Faraway Permit

There’s a possibility we won’t land a permit over the course of the week — a sentiment that is paired with the unending optimism that we might. Everyone treats permit fishing differently. I prefer to go with the “journey is the destination” mentality and not worry about the outcome.

It’s 4:45 a.m. I sip a cup of coffee and dig my bare feet into the cool, presunrise sand. It’s warm, and the breeze is non-existent. People move about quietly and slowly, the modus operandi of mornings here. A few brush their teeth while standing shin-deep in the Caribbean. Others grab clean laundry from a maze of clotheslines. Guides and staff speak an English-Creole fusion brought over from the Bay Islands to the west. There’s an exotic melody to the soft, morning cadence of their speech, which emanates from the raised guide quarters, the kitchen and those milling about on this tiny spit of sand.

Cayo Cajones. Dayton Key. Faraway Cay. They’re all names for the miniscule island I’m on, which is 80 or so yards long and about 60 miles off Puerto Lempira and the Honduran Mosquito Coast. We are in the heart of native Miskito fishing grounds. We’re also smack in the middle of a drug-running zone known as the “push.” This is a permit fishing trip, but it’s also an adventure.

Giant pastel-hued cumulus clouds hover low over the Caribbean. Pelicans dive for bait under the cotton-candy veil and sound off like small exploding waves as they crash the water. We push the panga off the small wooden dock, and Arche Morris sits on the poling platform, wind in his face and right hand casually on the outboard tiller extension. Arche is 36 and has thick, dark hair, a short beard and confidence in his eyes. He steers the panga through a maze of coral heads and talks quietly, barely audible, with Avery, the young assistant who accompanies him each day.

Prior to heading out, Arche had picked an olive, rubber-legged crab from my fly box and said, “This is tha one. All tha fish has to do is see this.”

Arche grew up fishing this zone. The waters are as familiar to him as a soccer pitch is to Messi. In some ways, Arche and his dad built the island. They added sand using buckets and wheelbarrows to an existing sandbar the size of a school bus. They planted a few Caribbean pines and palm trees, and built a walkway out over a shallow sand flat to a tiny wooden shelter serving as the outhouse — Coco Loco. Arche was 5 or 6 years old.

Faraway Cay is in the heart of prime snapper and lobster fishing, and a fishing base was needed. Rainwater is collected in giant tanks for showers and cooking. Drinking water, food, fuel, ice and everything else is brought out on snapper-fishing boats from Guanaja to the west.

Tides and water levels on the flats affect the fishing. High spring tides during the day are ideal, but that’s not what we find today. “We are just gonna keep moving today. Gonna look in tha rocks. Maybe find some rays. We’ll find tha permit,” Arche says, confident that not only are there permit around, but that he’ll find them.

It’s quiet in the panga. Low tide passes, and water slowly starts to pour back onto the flat. It’s 3 p.m. The sun is high and becoming super-reflective, making it difficult to see fish. An hour or so ago Arche had spotted a large, single fish feeding, its head tipped down over turtle grass in 4 feet of water. “Eleven o’clock. Sixty feet. See it?” he whispered.

I threw a cast and let go of the slack line in my left, non-casting hand. It took too long for me to recover and grab the slack line. “Don’t be doing that,” Arche had said. “You took too long to strip, and tha fish never saw your fly. Don’t be letting the line outta your hand like that.” I was humbled.

There’s a language to Arche’s poling. Every slight turn or speed change indicates interest, much in the same way an English setter gets birdy before pointing. The panga slowly jogs about 50 degrees to starboard. “The whole herd is coming toward you. Wait a little bit. Let’s get a good shot,” Arche says.

The boat is positioned so the fish swim almost directly at us. “See them?” Arche asks. The permit tail as they casually move toward the boat. Avery, meanwhile, quietly hops out to hold the panga in place. Arche doesn’t need to say when to cast. The fish are roughly 65 feet away and incoming. A large, black-forked tail slices the surface as the lead fish feeds and its alien eyes disappear in the small mud cloud it stirred up. On my final forward cast, slack line zips through a circle formed by my left index finger and thumb. The olive crab hits the water a foot or so from the permit.

“He’s right in front of your fly,” Arche says. “Strip it. Hold it. Pause it. Slowly. He’s on it. Set it. Set it!” He jumps from the poling platform into the water. It’s nearly waist-deep, and he moves quickly toward the hooked fish. He lifts his hand to push the fly line as high as he can to keep it from hitting the coral. My reel sings, and Arche lets go of the line. Coral cleared — for the time being.

Avery walks the boat forward. The backing-to-fly-line connection reappears on the reel. I add a tiny amount of pressure to the drag, and the long, initial run seems to have taken a toll. I gain on the permit. Arche is still in the water and finds his way to the tiring fish. He lifts my leader into the air and tails a beautiful permit.

My arms and hands shoot upward. Elation. It’s possible Arche wanted this permit more than me. There’s no question this was a team effort. I hop into the water and hold the fish for a few images, then snap a few underwater shots of Arche and the permit. Avery is more jubilant than ever. He has a massive smile and fist-pumps the air. It’s infectious.

Arche releases the fish, and it kicks away faster than it came in. The three of us recount the take and how Arche had coerced my line above the coral. We each have a cold Salva Vida cerveza and share the wonderful moment. “That’s how you do it,” Arche says. He’s referring to each of us playing our own role in an activity that more often than not ends without landing a permit. The value is in the struggle.

Back at the island, three other pangas are tied up at the dock. Guides, assistants and guests mingle and talk over the hum of country music playing from near the barbecue that Daniel, the chef, has started. Clouds of pungent smoke blow over us on the dock. Wet clothes dance in the breeze from clotheslines. Chickens and a few ducks peck at the sand for bits of food. There’s lobster and snapper on the grill, caught fresh while we were playing the permit game. There’s camaraderie in the air. People experiencing the location, the smells. The conversation is far greater than any permit caught.

After dinner, and well after the sun is below the horizon, I walk up the wooden steps to the guide shack. I have a little tequila on ice, and I know that Edwin, a guide with whom I’ve connected on prior trips, will be in a chair having a smoke while watching a movie. He plays a Denzel Washington flick. It’s dark aside from the television. Edwin is watching with Merril, an up-and-coming guide, while others chat in the dark. There is no glass in the windows, and the sea breeze passes through the shack. “What a badass,” Edwin says, referring to Denzel. I sit next to him.

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Nothing in life has been handed to Edwin. He’s from the Northeast Bite on Guanaja, one of the Bay Islands. He has been connected to the sea his entire life. He loves jokes and stories, and has a generous heart.

Faraway Cay is a base for permit fishing, Honduran snapper fishermen and lobster boats, as well as Miskito fishermen. I don’t know much about its other uses. It’s probably best I don’t. I wonder about the untold stories that have taken place here.

The journey might be the destination, but experiencing all that is Faraway is the treasure. And any permit caught along the way is just icing on the proverbial cake.