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“How far can you cast?” The question from my guide left me with a queasynervous feeling in my gut because I knew my casting ability was about to be put on trial. In fly fishing circles, it’s a pretty important question. I had cast an entire 90’ line before, but that was during a casting contest with a buddy, after a few beers… not nearly the same pressure-cooker situation I found myself in at the moment. I thought about saying something cool like, “As far as I need to.”, but quickly realized how stupid that would look when I followed it up by slapping a ball of spaghetti out there. So I aimed on the safe side and said “Oh, probably 70 or 80 feet, not sure – it’s been awhile since I threw a twelve weight.” Instantly started kicking myself… it’s been awhile? Like since that once… in a different life? I had never touched a twelve weight and I knew that little fib would come back to bite me later.

“That should do it. I have a school of tarpon at eleven o’clock, moving right to left.” My pulse quickened and I quickly forgot about the dumb comment I had just made. I scanned the water and once I figured out which direction eleven o’clock was (which took way too long), I saw them. Didn’t look like much, just occasional dimples on the glassy-smooth water. We were probably a hundred yards away and my guide was poling us towards them. “I’ll try to get you in position to throw at that lead fish, so keep your eyes on her if you can.” I locked my eyes on the front fish, or at least where the lead dimple occasionally appeared. I had waited three months for this moment and had dreamt of exactly how it would play out. This would be my first real attempt at a tarpon with a fly rod.

“When we get within range, I want you to start false casting. You’ll want to lead them by about fifteen feet or so. Then just remember the pointers I gave you this morning.” Great, more pressure. It had been a forty minute ride out from Key West as the sun was starting to peek over the horizon, and my guide had told me a bunch of things. Now I found myself trying to remember all of his instructions… I was too nervous to remember most of what he said.

“Ok, go ahead and start working some line out, we’re getting close.” That queasy feeling came back as I dropped the fly into the water. It struck me how small the fly was… looked a lot like something I’d throw back on the MO, with the exception of the humongous silver hook. So I started working line out, concentrating on the fundamentals, trying to control my nerves. Sweep forward, stop the rod tip, pause… sweep back, stop the rod tip, pause… sweep forward… work more line out, repeat.

By now we were close enough to clearly see the tarpon. Huge silver slabs cutting through the water… coming to the surface every so often, like they were getting air. Head, dorsal, tail… head, dorsal, tail… they looked mechanical, like robots. I continued to false cast as my heart rate increased. “We’re in range now, go ahead and pick your target and get ready to lay this down.” I had my target picked out. I was aiming for a patch of water about fifteen feet in front of what I thought was the lead fish. I took one last forward stroke, knowing this was my last false cast. It felt good.  I swept the rod back, paused, and waited for the weight of the line to load up the rod. Just as the line sailed back behind me and I felt the rod load, I saw the fin of the lead fish break the surface. It appeared right where my target was so I adjusted my target slightly to the left, swept the rod forward, stopped the rod tip, and watched the line shoot out and unfold above the water until the line straightened out completely with a little “pop” and the line, leader, and fly dropped straight into the water.

I was starting to wonder if I had cast to the right spot when my guide said “Great cast!” in an excited whisper. I figured he might have said that regardless of what he was actually thinking, but the excitement in his voice told me that maybe it was a decent cast. “Let it sink for about five seconds and then start stripping slowly. I’m catching a glare so we’ll be doing this one blind.” I counted to five-one-thousand and started stripping. “Slower!” he said in a quiet but stern voice. “Slow, two foot pulls with two second pauses in between.” I followed his directions exactly and continued stripping. I had not seen any fish surface since my fly hit the water, and was guessing I may have spooked them.  I was on about strip number twelve and I felt like my fly had already moved through the path of the fish and they ignored it. My excitement was starting to taper. I stripped a couple more times and was starting to look out to see if I could spot any of the fish, hopefully getting ready for another cast… when it happened.

After the two second pause, I was starting another slow strip and I felt resistance. Not resistance like I might have picked up a piece of seaweed, or resistance like I was hung up on the bottom, but resistance like whatever was on the end of my line was alive. I instantly remembered one piece of advice my guide gave me early that morning. “When you feel your line tighten… cinch it. Don’t jerk the rod tip up, don’t yank a hard strip set… just grab the line and cinch it with a sharp little four inch pull.” So as I felt the tension in my line growing tighter, I cinched it.

I felt the hook set solid and instantly I felt a bolt of lightning surge through the rod. The water erupted out in front of the boat and the tarpon came flying out of the water, writhing and thrashing, tailwalking, shaking her head. When she finally splashed back into the water, she took off in the opposite direction like a train. The pile of line from the bottom of the boat started flying out after the fish as I tried to gain some sort of control over the coils flying around, slapping the boat, slapping the rod, slapping me. Within about three seconds all the coiled up line was out of the boat and now the reel started to make that screaming sound that only a fisherman could love. By now I was able to settle in and enjoy the fight. I was hooked into the biggest fish of my life. Not sure if it was eighty pounds or a hundred and eighty pounds… does it really matter? The rest of the fight was anticlimactic, the tarpon jumped a few more times, dragged us around the Florida Keys for awhile until my tippet eventually wore through and she was gone with a shake of the head. My guide would later tell me it counted as a “landed fish” since I had the leader knot inside the rod tip several times. That was good enough for me, but I also felt a need to hold this fish and take the hook out of her mouth myself. That need is what will bring me back.

~Rob Turner, Great Falls, MT