Fishing Report #19
June 01 – 08, 2025
Welcome to the Caribbean,
The ancient Maya said the gods didn’t speak with words, but with signs. That the wind was their whisper, that a low-flying vulture foretold storms, and that fish were never where you saw them, but where you felt them. That’s why the first fishermen didn’t use nets or iron hooks—they fished with the invisible. With line made from ceiba fibers, flies tied with patience and feathers stolen from dreams. And above all, with faith.
Because deep down, they said, fishing wasn’t about catching. It was about asking.
And waiting for the answer with a still body and an alert soul.
This week, that ancient wisdom took shape in a group of devoted and stubborn anglers. They didn’t want bonefish. They didn’t want tarpon. They barely glanced at snook. Just permit. Only permit. Golden ghosts, elusive and precise. As if the rest of the world had melted away, and all that remained was that desire with a V-shaped tail.
The first day brought both promise and surprise. Steve kicked things off with a real permit—a dream start that lifted everyone’s spirits on board. And then, the trickery. His fly disappeared in the middle of a school, and the reel screamed like it was announcing the end of days. For a few minutes, everyone thought he had hooked a second monster permit. But after tense moments and overflowing faith, the fish revealed its true identity: a giant jack. One of those that our guides call “Mayan Permits” with a half-smile—because they fool even the most trained eye. It wasn’t the goal, but it was a beautiful reminder that the ocean doesn’t read our intentions.
Miguel also had his moment with the sacred species, landing a permit earned with precision and calm. Don, for his part, came close to glory: he hooked one, but the tippet—always dramatic—snapped. Southeast wind at 13 MPH, with a few clouds drifting about, unsure of where to settle.
The second day began with drizzle and possibility. Light rain in the morning, with things improving modestly after midday. The bay filled with promising shadows. Schools and singles swam past the boats, but none were interested in feeding. It was a day for watching and learning. The southeast wind held at 14 to 15 MPH, with cloud cover that slowly opened up, like someone regretting having closed off too much.
The third round started with enthusiasm. Permit were seen, the pulse of the water was right. Doug hooked one. For a brief moment, the silence filled with hope. But the fish came off, like a memory you just can’t hold onto. And just as the day was coming together, a thunderstorm unleashed its wrath. Everyone returned to the lodge, seeking shelter and the comfort of coffee. The storm lasted almost until sunset, its intensity rising and falling like it too was unsure of its purpose.
Thursday was the day of relentless attempts. Many permit were seen. None gave in. Flies flew, patterns changed, leaders lengthened… still nothing. The east wind blew hard, 15 to 17 MPH. Clouds persisted, though the afternoon showed small gestures of kindness.
Friday repeated the script, with more sun and less hope. Conditions improved, but the permit kept up their elegant indifference. The group, however, remained unwavering: permit or nothing. At this point, it was more an act of faith than a goal.
Saturday, the final round, brought a touch of redemption. Doug decided to throw a bonefish fly, like someone tossing a coin into a wishing well. And it worked. The permit took the fly, fought with soul and muscle, and ended up in hands that knew exactly what it meant. A beautiful ending, though not enough to erase the parade of missed opportunities. Schools of over a hundred permit were seen. Some anglers made dozens of perfect casts into them. Nothing. Every trick tried. No bites.
Because yes, the permit is a fish.
But it’s also a test.
And this week, like the old Mayan gods, it chose not to speak with words.
Weather
The weather was as moody as a permit. Sunny days with soft breezes, clouded skies that opened just to close again, and a thunderstorm that reminded us how small we are. Winds ranged from 12 to 20 MPH, mostly from the southeast and east. While there were calm windows, the week demanded that we read each sign in the sky like an old Mayan codex.
Flies
There was no need to reinvent the wheel. When permit came close enough to consider eating, they responded—just as they always do—to the local classics: the ESB Spawning Shrimp, the ESB Crab, and trusted Flexos in white, olive, beige, and light gray. In clear water and good light, white led the charge.
Bonefish stuck to the script: Gotchas, Squimps, and Crazy Charlies, in small sizes and soft presentations. Always willing, always the first to say yes—especially when permit say 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, there’s no time for thinking. You cast. You feel. And if you’re lucky, you shout.
Sometimes success isn’t measured by what you catch, but by how much you insist. This group came for one thing and stayed true to that desire. They saw hundreds of fish, lived through pure tension, laughed, doubted, got frustrated—and tried again. And that, cheesy as it may sound, is also fishing.
Thanks to every guide who read the water’s silence like a native language. To the entire staff who made sure that, permit or not, every day ended with a smile and a cold beer. And to all of you, who chose this bay and these corners of the world to chase a fish that is, deep down, a metaphor with fins.
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).
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
