A journal entry about how much an average-sized Jack with big black fins means to me.
What started as a brief encounter turned into an obsession.
A few months ago, I had my first real interaction with a permit on fly. I was chasing a boxfish riding on a stingray when I spotted a forked black tail cruising away from me . It reached a patch of turtle grass, turned, and started swimming straight back toward me.
I made what is still one of the best shots I’ve ever made at a permit and got the fly moving.
The fish’s instincts immediately took over.
He came charging at the fly. Every strip, he got closer. His sickles were waking toward me. Time froze. My heart was beating in rhythm with every strip.
There’s no way this isn’t happening.
Then he redlined in the opposite direction .
Did he eat? Did he spook? What did I do wrong? I’m still not sure.
That moment changed everything.
The more I interacted with permit, the more questions I had. I’ve gotten eats on decent shots and refusals on perfect ones. I’ve hooked them and broken them off. I’ve blown plenty of opportunities.
Permit consumed my thoughts.
The more I chased them, the more I got to know them.
If you give them time to change their mind, they will.
Too close and they’ll spook. Too far and they know something’s up. Try to pick up for another shot .... swoosh, he's gone...
Think they aren't around ,take your eyes off the water for a moment... he's shows up like the grim reaper...Busted.
Welcome to permit fishing
I love that there is a species that makes you question everything.
8/10 shots don’t even get to the point of moving the fly because the fish spooks before you can get from the platform to the bow.
You can get all the way to level 100 and instantly be sent back to level one.
I love that game.
countless solo days on the skiff, skipped lunches, and more Sundays with @chrisso1187 than I can count, every missed shot, refusal, and heartbreak led to this moment.
