Fishing Report #16
May 11 – 18, 2025
The ancient Mayans used to tell that the god of corn, in his attempt to create true human beings, failed three times before succeeding. He tried with clay, with wood, with stone… but none of those held up against time or the trials of the world. Only when he shaped the bodies out of corn —that sacred grain, a perfect blend of resilience and patience— did he finally create a being worthy of staying.
It wasn’t a story about agriculture. It was a warning about the soul.
About how many times we must fail before creating something that’s truly worth it.
And this week in the bay, more than any other, reminded us of that: that fishing —like almost everything that matters— isn’t built on impulse, but on cycles. It’s not just about casting. It’s about staying. About coming back. About understanding that some days give you nothing… and yet leave you with everything.
Because some weeks don’t make noise. They’re not measured in numbers or records. But you feel them. They sharpen you. They empty your pockets of ego and fill them with calm.
And then you get it: this bay doesn’t reward the impatient.
What’s truly worthwhile comes slowly.
The first day felt like a knowing wink. A few permits joined the scoreboard early, as if politely saying hello without fully committing. Fred, Frank, Lorenzo, and Richard added a bit more than half a dozen to the count. The wind started gently out of the north and shifted to the east by afternoon, staying soft —as if it, too, wanted to let things flow. Some anglers made the most of that calm to cross paths with memorable fish. Others simply took note of the rhythm of the place.
The second day gifted us those kinds of encounters that don’t always end in a photo, but always end in a story. Jeff landed a permit, Josh battled a nasty snook that tested the limits of his knots and patience, Chris squared off with a worthy tarpon, and Fredd wasn’t far behind —fighting a big tarpon and adding a cuda for good measure. Days like that don’t need any embellishment.
On day three, east winds brought along moody clouds that parked themselves right over the most promising flats. We saw permits. Plenty. Some in pairs, others proud and solitary —almost mocking the group. But they weren’t eating. They were simply there, to remind us that permit fishing doesn’t begin with a cast, but with humility. Fortunately, bonefish and tarpon stepped in to keep spirits up. And as it often happens, when you stop chasing, things come to you: Chris found a tarpon that didn’t hesitate, and Fredd kept busy with action across multiple species.
The fourth outing, with steady east winds of 12 to 15 mph and more cloud cover, tested the group’s tolerance. Permits showed up, but with locked jaws. The sea painted postcard scenes but offered little interaction. Some turned to variety instead —finding fiery snooks, ever-willing bonefish, and the kind of surprise tarpons that remind you not everything depends on a permit.
Friday followed a similar script: many seen, none eating. But that didn’t stop people from collecting memories. Chris once again stood out, and others shifted focus to other species —with more than respectable results.
Saturday felt like a long, unhurried after-dinner conversation. The group went out with no pressure, just to enjoy whatever the bay had left to offer. Fredd added one more permit to end his week with a flourish, while the rest turned their attention to large snooks, plentiful bonefish, and other species that kept rods bent and smiles wide.
This week wasn’t about big numbers or broken records. It was about quiet lessons, about casts that came close to perfect but didn’t connect, about fish seen but not touched, and about the small decisions that make a big difference. The kind of week where an angler leaves without the photo they dreamed of —but with a head full of moments they’ll never need to prove.
Because just like the Mayan gods learned with corn, some things can only be earned by trying more than once. By failing without giving up. By understanding that not everything valuable lets itself be caught.
And that’s why we return. Because the permits that didn’t eat, the clouds that blocked the perfect flat, and the lines that snapped at the last second… they’re part of the story too.
A story that, like the men made of corn, can only endure with the rarest thing of all: patience that doesn’t break.
Weather
This week’s weather, in many ways, mirrored the mood of the fish: unpredictable, challenging, and at times, mysteriously calm.
Monday opened with a soft, almost shy north wind that shifted to the east by afternoon —like someone excusing themselves quietly and slipping away. As the week went on, the east wind settled in stronger, holding steady between 12 and 15 mph, dragging with it a stubborn layer of cloud cover that showed up exactly when we needed light the most.
Tides, at least, behaved sensibly —well-defined and predictable. And in this game, that counts too.
Flies
When it came to flies, there was no need to reinvent the wheel.
Permits —when they chose to come close— responded to tried-and-true patterns, those with first-name status in this bay: ESB Spawning Shrimp, Casa Blanca Crab, Flexo in white, olive, beige, and light gray. White in particular stood out in clear water with bright overhead light.
Bonefish, ever the gentlemen, gladly took the classics: Gotchas, Squimps, and Crazy Charlies, all in smaller sizes and subtle presentations.
Snook and tarpon moved by instinct and hit hard on EP baitfish, Deceivers, and the forever-reliable Black & Purple.
We leave this week behind with that blend of physical exhaustion and emotional gratitude that only well-lived fishing can bring.
Thanks to each angler who came with curiosity, questions, and patience.
To the guides who read the water like marked cards.
To the lodge team who makes every return to the dock feel like coming home.
And to the bay, for giving us another week without promises, but full of meaning.
Another week where, even if not everything let itself be caught —everything was worth it.
Don’t hesitate to reach out to our friends at The Fly Shop® to learn more about life at Espiritu Santo Bay, inside the Sian Ka’an Biosphere Reserve (which means “Where the sky begins” in the Mayan language).
Taak ulak k’iin and Ka xi’ik teech utsil
(See you later and good luck, in the Mayan language)
Martín Ferreyra Gonzalez and the entire ESB Family
800-669-3474 | 530-222-3555 | travel@theflyshop.com | ESB Lodge
