ISLAND CYCLES

A three-hour flight over monotone ocean gives way to a menagerie of cyan, blue, and teal, and you realize how truly beautiful water can be—that even the most stoic could cry looking down at this South Pacific lagoon full of bonefish and triggerfish and the coveted, seabird-marauding Giant Trevally.

You’ve come a long way for minimal resources and have settled into the island’s cinder block cabins and daily lunch of ham and ketchup sandwiches.

Friendly villagers in houses akin to lean-tos.

Warm beer in a fridge that sometimes works.

Flies spun in the light of a flickering bulb at night.

You’ve stripped yourself of luxuries; they distract from your intentions.

A couple mornings later the chug of the boat fades after it drops you in a corner of the lagoon, a water desert dotted by far-away palms and frigate birds on the breeze. Your eyes are tuning in, teeth bared from squinting; you wade from flat to flat because a skiff feels like cheating.

Wind ripples the surface, sending a shiver over the aquamarine to a pair of large, peach-faced triggers bobbing in the chop 50 yards ahead. You instinctively crouch, camouflaging the few inches that might give you away. They pick through the coral, exposing their backs as you smoothly pull line from the reel and wade forward. Everything inside is screaming, even as you quietly watch and move.

Cast, Johnny whispers.

He’s stocky, and the kind of guide who likes to cover long distances on foot; he’s permitting you to cast away the nervous energy. And so it goes from your belly, into your muscles and nerve endings, exploding twice in the bend of the eight weight, through the line, to the pendulum drop of the fly.

It can either plop quietly within their path or drop directly on their heads, scattering them off the flat. This cast is the former. The table is set; now it’s just a matter of wait—

Strip! Johnny breathes.

You give it a few quick, short tugs.

Stop.

A few more.

One shadow races the other and Johnny tells you, hold. Keep holding. The shadows close in and you picture the fly on the drop; Johnny’s shoulders drop instead.

Ahhhh, he sighs, defeated for you, right before the fish drop off the shelf to the deep. It’s only been a couple days, and you already know these fish are assholes.

“Johnny,” of course, is his guide name—his native moniker tumbles clumsily off visitors’ tongues. He’s one of several on rotation for the week. They work hard for your success, securing knots with long fingernails, supplementing flies with a few of their own, slapping the water for the attention of the trevally.

At the end of the day you work just as hard to beat them at the pool table. Sunburnt and thirsty, always thirsty, you lean back in the windowless bar that has a simple cooler of Budweiser in the corner as Matt—his skin a deep brown from the season’s work—sinks another corner shot for the win. Everyone laughs and he orders you another consolation beer.

The next day it’s you and Max, though a friend is just a flat away. Separated by a narrow, deep blue chasm, you watch her exchange rods with her guide and Max extends his hand to do the same. A lit cigarette dangles from his lips; he wedges the 12-weight under his armpit, and you pull line on the eight. Max was born and raised on the island and these flats are like his children—each one different; some admittedly favored over others.

He is also your eyes. He gestures to what seems like nothing.

Thirty feet, he mumbles around the cigarette.

The take is hard, and the bonefish runs away with your line. The slack whips violently through your fingers and you gradually start to pinch, bridling it like a wild stallion until it’s reigned taught to the reel.

Yeehaw, you think, and the reel screams.

It bucks and turns and contorts for a while before you bring it to Max who lifts it with both hands, cradling the shiny white flesh, and places it in yours. Its skin like armor, its meaty girth—nothing like the trout back home.

For the next hour you pluck bones from the water like rabbits out of a hat. When you’ve finally lost count you look up and, in the distance, your friend holds a giant gray slab.

GT. Geet. Giant indeed.

Easily 60 pounds! her guide announces when you reconvene on the boat.

The occasion calls for extra beers at the lodge that night, which inevitably turns to liquor and stories, then dinner of freshly harvested mantis shrimp, then liquor and stories again. Too soon a rooster crows while you fumble to quiet the alarm in the darkness. Pulling yesterday’s salt-crusted sun shirt over your head, you creak open the bungalow door and shuffle barefoot through the sugary sand for the communal pot of instant coffee.

It’s hot, chalky and acidic. But it also provides a recharge. Pinks and oranges start to come through the clouds as breakfast winds down; the wader socks are still wet despite having been hung out all night in the South Pacific breeze.

Such a pain, you think groggily, grunting through the process each morning. But of course you don’t mind. You’ve got unfinished business with some triggers.

And so the cycle goes—fish, rinse, repeat.

WORDS BY: ERIN SPAULDING

ON THE WATER

SALTWATER TOOLS

Bonefish to Tarpon, presentation to power, recommendations from our reps and ambassadors on the perfect saltwater season setups.

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CUT-AND-FIT

Achieving precision is not always easy or quick. At Sage, our handcrafting process includes an attention to detail in the cut-and-fit stage that far exceeds the industry standard. We taper fit each of our rods, one section at a time, starting at the tip. Our rodsmiths hand-cut and hand-fit each individual section. Then they check and refine the connections for wobble or tightness as well as fit and flex before the rod makes the grade.

The result is pure harmony—a smooth, end-to-end connection from a handcrafting process that results in a lighter rod with precise alignment. It’s complicated, but even a thickness-of-a-hair variance can drastically alter the action of a rod. Yet we believe every millimeter and every cast matters, which is why we take the extra time to make it right. It's our trademark.

CHRISTMAS ISLAND OUTFITTERS

Want to learn more about the chance to fish the flats for Bonefish, GT's, and the elusive Trigger? Check out our friends at Christmas Island Outfitters who recently hosted us on this amazing saltwater experience featured in the story and images above. Inquire below for full details.