There Are Ghosts Out There, Mon

None of us believed we would see another permit after that. Some things just are not meant to be. But our appetite was keen, and we didn't have the heart to leave yet. For the second time in 20 minutes, Kent poled us along the bar. We had nearly reached the small cay when Fred ducked into a crouch. "O.K., here we go!" he whispered. He cast toward the setting sun.

I thought he was hallucinating. All week long neither Fred nor I had spotted a permit before Kent. The cast flew 30 feet, landing with a splash in the fiery orange reflection of the sunset. Almost immediately there was a ripple of nervous water behind the fly, then the black back of a permit emerged, sticking three inches out of the water. With that dramatic lighting as a background, we could see the fish heading directly for the fly.

"Heem comin'. Yas big boy, come."

The permit flared at the fly, making a splash. He didn't take it though. By some miracle of nerve control, Fred did not strike at the splash. Rather, he continued stripping in. Amazingly, the black back reappeared behind the fly, 20 feet from the boat and closing. It looked like a torpedo. Holding our breath, we ducked lower...and lower...until only our eyeballs were sticking above the gunwales. The permit was nearly close enough to blackjack with the rod, the fly inches from its mouth. Then it made a sudden but unfrightened turn, exposing its broad silvery flank, and splashed beneath the surface. That was the end of it. Kent guessed the permit would have gone over 20 pounds.

We headed back to the lodge, feeling strangely elated. "It couldn't have given a greater show of refusal," Fred said admiringly. "They call the bonefish the gray ghost of the flats. The tarpon is the silver king. But the permit is just the plain old ghost." There was respect in his eyes that had not been there before. It looked good on him.