The intense July sun was just starting to peer over the waters of the Gulf of Mexico to our east when we spotted a flock of seagulls perhaps a mile away, diving and hovering above some chaos thrashing on the surface, marking an area perhaps 60 feet in diameter with slashing fish. It was exactly what our guide, David Mangum, had said he was sure would be happening over the phone and via text messages in the days leading up to our planned time on the water.
I had been familiar with Mangum for years. Going back to my father’s family when he was a kid growing up in Dallas, Texas, their preferred respite from blue-collar DFW life was at the end of a long drive to the Florida Panhandle, and specifically Destin and its white-sand beaches. So for as long as I can remember, the familiarity of that region has found our family, and now my wife and kids and me, periodically heading that direction to relax around Gulf Shores, Alabama, or the 30A stretch of Panama City, or to Destin itself. David owns and operates a successful guide service in that area, Shallow Water Expeditions, and for years I had wanted to hire him or one of his guides to take us out fishing.
My friend Jason Cooke was the other passenger in Mangum’s skiff besides me on this day. Jason is an accomplished fly angler and a regular photo subject of mine, and in recent years he has become dedicated to mastering the Spey rod through many days a year on our home waters in Georgia, and also while taking multiple trips to Alaska each year to take on huge rainbows and their various salmonid cousins. So when Mangum asked me if Jason could deliver a quick cast with a 10-weight to a frenzy of jack crevalle—the fish responsible for the chaos beneath the birds—I assured him he could.
We spotted the first school of the morning from nearly a mile away, and as we rushed to catch up with it, I asked Jason what saltwater species he had pursued previously. “I’ve never gone after anything in the salt with a fly rod,” was his response, which jolted me back to my first saltwater fly fishing endeavor, when, after years of fishing only 3- to 5-weights in the southern Appalachians, a 10-weight rod cast in what I now know to be a typical flats breeze felt like wielding a small telephone pole in a tropical storm.
Fortunately for Jason, the wind wasn’t really a factor that morning. But for an angler new to salt water, a mile-long boat ride with a pod of exploding fish before you can churn up all sorts of nervousness and rigidity that don’t aide fly casting mechanics. Having not been in this scenario before, and seeing that the school had been on top and working for several minutes—large, silver-yellow figures slicing and throwing waves of baitfish skyward—Jason took more time than he knew he had in delivering that first cast. The fish felt the boat approaching before the Pole Dancer hit the water and went out of sight.
Mangum made his way to the casting deck and gave Jason a few quick pointers on readiness, using the stripping basket at the bow of the boat, how to roll cast the fly forward to get the fly line in motion, make one strong backcast to get the first 20 or so of fly line loading the rod, which he would then use to shoot the forward cast 50 feet or more before the jacks could be spooked by the boat’s vibrations.
Mangum’s coaching was well-received. The school reappeared in a matter of minutes, and even though a diving seagull mistakenly took the Pole Dancer for an actual baitfish before a jack could pounce, after just a few attempts, Jason was into his first saltwater fish on the fly.
As the drag screamed like Pacino, Jason began to experience the progression of emotions all anglers go through when fighting a species with seemingly too much want-to. A big jack, a big tarpon, billfish, tuna, and a few others fall into this category. I believe that progression goes something like this: elated, awestruck, engrossed, conflicted, and relieved or defeated.
Elated. The sudden thrill that finds the body awash with adrenaline, the mind shocked that this is actually happening, and an overall wonder at nature.
Awestruck. How can a fish be this strong and have this much endurance? It’s as if Mike Tyson and a Kenyan distance runner had their genes spliced and somehow inserted into some piscatorial DNA.
Engrossed. The forearm, biceps, and shoulder are all experiencing the burn, but the angler is fully in the fight and is happy to be there.
Conflicted. I have to get this fish to the boat. I would be completely okay if this fish broke me off right now. I need to feel this thing in my hands and get a photo of it, of me with it, the great fighter that it is. Why can’t a shark happen by and bite off the back half of this thing and knock 20 minutes off the fight? I would be so disappointed if this thing really broke me off. Do I really want to fight this fish for 40 minutes? There’s nowhere else I’d rather be right now. I don’t even know that I like fishing anymore.
Relieved or Defeated (depending on the outcome): Relieved that it made it to the boat and the fight is finally over and I can now take a couple of muscle relaxants and call it a day. Defeated if it breaks off or throws the hook after 35 minutes and I now have to take a couple of muscle relaxants and call it a day.
As the third 20-pound-plus jack slipped back into the water, the sweat now rolling off Jason’s face, Mangum asked if we were ready to head back to the boat ramp. “Yeah,” Jason quietly answered with a look of exhaustion, and yet a smile breaking through after enduring three super-middleweight bouts in one morning. The guide had coached and positioned, and the angler had gone from unprepared to proficient.
By David Cannon
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