By Joe Dahut
(originally published in Tail #36 – July/August 2018)
I met Arthur in the gravel parking lot of the marina early in the morning when the sky still looked like a watercolor painting. I assembled my rod and pulled out my flies to ask his opinion, expecting him to pluck out a clouser and use it all day. He quickly turned his head from assembling his own rods. “They’re all too small, man. I got you.” He dangled the popper we eventually used all day, a popper from hell – a bleach white beast that would take my personal best striped bass. It was hard for me to believe anything would actually eat that. My heart paused as he tied it on, not knowing what I was getting myself into.
Arthur was born and raised in the Bronx and started fishing for stripers off the shore with a fly rod kit he bought from Dick’s Sporting Goods. After watching the fishing clubs fish the banks, he soon learned the secrets of his fishing idols, like “Tony Sandpiper,” a local legend who exclusively fished the obtrusive lure pattern, the Atom Popper. When Cortes grew up, he primarily fished with bait, and didn’t fish with lures until he saw Tony hauling in huge fish. Fly fishing in the Bronx isn’t exactly destination fly fishing, but more something reserved for locals who can launch a healthy backcast for distance into the wind. It’s not crazy, people just don’t know anything about it.
“People think that the Bronx is just ghettos. Yeah, we have those, but so does everywhere else. There are fish to be caught here.” Cortes sought to capitalize on the lonely market of guiding in the Bronx, and found a few regular clients willing to get on his boat with him. After realizing that completely sustaining himself as a full time guide in the Northeast was unrealistic because of the short guiding season, he started working as a dock builder. Cortes found that working on the docks gave him more time on the water, some more cash, and he was able to talk to other similar-minded people. It wasn’t glamorous, but when you try to make it as a guide where nobody believes there are fish, sometimes you have to do some dirty work. “No one believed in the Bronx. No one believed the fish were there,” Cortes said, despite the pictures he posted of the stripers he pulled from the water. After recognizing that he needed to expand his business, he took a ride one day to investigate new waters outside of the Bronx.
Cortes first took his 1972 19-foot Mako for a false albacore run in Breezy Point, just outside of Jamaica Bay. An article he’d read claimed it was “the best kept secret of New York,” a mecca for Northeastern saltwater fly fishing. After running the boat through Hell Gate on the East River in mid September of 2016, he told a few of his clients who had albies on their bucket list that he would be making the trip. His clients were thrilled with the success they had.
False albacore have amassed an obsessive fly rod following due to their compact size and strength. Close relatives of the tuna, albies are a desirable fly rod fish because their fight does not match their size. Speeding torpedos with eyeballs like nickels, albies have a keen ability when it comes to fly inspection, quickly destroying or rejecting the presentation of a fly. False albacore test the limits of anglers, and their ferocity has made them notorious fly rod fighters in the Mid-Atlantic region. Cortes’ clients loved his decision to move to new water.
After Cortes created a network of captains willing to share information about the albie run, he found his groove in the South Shore. Cortes said that most of the time, the captains will share some information, but won’t tell you everything. “They will tell you, but they won’t tell you tell you, which is fine.” That’s the way he likes it, because that’s what makes it fishing. “If it’s really a tough bite,” Cortes admitted, “I will tell my other captain friends, like, there’s fish over here, but that’s only after a hard day of fishing.” When Cortes first met new water, he reached out to a few guides that gave him tips about fly selection, times, and locations. He was relieved to be greeted by an established community that helped him get going in the business. He told me that fly fishing guides in the area are friendly with each other, and although they share some information, there are still secrets to success. He, like all anglers, has a reverence for the space of other captains and anglers, and knows how hard finding spots that hold fish can be. Anglers are superstitious about spots, especially if their livelihood depends on it. When a guide has their secret spot, you can bet they won’t give it away for free.
Cortes first had the idea to become a fly fishing guide when he went on a trip to Patagonia. He was drawn to the bloodthirsty trout willing to munch dragonfly imitations the size of a grown man’s palm before they even landed on the water. Arthur originally flew to Chile to help his father, who had been diagnosed with lung cancer. After his father died, he turned mourning into a journey that sent him up the shores of Chile, through mountains and deserts, fishing everywhere in between. This pilgrimage was eventually the catalyst that enabled Cortes to find himself, his passion, and later, his business. On Christmas Day in 2012, he left to spend three days with two fly fishing guides on a small island in a lake teeming with the legendary Patagonian trout. In the midst of the rainy season, Arthur lucked into his last fish on a dry fly after a day of fishing for streamer-eating trout. One of his guides asked him if there were fly fishing guides in the United States. “‘This is the best job in the world,’” Cortes’ guide confessed to him, and in a month’s time, Arthur jump-started his guiding career with inheritance money from his late father. He had a boat, his captain’s license, and full reign of the Western Long Island Sound as the only fly fishing guide, the next closest guide being in Norwalk.
When I went fishing with Arthur for stripers, the water was calm and the city skyline loomed in the distance. I had never fished that close to an airport before, and wasn’t surprised when I saw the rusty chain link fence, beached tires, and plastic bags floating near the runway. Despite what was around the water, what happened on the water was nothing but electric. My popper’s noxious wake coaxed the stripers to the surface, inhaling the fat wad of feathers and gold crystal flash that jetted from the white foam body. The bass honed in on the sound of the pop and dialed into the fly when we paused strips, bullying the fly that mimicked an injury. We threw casts at the shoreline, stripping until the surface erupted with a thrash. This all happened as planes rocketed off and landed with ease right next to us, the noise blocking casting directions shouted from the back of the boat. You might not believe there are fish in these waters by the looks of the place, but when you feel the bend in the rod and see the orange backing peeling off the reel, only then will you believe in the heavyweights that swim in Jamaica Bay.
