Fishing Report #18
May 25 – June 01, 2025
Welcome to the Caribbean!
The ancient Maya believed that Itzamná, lord of the sky and of words, taught humans that the invisible is what holds the world together. That it’s not the jaguar that defines the jungle, but the silence that comes before it. That it’s not the storm that commands respect, but that moment just before, when the wind shifts its scent. On the water, wise Mayan fishermen used to say, what matters isn’t the fish you see—but the line that connects it to the angler. The invisible. The fragile. The part that breaks.
This week in the bay was a masterclass in that truth. The migrating tarpon arrived, with ancestral power and physics-defying jumps. Golden ghosts—permits—also revealed themselves, demanding a surgeon’s precision and a shaman’s faith. And in the middle of them all, us: humans, tippets, hooks, reels. Everything you don’t see… until it fails.
Monday
The week started like a postcard: light southeast wind, skies clear as a blank page, and a tide so low it felt like a miscalculation. The guides, somewhere between awe and nostalgia, admitted they had never seen the bottom of those flats so exposed.
Marsh opened the week with a well-earned permit. But the moment of the day came courtesy of Blackwell: a 90-minute battle with a tarpon estimated at 80 to 90 pounds, all on a humble 40-pound tippet. A showdown worthy of being carved in stone. The fish was done—exhausted, boat-side, ready to be landed with care. But this tarpon—master of drama—decided on one final jump, right on the beach, and broke free. There was no photo… but everyone saw it. And sometimes, that’s worth more than any trophy.
Tuesday
Spencer signed off the day with his very first permit—on the surface—with a gurgler. The fly barely touched down before the explosion. First permit, first love, first shout of victory.
Dick had a string of casts and eats with the same fly, like the day had been scripted just for him. Blackwell and Pat found success with snook and bonefish, while Dave and Tom J. filled their bonefish tally with quiet joy and clean shots.
The sun played the role of a perfect witness, and the southeast wind ramped up to 15–17 mph—just enough to get annoying.
Wednesday
Tom J. joined the club with his first permit. The rest of the crews found plenty of action: nervous schools, curious barracudas, and a sea full of eager bonefish.
Short, sharp squalls played hide and seek—those brief showers that lift the mood more than they soak. The wind held steady at 15–17 mph from the southeast, drawing the line in the sand.
Too much wind for hunting big tarpon. Sometimes the weather doesn’t say “no,” but it hints: “better not today.”
Thursday
Spencer starred in a scene that will be retold over beers and nervous laughs for years to come: a tarpon over 100 pounds, a 90-minute fight, everything under control—until the loop on the fly line snapped. One of those things you don’t believe can happen… until it does. Dick had his own clash with another of these silver torpedoes, which also slipped away with a near-magic trick, just as the guide had the leader in hand.
Marsh and Tom threw everything they had at the permits, but the fish were in full ghost mode. Other groups found bones and solitary permits, while the waves at the bay’s mouth brought out the courage of those who tried for migrating tarpon. No landed fish—but plenty of respect earned.
Friday
David pulled off a Grand Slam—remixed: he swapped the tarpon for a snook. But as one guide put it, “The order of the streetlights doesn’t change how things get lit.” The achievement counts just the same—and so does the smile.
Blackwell kept casting at schools of permit, but luck stayed just out of reach. Big tarpon were spotted, along with more bait-balls and schools moving in. The wind eased to 11–12 mph, and scattered clouds gave the sky some texture and grace.
Saturday
Final day, and the bay still had stories left to tell.
Pat landed a permit to tie things up with a bow. Dick and Spencer both hooked tarpon over 100 pounds, brought them boat-side, completely spent… and watched them slip away just before the photo. That lost image hurt more than the lost fish. Still, Dick didn’t go home empty-handed: he added another permit. And Blackwell—just for dramatic flair—lost yet another big tarpon. Most anglers wrapped up their week with snook and bonefish, as if the sea itself wanted to make sure no one left without a memory worth keeping.
Weather
This week, the weather was its own character. It started generous: clear skies, mild breezes, pleasant temperatures. But like any good Caribbean story, it built tension as the days passed. From Tuesday to Thursday, southeast winds blew steadily at 14–17 mph—not enough to stop the fishing, but enough to demand better shots and sharper strategy. Friday brought a break, with lighter winds and playful, scattered clouds. Brief squalls on Wednesday and Thursday added stories more than setbacks. In short: a varied week, with challenges, but never enough to stop great things from happening.
Flies
Some flies didn’t just work this week—they shined.
The Gurgler was the surprise headliner, landing Spencer’s first permit on the surface and provoking several explosive eats.
But as always, the stars for permit were the lodge staples: the ESB Crab and ESB Spawning Shrimp. Reliable, irresistible, and proven once again to be the language the permit truly understands.
Supporting players included classic Spawning Shrimp, Squimps, Mantis, and Raghead Crabs, which found success on finicky fish.
For tarpon, Tarpon Toads, Black Death, and a few orange/chartreuse variations got the job done, especially on cloudy days. EP Baitfish patterns also worked well in rougher water conditions.
Snook and bonefish stuck to the greatest hits: Clouser Minnows, Gotchas, and a few off-the-record experiments that paid off.
As always, it’s not just the fly—it’s how, when, and who throws it. To everyone who joined us this week—thank you.
For every shot that didn’t work, for every tarpon that jumped once too many, for every permit that eyed the fly and said, “not today.” Thank you for your patience, your intensity, your sense of wonder. Because beyond the photos or the fish landed, what really lasts are the stories—those told in quiet voices as the sun goes down, when the water reflects nothing but memory.
We leave with the wind still on our skin, our hands marked by lines, and our hearts a little fuller. As the ancients said, no one returns from the sea unchanged. You come back knowing just a little more about the invisible.
We’ll see you next week with a brand-new report. Don’t hesitate to reach out to our friends at The Fly Shop® to hear firsthand what life is like in 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
