Waiting For Godzilla

Bob and Art are outside of us and a bit south, so the poling as we try to catch them is all "upstream." It would be the worst breach of etiquette to fire up the engine in the vicinity of the other skiffs, since the roar would put down any fish that might be moving into the area. Gene sweats us clear, and by the time we reach Bob's skiff the fight is already 35 minutes old.

"He was a single," yells Bob. "I saw him over my shoulder just as we were about to move. Art's cast was short, but he turned and gobbled the fly not 10 feet from the boat."

The seas are heavy now from the south, and the tarpon is dragging them toward Mexico . Whenever Art manages to bring the fish in close to the boat, it rolls to the surface and takes in some air. Rejuvenated, it then surges off again, taking most of the fly line, and sometimes some of the backing. An hour has gone by, and the heavy seas combined with a sore heel (too much tennis) are telling on Art. Whenever the fish gets close to the boat, Bob lies out over the bow with his release gaff ready, reaching with his free hand for the short 100-pound-shock tippet. Twice he gets his fingers on it, but not in time—the fish surges away again.

"If we'd wanted to kill it, I could have had the big gaff in it during the first hour," Bob shouts. "But this guy ain't quite Godzilla—not yet."

After an hour and 55 minutes, with the drag on the fly reel screwed down dangerously tight in an effort to bring the big tarpon within range of the release gaff, the inevitable happens. The leader breaks at its 15-pound section. The fish, not quite as exhausted as Art, fins slowly away, passing under our skiff with a final flash of burnished silver.

"Before we tied into this guy," Bob says, "we saw a string of huge fish—180-pounders at least. You just can't be sure with these fish up here. What looks like 180 could well be over 200. You've got to get them in close so you can see how thick they are."

Art looks up from his seat in the shock chair and wipes his brow with a bandanna. "I'm damned glad he wasn't 200," he says. "We'd be halfway to Panama by now."

That night the wind blows hard and steady out of the northwest. In the morning the water is roiled and murky. Not even the diehards stay out for long. Unless a tarpon jumped in the skiff, it would be virtually impossible to see it. Once the wind stops, it will take two tides at least for the water to clear.

Back in the bar, the anglers sip beer and watch the cavorting monkeys. "I don't know who's sillier, them or us," says Bob Montgomery . "But when that 200-pounder comes along, it'll all be worth it."

Maybe tomorrow....