Topwater Permit Fly Fishing

by Bob Haines

Perhaps my first inclination that I’d been doing it wrong was the day after I finally caught my first permit. While sitting over a Belikin and a hot dog at Jets in the outbound terminal of the Philip S.W. Goldson International Airport in Belize City, two likely fishermen saddled up to the bar to do the same. We exchanged the usual pleasantries—How’d you do? Alright, you? About the same. Then it was time to board a plane back to reality after a month in the Belizean salt.

Because it was the day after my first permit and subsequent grand slam, I carried a thick and vicious hangover onto the plane. (Somehow I ended up as guest bartender at the Lazy Lizard, mostly pouring drinks for myself.) As soon as I hit my window seat, the earphones went on and the eyes went closed. I woke up cotton-mouthed somewhere over the Gulf of Mexico between Belize and Dallas to find that one of the fishermen from the hot dog joint occupied the aisle seat in my row.

Conversation between fishermen is quick and easy,

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