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Updated: June 25, 2025
If I am ever conceited again I hope no one will read my stories. My brother and I could not bring ourselves to try for bonefish with heavy tackle. It was preposterous. Three four five-pound fish! We had seen no larger. Bass tackle was certainly heavy enough for us. So in the innocence of our hearts and the assurance of our vanity we sallied forth to catch bonefish. That was four years ago.
This was discouraging and we could not account for it. So we moved. About half a mile down the beach I thought I caught a glimpse of a bonefish. It was a likely-looking contrast to the white marl all around. Here I made a long cast and sat down to wait. My brother lagged behind. Presently I spied two bonefish nosing along not ten feet from the shore.
There were waves beating in a miniature surf. And I calculated on the receding of a wave. Then with one quick pull I slid our beautiful quarry up on the coral sand. The instant he was out of the water the leader snapped. I was ready for this, too. But at that it was an awful instant! As the wave came back, almost deep enough to float the bonefish, I scooped him up. "He's ours!"
He's been on twenty-three minutes now. Stand up I'll steady the canoe and watch for that sudden rush when he sees the canoe. The finish is in sight." It was an indication of a tiring fish that he made his first circle of the canoe, but too far out for us to see him. This circling a boat is a remarkable feature, and I think it comes from the habit of a bonefish of pulling broadside.
All around us were bonefish tails lifted out of the water. They glistened like silver. When a bonefish feeds his head is down and his tail is up, and, the water being shallow, the upper fluke of his tail stands out. If I saw one I saw a thousand. It was particularly easy to see them in the glassy water toward the sunset. A school of feeding bonefish came toward us.
I believe I've got a barracuda!" I looked and looked, but I could not see him. "No matter what you think you saw, that fish is a bonefish," I declared, positively. "The runs he made! I saw silver and green! Careful now. I know he's a bonefish. And he must be big." "Maybe it's only the wind and waves that make him feel so strong," replied R. C. "No! You can't fool me! Play him for a big one.
But some time elapsed and we had poled to within a few rods of the mangroves before I really caught sight of our coveted quarry. Then I saw five bonefish, two of them large, between the boat and the mangroves. They were motionless. Somehow the sight of them was thrilling. They looked wary, cunning, game, and reminded me of gray wolves I had seen on the desert. Suddenly they vanished.
We remarked that the tide had not seemed to rise any higher. Everywhere were little swells, little waves, little wakes, all made by bonefish. The sun sank red and gold, and all the wide flat seemed on fire, with little mangroves standing clear and dark against the ruddy glow. And about this time the strangest thing happened. It might have been going on before, but Sam and I had not seen it.
By peering keenly you may discern a little swirl in the water. As for the strength of a bonefish, I actually hesitate to give my impressions. No one will ever believe how powerful a bonefish is until he has tried to stop the rush and heard the line snap. As for his cunning, it is utterly baffling. As for his biting, it is almost imperceptible. As for his tactics, they are beyond conjecture.
And for bonefish, that rare fighter known to so few anglers, the three-six tackle a three-ounce tip and six-thread line is just the ideal rig to make the sport exceedingly difficult, fascinating, and thrilling. Old bonefishermen almost invariably use heavy tackle stiff rods and twelve-or fifteen-thread lines. They have their arguments, and indeed these are hard nuts to crack.
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