There's just something about fly fishing    that seems to inspire a deeper respect for the fish we pursue. It generally takes more skill, and a good bit of learning. The curve can be steep. Not to say that fly fishing is a less effective way to catch fish. Far from it; in the hands of a skilled angler it can far outfish other methods (depending on the species). A quick look at recent light tackle tournaments in the Florida Keys is evidence enough of this.

Whether this respect is learned along the frustrating (and often humiliating) journey of fly fishing, nevertheless it seems to translate into anglers who not only behave more ethically on the water, but go to greater lengths to protect their beloved fish as well - before and after the catch. Even more important, fly fishing as an angling method translates into quantifiable results in terms of post-release fish survival as well. This is mainly due to the fact that fish rarely swallow a fly the way they do other types of lures or bait, so gut-hooking is minimalized.

I spent the major part of my youth hand-line fishing for reef and blue-water fish around Grand Cayman Island. It was meat fishing, plain and simple. My grandfather, a retired seaman, fished and sold his catch to the neighborhood to supplement his income. Naturally I went with him as often as I could, which was plenty. I guess I fished with him like that, on and off, for twenty-odd years before he got too old to go anymore. In those times I saw a lot of fished gut-hooked or snagged in the gills. Either way it was bad news for the fish, though we were keeping them anyways so it didn't matter much. Point is, had we been intending to release them it would have been no good, especially after pulling them out of the water by the fishing line. Fishing with plugs for small tuna was a similar story, except instead of swallowing the bait they got hit in the face with two treble hooks. Anyone whose ever seen fish hooked in the side of the face, in the chin, or the eye with treble hooks has got to wonder about the appropriateness of such gear. Right?

I mean, what's the logic here: "Fishin's been tough lately; you know what I think we need: more hooks"?

Never mind how much longer it takes to disentangle a fish from all those hooks, depriving it of oxygen the whole time (or the danger they pose to anglers themselves). Again, this wasn't a big concern for my grandfather and me as the blackfin tuna we were catching were destined for wahoo bait.

What's the logic here: "Fishin's been tough lately; you know what I think we need: more hooks"?

In comparison my fly fishing career, though about half as short, has been a fairly benign affair. Of all the fish I've caught on fly only one was too weak to release: a seven pound horse-eye jack that leader wrapped me under a dock but didn't break off. By the time I'd untangled it the fish had fought too long and, despite several minutes of reviving, it died. So, we bonked it on the head to make sure, cleaned it, and took it home to marinade in lime juice and broil. It was tastier than you'd think.

Perhaps my shift in approach with fly fishing was largely inspired by the way I was indoctrinated into it. (There's really no other word for it.) While the type of fishing I was used to was certainly not without its reflective and meditative moments – one can hardly put to sea without gaining some sense of perspective and even the rush to put more poundage in the boat has its peaceful moments - that type of fishing was really, when it came right down to it, about hard work and economics (which should be a four-letter-word). We worked hard to put fish in the boat – fish that we then cleaned, iced down, and sold by they pound at the market rate of the 1980's (which was the last time I'm aware of my grandfather raising his prices). In rather short order that money was turned into food, electricity, (and of course) more fuel, tackle, and bait.

Fly fishing, on the other hand, seemed to be less about actually catching fish than about embracing the full experience of fishing itself – in that sense I suppose it was about more than fishing – at least this was what the authors I was reading seemed to say. Long before I actually cast my first fly I had been fed a steady diet of John Geirach, Thomas McGuane, and David James Duncan by my fly fishing friends who (I now realize) knew all lot more about what they were doing than they let on. On those pages I found the perennial struggle to come to grips with the daunting complexity of this style of fishing, a struggle that strangely met with a deep sympathy in my spirit. It would be a wonderful change, I imagined, to strive for the few fish, well caught, rather than fill a cooler with mere poundage.

Even the idea of releasing fish appealed to me. That's not to say that I'd never released fish before. On the contrary, Caymanians have a long tradition of not killing the young of any species. Fish that are too small are released: tossed back over the side to make their way as best then can back to the safety of the reef several meters below. However, releasing whatever you caught seemed to be an essential part of this whole fly fishing business. In fact, whenever it was mentioned it was in a tone that assumed the reader was already committed to it, and would take care to gently revive their catch first too. I began to see that this might be a way of giving something back, of atoning in some small way for all the fish I'd taken from my home waters.

But there was more to it than that. I'd always loved fishing (it was in my blood, after all) but it had mostly been linked to work for me. It was, in essence, a quantifiable experience rather than a qualitative one. That is, it had always been about the numbers and even when approached mostly as a sport – as it was in the few big-game tournaments we participated in – it was still all about performance (as witnessed by the quintessential inquiry from friends on one's return from an outing: “How'd you do; any good?”) I began to see in the pages of these books and the conversations with my fly fishing friends a different kind of fishing, one that not only acknowledged its uselessness and its disregard for quantity, but embraced both. It was to be understood that after a day of this type of fishing you'd return home as empty handed as you left, and that would signify nothing one way or the other. One could have had either a glorious day of catching or a glorious day of fishing, or both. Neither depended on “putting fish in the boat”, as we used to say.

Suddenly it becomes deeply important that these wild places be protected and left as untouched as can be, that there be fish in the oceans, bait in the shallows, and birds to hunt them both from the air.

Eventually, of course, I did start to actually fly fish for myself, and I quickly learned the benefit of such a mindset and attitude. Fly fishing was hard. The surprise was that a general lack of fish and a continuous struggle to learn the basics of the technique did not at all dampen one's enjoyment of the sport. Quite the opposite.

It had another unexpected result as well: for the first time in my life I really explored the island that was my home. I spent weeks and months along its coast, seeking out new flats and fisheries, walking the beach or wading the shallows or clambering over the jagged ironshore. I witnessed migrating baitfish, mating tarpon, hunting ospreys, hungry sharks, ambushing cudas, and every kind of weather you care to name. I felt the tides change, pushing and pulling against my legs in their endless rhythm. And I began to see and learn how those edges where marine shallows faded to tropical shoreline fitted together so profoundly. In fact, I soon realized that most of the experiences I was having didn't have to do with catching fish at all, but they did have to do with fishing.

I think this is where fly fishers have an edge over other piscatorial practitioners in deepening their respect for the natural world. The very pace of fly fishing, the deliberateness of it, allows more room for reflection on just where one is in the world. And one can hardly turn their thoughts there without then considering our place here – as a person, as anglers, as a species. Suddenly it becomes deeply important that these wild places be protected and left as untouched as can be, that there be fish in the oceans, bait in the shallows, and birds to hunt them both from the air. And if the price be that we occasionally reach out and connect with these creatures and feel their otherness through a length of fishing line, only to return them to their world, than it seems a far easier weight than removing them from it forever only to fill bellies and wallets. After all, there are far more important things, in this world.    << Back to GREEN ANGLER Page

~ Davin Ebanks, Fly Fisherman & Bonefish Guide