Fishing Report #17
May 18 – 25, 2025
Welcome to the Caribbean!
The ancient Mayans said that, at the beginning of time, the gods created men to care for the Earth and celebrate life. But they forgot to give them one thing: joy.
The first men were wise, strong, and patient. But they walked in silence, completed their tasks without smiling, and didn’t know how to sing. The gods, concerned, summoned the Hummingbird—the smallest messenger of the sky—and gave him a mission: to find in the world whatever could ignite a spark of joy in men’s hearts.
The Hummingbird flew for days, crossing mountains, jungles, and seas… until one day, he saw a group of fishermen laughing by the shore. They had endured a long day, with shifting winds and elusive fish, but were still sharing tortillas, stories, and laughter.
The Hummingbird understood: joy doesn’t come from immediate success, but from good company. He flew back, brushed the hearts of men with his beak, and ever since, as the elders say, those who fish with good people never return empty-handed.
This week in the bay was exactly that: a celebration of perseverance, shared energy, and the kind of enjoyment that blooms when the right people meet in the right place.
There were memorable catches, yes. But there was also something more: generous gestures, timely words, and an atmosphere that felt as if it had been woven by the Hummingbird himself.
And that—though it won’t show up in a photo—is the most important catch of all.
The first day started off with east-southeast winds and a sky covered in clouds. Everyone left the dock with one clear goal: permit or nothing. And they saw them—multiple times—gliding elegantly over the flats like they knew they were the stars of the show. But seeing isn’t the same as landing. The shots were there, the intentions too. What was missing was the “yes.” Just a few bonefish and not much more, as if every other species had stepped aside to let the obsession take center stage.
The second day followed the same rhythm: east-southeast winds between 12 and 15 mph, and those annoying clouds that show up just when you need light. Still, the action came. Sharp-toothed barracudas, leaping tarpon, opportunistic snooks, and plenty of shots at permits that once again said “no.” But the movement was there, and sometimes that’s all it takes to keep hope alive.
The third attempt felt like a repeat—until it wasn’t. Scott, in his first serious attempt at permit fishing, hooked two. Two. The excitement could be felt from the other boat. But the leader—that thin thread between a dream and a story—snapped. Twice. That’s permit fishing: a cruel but unforgettable teacher. Still, for his first time, Scott walked away proud, with a story that’s worth far more than a photo.
The fourth round in this weeklong duel with the bay brought a break: less wind. ED took full advantage and landed his permit, etching his name into the week’s story. Others found success with bonefish, snooks, and tarpon—but most were still mentally elsewhere. That’s the strange power of the permit: it makes you forget other fish even exist.
The fifth day was a rollercoaster with sharp turns. Lloyd landed a permit with the quiet confidence of someone who knows when to push and when to ease up. Allan, meanwhile, hooked two—only to have his tippet fail at the worst possible moment. Invisible coral points did their work with surgical precision. Lorenzo went to battle with a tarpon straight out of a Hemingway novel. The fight was long and intense… until the tip of his rod came flying off into the horizon. The leader popped, and the rod tip sailed toward Cuba—no passport, just purpose.
Other anglers had their chances too—many of them. The kind of shots that linger in your memory like a buzzing fly near your ear. No major, verifiable catches, but plenty of moments. The kind where everything seems to align but the fish still won’t eat. Someone—no one says who—claims to have seen a tail flick at sunset. Others disagree. But everyone went silent at the same time. And when that happens, you know something real just passed by… even if there’s no picture to prove it.
The final day brought calm skies, no annoying clouds, and a steady SE wind at 12 to 14 mph. Mike landed a permit. Scott—this time, yes—too. His first true one. The kind you remember years later, in detail. George fought a big snook, but once again the line snapped—coral or conch, we’ll never know. Allan and Lorenzo each wrapped up their week with a barracuda. A farewell full of teeth and speed.
Weather
This week’s weather was like a fishing partner with personality: sometimes helpful, sometimes not, but always present. The wind held steady from the east-southeast, ranging from 12 to 15 mph. Some days brought clouds that parked themselves right where we needed sun, while others—like Saturday—offered clean light and quiet blessings.
There were no storms, no extremes. Just the kind of conditions that ask you to read the water patiently and adjust your choices with care. Those who adapted found their windows. Those who got frustrated… learned something too. Because in this bay, weather is not an excuse or an enemy. It’s part of the game.
Flies
There was no need to reinvent the wheel. When permits came close enough to consider eating, they responded to the local classics: ESB Spawning Shrimp, Casa Blanca Crab, and Flexos in white, olive, beige, and light gray. White, in particular, stood out in clear water and good light.
Bonefish stuck to the script: Gotchas, Squimps, and Crazy Charlies, in small sizes and soft presentations. Always welcoming, always willing to say yes—especially when the permit says no.
Snook and tarpon acted on impulse. EP baitfish, Deceivers, and the forever-effective Black & Purple did what they always do: provoke visceral strikes. When they show up, hesitation is not an option.
We close the week with that beautiful mix of physical exhaustion and emotional gratitude that only great fishing can bring.
Thank you to every angler who arrived with an open mind and a heart set to “permit mode.” To those who got excited at the first cast, the failed shot, or the one that almost worked. Thank you for the laughs, the shared silences, the spontaneous toasts back at the lodge.
Thank you to the guides, for reading the water like it came with subtitles. For teaching without many words. For pointing out a fish at 80 feet and making it seem easy.
Thank you to the lodge team, who make every return feel like coming home.
And thank you, always, to this bay.
For reminding us—once again—that not everything valuable lets itself be caught.
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
