First Light

First Light Story by John Burns FlyTide30A/Orvis Sandestin

I’m thankful for many things in life, but every minute spent fly fishing the emerald green waters of the Gulf of Mexico is particularly high on my list. I have personally been fishing these waters since I discovered Grayton Beach in the late seventies. Hippies, sun bowls, and an undiscovered Eden along the coast was just a short drive from my home in New Orleans. Brown water, intertidal marsh, mosquitos, and the Vieux Carre were a stark contrast to the new world I would someday call home. Fly fishing in saltwater has also been with me since those early times in Grayton Beach. My brother introduced me to the sport one day when he walked in with two fly rod kits on cardboard, wrapped in cellophane, with a price sticker attached from Kmart. A simple beginning, but one that would launch me into a place that would become a very important part of my life. Addiction yes, but not because of any stimulus it delivered. It was the relaxing art of the cast that pulled me in and kept me connected. Hooking and landing big fish on a fly line also helped, but the tranquil effects of casting a fly rod in saltwater environments had me for life. Leaving the dock at First Light, with a Leon Russell tune in my head, always makes my day. The anticipation of summer fly fishing trips grow bigger with time. Moments on the water, and the number of casts delivered to hunting fish, become more valuable each and every year. It’s not just the value – it’s also the cost. The cost increases sequentially, not just because of the growing annual price of fuel, boats, and equipment, but because you realize there’s a finite number of times you will ever be on the water. Winters get longer while I wait for the winds to turn from the south and the surface water temperature in the Gulf to creep above 74 degrees. It’s then that you can get reunited with those semitropical predatory fish that come rolling by our part of the world and hope that this season is the one that never ends. It typically starts at First Light when the glow of the sun signals the start of the engine on the boat, and we race to and out of the Destin or Panama City Pass to search for cobia, tarpon, red fish, jacks, tuna, or other seasonal pelagic species that may be deceived by a group of feathers, flash, and thread wrapped tightly around a hook. If it’s a fish - it can be tricked to eat a fabricated fly. That’s what most of us believe and preach to others who will listen and ultimately understand. We endeavor to chase big marine fish with unique fly patterns and avoid live bait. Even the mention of live bait with some fly fishers can border sacrilege.

“Big fish on fly lines, a safe release, and horizons filled by the first light, void of traffic, construction, and confusion are all worthwhile.”

We chase grand fish with big rods, egos, and determination. Although tarpon are the pinnacle prize for any fly fisher, most visitors to the area are unaware that we have a recreational tarpon fishery driven by lusty fish and migratory spawning patterns. The Silver King is one of the most desired species by fly fishers here because of its monstrous size, muscle, above air tail dancing, and natural ability to escape a strip set. They migrate along the Florida panhandle each year, between June and August, feeding in close along the beaches and embayments. Although tarpon migrations are complex and far reaching, some stay close to home while others have been found to range 1,200 miles from the initial tagging location. Tarpon (Megalops atlanticus) are strange fish with a long fossil record. Currently there are two species (Atlantic and Indo-Pacific tarpon), but they date back 113 million years to the Cretaceous period. Anatomically they are easily distinguished from other fish by an additional set of bones in their throat. Although they superficially resemble giant herring, their larvae look very similar to eel. They inhabit fresh and brackish water, tolerate low dissolved oxygen, and waters of varying pH levels. A swim bladder allows them to take surface gulps of air to aid in breathing and gives them short bursts of energy. Tarpon reproduction may well drive their migration and the movement of anglers to the coast who are in hot pursuit. Spawning may urge the fish to move from coastal waters to over 100 miles offshore just prior to full and new moons. Anglers have reported seeing schools of tarpon moving offshore prior to the full and new moons, and back into coastal waters in the days following the spawning season. While offshore, tarpon have been discovered to dive as deep as 400 feet during the days just prior to full and new moons. Pressure difference at depth is thought to aid males and females in the release of their sperm and eggs into the open water. Biologists have defined this open water spawning strategy as broadcast spawning. The eggs are fertilized in open water and later hatch as small leptocephalus larvae. The rest is up to the developing fish and its ability to escape predation by sea dwellers and fiesty craved fishers with long poles and sun burnt skin. In the spring I often preselect flies for tarpon and renew my fly line and leaders for that first trip of the season. That preparation often leads me to think of their life cycle and how our angling pursuit is intimately linked to their movements and reproductive behaviors. Maybe that’s just the trained biologist in me or maybe it’s just deep thoughts of an aging angler floating mentally in shallow waters. Others may only think of the thrill and that magical moment of time when a huge tarpon is attached to a line that you hold in your hand for a brief second or two. Regardless, the continuation of this fishery is dependent upon our growing understanding of those fish and their needs to survive. Big fish on fly lines, a safe release, and horizons filled by the first light void of traffic, construction, and confusion are all worthwhile.