Fishing Report #21
June 15 – 22, 2025
Welcome to the Caribbean!
The ancient Maya believed that when a man chose a path and walked it without ever looking away, the gods watched him closely. Not for the outcome, but for his resolve.
They said Hun Batz and Hun Chuen, the twin brothers of wisdom, rewarded those who kept their desire alive beyond fatigue, beyond storms, beyond the fear of returning empty-handed. Because only those who keep casting even when the water is rough understand that the true catch doesn’t always rise from the bottom of the sea—but from the bottom of oneself.
This week in the bay was a lesson in that truth.
The weather played the role of a strict teacher: overcast skies, temperamental winds shifting without warning, and visibility measured more in instinct than in feet.
But our anglers didn’t come to test the waters. They came to chase a permit—and nothing else. Each day brought clear shots, real chances. Yet no one gave up, no one changed course, no one lost faith.
This week was about exactly that: persistence, patience, and worthiness. And in that passionate stubbornness to long for what refuses to be caught, maybe—just maybe—the gods took notice.
Monday
The week began like a stage with its curtain down: moderate winds and a heavy silver-gray sky covering everything. Visibility was more of a guess than a guarantee, a promise swept away by each gust.
The permits showed up—close, too close—but like old friends with old grudges, they refused to play. A few baby tarpon and snook showed up to remind us that something could still be felt on the line.
Tuesday
The wind picked up a notch, and the rain turned into the sky’s nervous twitch: scattered, inconvenient, indecisive.
Permits kept appearing, but never committed. A few bonefish and baby tarpon saved the skunk, but for those who came for just one thing, they felt like a consolation prize nobody really wanted.
Wednesday
And then, it happened: a permit riding a stingray.
One of those stories we tell ourselves when the tide’s low and hope is too. The ray glided over the bottom, stirring up crabs, and the permit followed—eating, moving, perfectly synced.
The guide called it out. The angler cast. And for a moment, everything aligned. But it didn’t eat. A miracle cut short.
They later found schools of permit, but every shot vanished into thin air.
Some nice tarpon and quality snook lifted the mood slightly, but the weather didn’t help: 17 to 19 mph winds, low ceilings, and bursts of rain every 30 minutes, like the sky rehearsing how to cry.
Thursday
Tab did what everyone had been trying to do: land a beautiful permit.
Short, fair fight—as if the fish had finally decided it had made us wait long enough.
Others saw permit, plenty of them, but none gave in. The wind eased just a bit, clouds rose higher, and the rain stayed at the bay’s edges—as if, for once, it respected the work being done.
Friday
And just when it felt like the week had said all it had to say, Divid cast to a rolling tarpon, slow and deliberate as a drumbeat.
Perfect shot. Solid eat. Then chaos: jumps, blistering runs, a line that buzzed like something alive.
As the fish neared the boat, the rod—stiff with adrenaline—gave in. Snapped.
But Mark, his fishing partner, and our guide responded like clockwork. Between the three of them, they landed the beast. Over 100 pounds of muscle and fury. A story worth repeating.
The rest of the day brought more permit shots, but none came through. The sky stayed heavy, the rain stayed scattered, and lightning reminded us who’s really in charge out here.
Saturday
The wind calmed, but the sky never gave up its grip.
High, dense clouds cast everything in that same silver monotone that flattens depth, steals definition, blurs everything into sameness.
Permits were there—seen, followed, almost taken. But not quite.
They tried everything: sizes, colors, depths, retrieves. Even that one fly in the corner of the box that somehow always stays.
Nothing worked.
Because if permit are normally difficult, this week they were something else entirely—untouchable. Like a language you understand but can’t speak.
Weather
No doubt, the weather was the main character this week.
Winds from the East shifted between 15 and 23 mph, never quite settling down.
Rain came and went—light, annoying drizzles one minute, and thick, dramatic curtains the next, as if the sky was rehearsing for something bigger.
Clouds ruled from start to finish, casting a dull gray ceiling that flattened everything: no light, no shine, no contrast.
Only Saturday brought some calm, but even then, the sun kept its distance.
Flies
This wasn’t a week for innovation—it was a week for resilience.
For permit, there was no clear winner.
Everything was tried, even that fly buried in the corner of the box that we all keep for reasons we can’t explain: ESB Spawning Shrimp, Casa Blanca Crab, and Flexos in white, beige, and olive.
Anglers played with variations, tweaks, secret recipes.
But nothing outperformed persistence.
Tarpon reacted on instinct—classic patterns like EP baitfish, Black & Purple, and Deceivers did their job, especially on those gray days when sight gave way to feel.
Snook stayed active all week and ate dark, well-presented flies without hesitation.
Bonefish, though pushed to the sidelines, saved the day when spirits needed lifting.
They showed up for Gotchas, Squimps, and discreet Charlies—always ready to say yes when permit say no.
It wasn’t an easy week. But it was an honest one.
Here, in this bay, what you don’t catch often says more than what you do.
Because it’s in the absence where character reveals itself.
And the anglers this week didn’t come to check boxes—they came to stand firm in front of a goal, and not budge an inch.
That kind of silent determination in the face of frustration? That’s the hardest kind of fishing there is.
Thanks to our staff, for keeping the energy high even when the skies didn’t.
To Tab, for the permit that brought our pulse back.
To Divide, for writing a story with a broken rod and a tarpon over 100 pounds.
And to everyone who joined us—for your patience, your presence, your belief.
Fishing is an act that rewards and punishes in equal measure.
Those of us who’ve spent decades with our feet in the water know this:
You can’t control the uncontrollable.
What worked yesterday won’t guarantee a thing tomorrow.
Every day out there is a blank page—and it’s up to us to fill it.
And at the end of the day, acknowledging that the river, the lake, the flat, or the channel humbled us? That, too, is part of the work.
Because fish don’t care if you’ve caught one, fifty, or five hundred.
It’s always us—the ones holding the rod—who insist on trying to control what can’t be tamed.
If you’d like to experience this for yourself, 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 Lodge Family
800-669-3474 | 530-222-3555 | travel@theflyshop.com | ESB Lodge
