North Andros – From Top to Bottom: PART 1 of 2
By Glenn Zinkus
originally published in Tail #22 - March 2016
I always say it, I always think it. I will come back. I need to fish this place again. I must repeat this experience. Rarely does it happen. The exploration bug bit me long ago and never let go. I have to check out another place. But not this time. Not for North Andros.
It’s some amalgamation of watery wilderness, big bones, wonderful people, delicious local food and a place in fly fishing history that keeps me coming back. Yes, I love the infinite flats of the Joulters on the north and the Bights of Andros cutting the southern boundary of North Andros. I always spend some time boating these inner waterways and taking in the spectrum of white flats and turquoise waters.
This time, we started in the north and had set up our bonefish base camp in a quiet house along a street in Nichols Town. After a trifecta of perfectly timed flights and the group rendezvous in Nassau, we uneventfully arrived at the San Andros airport. We set out to secure some Kaliks for the lazy Sunday afternoon. The days here instantly transform into a pleasant routine of watching the sun rise through palms and pines over morning coffee. This is followed by our morning commute to the bonefish flats through a labyrinth of channels and mangroves around the cays of Joulters. When we step out of the boat and into the water, it’s amazing how cool it feels. The first step jolts me like a cup of coffee with an extra shot of espresso. Two cups of black coffee and a step into the knee-deep water of the flats has me ready to face the day of spotting and stalking bones.
We were off to an auspicious start. After ten minutes, we had already hooked and landed our first bonefish, and not a bad one at that. Our fishing slowed during the first couple of afternoons as the water warmed to the temperature of bath water. By day three, we tuned into changing conditions and could find the right flats for the morning and afternoon.
After a week of chasing bones in the calf deep water of the flats around Joulters, it was time to leave the bonefish and conch shacks to travel south to Cargill Creek and Behring Point. Doy, my designated taxi driver for the last several years called me about 5 minutes before my scheduled pickup time to let me know that he was running about 30 minutes late. I poured another cup of coffee and kicked back on the screened porch. By the time Doy did show up, he complained, “Lordy, it was a three hour drive from Behring Point this morning. The roads are terrible.” We loaded up my bags and set off for the south. Just past the San Andros Airport, the road deteriorated to a web of asphalt, pock-marked with potholes from edge to edge…all the way down as far as we could see. This continued on until somewhere just north of Fresh Creek. By the time we arrived, more angling buddies were due in at the Andros Town Airport. We walked over to the lime green restaurant and bar, Maggies, and picked up a drink. Doy sat in on the local dominoes game and immediately started slapping down a few hands. I kicked back, sipped some Gatorade and watched the game unfold. 
As good as our Joulters days started out, the Bights were more hostile weather-wise. Through the day, we poled down flats only to find a black wall of menacing clouds closing in. At such times, one has no choice but to break the hunt, reel in and motor out. We continued this routine until the storms closed in from the south and the east with no escape except to make a run through the squall on the eastern edge of the Bight.
Our fishing that week was a challenge. Gone were the ubiquitous schooled fish on many of our Joulters flats. I felt bonefish fever coming on. Joe, our guide, spotted a big cruiser emerge from a mangrove island. Once I cast in the cruiser’s direction, he darted right to the fly and performs a floating headstand like some sort of piscatorial circus act. This fish wanted that fly. Joe called out “long strip”. I stripped back as far as my arm would go and didn’t feel a thing.
There was none of that tension that signals to strip strike. I made another long and fast strip and again, nothing. I realized that the 25 mph tailwind was pushing us closer to the fish, and that Joe was digging in with the pole to arrest our motion. Feeling impotent, I relinquished my position on the bow to my fishing buddy……CONTINUED
