the heartbreaker, the Phoebe Cates, pure saltwater fly junkie crack. Although I had yet to taste that permit goodness, the stories I’d heard and read in the buildup lit the fire that drives any junkie to find their next fix.
“PERMIT THE FISH TO CATCH… THE HEARTBREAKER, THE PHOEBE CATES, PURE SALTWATER FLY JUNKIE CRACK.” 62
W W W. T H E M I S S I O N F LY M A G . C O M
