Voyage to Saint Brendan's Island (Mauritius - April 2025)

Part 1: Mauritius – Star and Key of the Indian Ocean

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During every trip there is a moment where feelings of regret and remorse take over. I’m overwhelmed with it now, staring out over the stern of the supply ship Albatross from an open air throne of bean bags. My eyes, stinging with salt spray, scan for an indiscernible horizon over the inky black swells of the open Indian Ocean. Then a burst of spider lightening illuminates the malevolent cloud mass of a fast approaching thunder cell. Another discharge violently fractures the night sky, and I hear the engines revving higher. The captain must have noticed the storm from the bridge, but the glowing nimbus still gains on the boat as though pulled along with a kite string. What in the hell am I doing out here? Breathing deeply, I remind myself that some destinations have to be earned by another level of risk and suffering. Just get through this and the fishing will be incredible. The boat slices into rolling waves toward a chain of remote islets that rise up from the Mascarene Plateau to form a wilderness saltwater fly fishing sanctuary blessed with prolific populations of tailing gamefish. Among these are the crown jewel of the flats, the Indo-Pacific permit, and bonefish and trevally species of exceptional proportions. I shut my eyes and force myself to relax by revisiting the memories of my last few days on land traversing the big island. Mauritius, that’s where it started.

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A secluded beach resort on the southern end of Mauritius near Bel Ombre

Mauritius, Réunion, and Rodrigues were each spawned by volcanic activity from a hotspot under the Indian Ocean crust. Grand peaks and spires of basalt rise above sea level creating lofty mountain chains, and abundant rainwater feeds lakes within the basins of dormant calderas. When first encountered by the Portuguese and later the Dutch in the 16th century, Mauritius was a heavily forested tropical paradise devoid of humans. Introduction of swine, monkeys and rats ensured the rapid demise of native species, most famously the dodo bird. Over harvest of tropical hardwood trees was followed by introduction of sugar cane and tea plantations in need of intensive labor. The human population grew and diversified with the grim advent of slavery and later indentured servitude. Devastating cyclones collapsed the Portuguese and Dutch colonization attempts, but the key geopolitical position of Mauritius between Africa and India was again exploited by the French and British in the 18th and 19th centuries. Warfare, slavery, and piracy faded into memory by the Victorian era and Mauritius quietly developed into a key economic hub in the Indian Ocean. Now a fully independent republic, Mauritius is remarkable for the peaceful coexistence of its Hindu majority, African, Muslim, Tamil, Chinese, and European inhabitants. The real intrigue of this island is the rich mixture of cultures and religions intermingled in the splendid isolation of the Indian Ocean.

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The southern coast of Mauritius with Le Morne Brabant mountain (upper left)

Arriving at the airport terminal in Plaine Magnien I was grateful to find a taxi, my legs stiff from 22 hours flying. The driver set course for the sleepy southwest corner of Mauritius, leaving behind a throng of sweating Europeans bound for tourist hubs Grand Baie in the north or Flic en Flac in the west. The road took us past vast sugar cane fields for miles. Dilapidated long houses built for the field workers and their families were a reminder of the harsh existence of the indentured servants whose cheap labor drove the sugar export business. The dark outlines of the “pyramids of Plaine Magnien” stood out in the distance. These carefully constructed step pyramids are a monument of thousands of unwanted basalt boulders removed from the tilled soil of the fields. The road emerged onto the ocean at the rugged beaches of Souillac on the extreme southern end of the island and hugged the coast. Long public beach parks alternated with small towns whose businesses and markets cater mainly to the local population. The stone spire of a Catholic Church may precede a green Muslim mosque or a yellow Tamil temple, while a red Hindu shrine waits just down the road. Mauritian Creole is the unofficial language uniting the many ethnic groups, but English works well enough to transact simple business. After an hour, the taxi reached the hidden beachside hotel near the town of Bel Ombre. That night, I fell asleep to the pulsating rhythms of a marathon outdoor Sega dancing performance.

My first excursion on Mauritius was to hike up Le Morne Brabant mountain to view the ocean reefs and surrounding forested peaks. Le Morne Brabant is one of two UNESCO world heritage sites on Mauritius and its story will touch anyone who values human freedom. For many years runaway slaves (maroons) sought refuge on the high slopes of the mountain and in its caves. When the British declared an end to slavery in 1835, police were sent to Le Morne Brabant to inform the former slaves of their emancipation. Tragically, the maroons feared the police had come to arrest and re-enslave them. They climbed up the steep slopes of Le Morne Brabant where many jumped from the cliffs to their deaths.


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The trail leading to the peak of Le Morne Brabant transitions from shaded forest to exposed chutes of sun scorched basalt.

My hike began at a shady beach near the remains of an abandoned Creole village. The rocky trail climbed through thick forest with ample fruit trees to feed the birds and monkeys. Looking up through a gap in the forest I could occasionally see the summit towering above me like an impregnable medieval Cathar fortress. Eventually the path emerged out of the forest onto several flat ledges with viewpoints of the saltwater flats and coral fringing reef far below. A battered yellow sign listed multilingual warnings about proceeding further, and a chain linked fence funneled hikers to the steep summit path. I stashed my water bottle into a rock crevice to keep my hands free for the climbing scramble ahead.

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The monument to runaway slaves who escaped from the plantations of Mauritius.

The climbing wasn’t overly strenuous, but the biggest challenge was maneuvering around other hikers ascending or descending the steep chutes of slippery basalt. The mid-morning sun was rapidly heating up the rock faces and I kept moving before it became a furnace. Near the top I negotiated the Hillary Step of Le Morne Brabant, deftly moving up the more rugged right side of the ascent to get past a dozen other hikers. I knew I had achieved the summit when a metal cross monument and Mauritian flag appeared before me at the edge of a narrow outcropping. Panoramic views of nearby Black River Gorges National Park and the Le Morne “underwater waterfall” pouring through a gap in the outer reef were truly spectacular. I made some friends by volunteering to take group photos for fellow hikers, mostly young travelers on holiday. Dark clouds gradually closed in on the summit and I needed to get off the mountain before the rock became too slick with rainwater.

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Stunning views from Le Morne Brabant include the outer coral reef and famous “underwater waterfall” optical illusion.

The next morning, I packed up my gear and hired a driver to tour southern Mauritius. His name was Anwar, a Muslim with a passion for hiking and horticulture. Ramadan was almost over and with the first sighting of the crescent moon, the Eid al-Fitr holiday would be declared on Mauritius. “It only takes two Muslims to observe the moon and Ramadan is ended,” Anwar explained. “Eid will be celebrated tomorrow with feasting.” He was amazingly energetic and talkative for a man who had been fasting for weeks. We left the coast and drove up into the surrounding hills toward the mountain community of Chamarel. The surrounding terrain looked remarkably similar to parts of the Hawaiian Islands and French Polynesia. Chamarel waterfall cascades over a vertical cross section of lava flows accumulated over eons during the island’s volcanic formation. The neighboring Seven Coloured Earth formation was a dazzling visual display of light courtesy of an array of iron and aluminum oxides formed by the chemical weathering of lava rock. As sun and cloud shifted in the sky, the colors intensified or dimmed against the contrasting green forested mountains.

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Chamarel Falls

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Chamarel Seven Coloured Earth geologic attraction

We continued our drive into the mountainous interior, entering Black River Georges National Park. This rugged nature reserve contains the largest area of undeveloped forest in Mauritius and is home to endangered native bird, animal, and plant species. Magnificent views of mountain peaks, immense forested valleys, and waterfalls stretch out to the ocean. Black River Peak, the tallest mountain on Mauritius at 828 meters, was within reach following a steep 3 km trail. Unfortunately, I only had time to walk a short section of the swampy trail to get a sense for this tropical forest ecosystem. I was impressed to learn that the Mauritians have an avid hiking and trail running tradition. Anwar explained that he had summited all of the major peaks on the island and would be hiking with family members soon now that his Ramadan fasting was over.

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Black River Gorges National Park

The spiritual nexus of Mauritian Hindus is a natural crater lake called Grand Bassin or Ganga Talao, which has been developed into a large temple complex. Local Hindus believe the lake waters are connected to the sacred Ganges River by an underground stream. Every year in late February or early March, a massive pilgrimage to Grand Bassin occurs during the Maha Shivaratri (Great Night of Lord Shiva). Visitors are greeted from a distance by towering thirty-three meter statues of the goddess Durga and Lord Shiva. The multi-lane road leading into the temple area is impressively wide to accommodate thousands of pilgrims making the journey on foot. “Young men race their cars here at night,” Anwar told me. “If you drive fast enough the car will fly into the air where the road dips.” He was less impressed with the religious significance of the lake and its connection to the Ganges, but did find tales of Shiva’s amorous liaisons entertaining.

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Hindu deity Shiva at Grand Bassin

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Grand Bassin lake and temples

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Hindu goddess Durga at Grand Bassin

My minimal familiarity with the Hindu faith left me feeling bewildered by the number of gods and goddesses in human or animal form. Some deities could also take the form of a holy trifecta, which added to my confusion. And all those extra arms wielding objects of mysterious symbolism! The shore of Grand Bassin was lined with ornate sculptures and statues of the major Hindu gods. Worshippers placed before them offerings of fruit and prayers were lifted on the smoke of incense. Cynomolgus macaque monkeys lurked nearby waiting to seize the unattended bounty, snarling at any clumsy tourist that approach too closely. Mauritius is overrun with these mischievous monkeys, and they are occasionally culled or sold abroad to biomedical research laboratories. Bad karma. The sacred waters of the lake are alive with many species of fish, eel, and freshwater turtles. These cruise at the water’s edge, nibbling on rice and coconut meat discarded into the lake.

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A temple cynomolgus macaque monkey eating flower blossoms. Perhaps we’ve met before in another life?

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Hindu deity Ganesha at Grand Bassin lake, the remover of obstacles and god of new beginnings.

It was time to head toward my new hotel in the capital city Port Louis. Anwar drove north up the central plateau to his neighborhood in Curepipe while he pointed out his favorite varieties of fruit trees growing along the streets and courtyards. Houses here are built like fortresses with high walls, presumably to withstand the force of tropical cyclones. In late February 2025, Cyclone Garance passed near Mauritius and made landfall on neighboring Réunion where it killed four people and caused substantial damage. The Mauritius Meteorological Services Doppler Weather Radar Station, located at nearby Trou aux Cerfs volcanic crater, is a colossal forty-three meter concrete tower necessary for tracking the tropical storm threat. The heavily forested crater of Trou aux Cerfs is also a popular walking park in Curepipe with excellent views of surrounding mountains and the Indian Ocean.

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Trou aux Cerf volcanic crater at Curepipe, doppler weather radar tower in the background.

The smooth highway and Metro Express light rail system leading north from Curepipe to Port Louis demonstrate that this urbanized portion of Mauritius has the features of a fully developed nation. The mirrored glass towers of Cyber City high-tech office park reflect the country’s desire to be the major technology hub in the Indian Ocean. A commodity based big sugar economy has been replaced by textiles, financial services, tourism, and luxury real estate development. Unfortunately, many local residents are struggling to find a place in the new economy as high inflation puts strain on their modest annual incomes. Meanwhile, outsiders have flocked to Mauritius for an affordable retirement or to build luxury homes in a scenic and secure part of the world.

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Port Louis waterfront leading into Victorian era warehouse buildings.

Anwar delivered me at my hotel on the Port Louis marina, and I genuinely appreciated his verbose and enthusiastic introduction to his island home. I tracked down my fly fishing companions at the outdoor bar, all of them very experienced travelers and anglers. It wasn’t long before our conversation turned to the dreaded boat crossing. Despite the Eid al-Fitr holiday, the supply boat would be able to buy fuel in the harbor for our trip. More importantly, the weather report sounded reasonable. I had one more evening to enjoy the benefits of air conditioning and the simple comforts of modern living. The final leg of the voyage to Saint Brendan’s Island would begin in the morning.

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The Blue Penny Museum in Port Louis is home to stamp collecting’s holy grail: the Mauritian “Post Office” stamps of 1847.

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A Port Louis street on the morning of the Eid al-Fitr holiday


Up Next: The Crossing
 
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Part 2: The Crossing

As for me, I am tormented with an everlasting itch for things remote. I love to sail forbidden seas, and land on barbarous coasts.
Herman Melville (Moby Dick)

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Port Louis harbor with Le Pouce (the thumb) and Pieter Both peaks of the Moka Range in the background.

Loaded up with fly fishing gear, our small party of five Americans (Me, Brian, Paul, Rex, and Steve) assembled on the dock at the Mauritian customs and national coast guard office. A corroded 18th century cannon pointed out into the harbor to defend against a threat no longer remembered. Huge drilling and cable laying vessels surrounded by powerful tugboats were anchored throughout the bay. Heavily muscled deep-sea divers and mechanics lined up at the office window with their working papers. Around noon, the supply boat pulled into the dock in a cloud of black diesel fumes. The Raphael Fishing Company boat Albatross was our vessel and only option to reach St. Brandon atoll. “You should make it to Raphael before sunset tomorrow as long as the weather holds,” our handler Christian reassured us. “Anybody want a sandwich?”

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The ~270 mile ocean route from Mauritius to St. Brandon atoll

FlyCastaway formed a partnership with Raphael Fishing Company during the Somali pirate era, which opened up the flats of St. Brandon to catch and release fly fishing. The opportunity to make the crossing has been both treasured and dreaded by flats anglers ever since. The Albatross and its sister ship Fregate make the weekly supply run out to Cargados Carajos Shoals, dropping off crucial supplies and returning with fish to sell at the market. At 54 feet, these boats can handle the open ocean but they are slow, especially when storm systems build up big seas. We piled on board and each claimed a place to lie down amongst the mats and bean bag chairs spread out on covered aft deck.

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The supply ship Albatross arrives at the Port Louis customs dock

It was an odd feeling watching the Port Louis skyline fade behind us as we motored out into open water, I thought about my wife. It would be a while before our group would see the face of modernity again. During our breakfast conversation at the hotel we exchanged tips on the best strategies to avoid sea sickness. Everyone had a scopolamine patch attached behind an ear, and I supplemented that with Dramamine and potent ginger candies. Last spring aboard the Maya’s Dugong Tim Babich suggested staying out in the open air. “I’ve done that crossing at least 65 times,” he explained. “It can get rough out there, you have to gut through it.” I learned the hard way on Captain Nick Clayton’s tuna boat that my worst nausea trigger during big swells is the smell of putrid tuna blood and diesel fumes. To my surprise the first few hours cruising up the northwest coast of Mauritius were pleasant and scenic. The dark green mountain peaks of Mauritius glided by slowly and we had glimpses of the northern nature reserve islands: Gunner’s Quoin, Flat Island, Gabriel Island, Round Island, and Serpent Island.

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Departing up the northwest coast of Mauritius

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Reclining on a bean bag or foam mat in the fresh air is the best strategy for the ocean crossing.

My tour of the Albatross didn’t take long. The pilot house had a pair of benches and a decent view out the salt fogged windows, but it was stifling with the heat and humidity. In the air conditioned hold below were two bunks for crew members and three for guests. The odors down there and the twisting roll of the boat made staying below an unpleasant option for me. Just aft of the pilot house was a tiny galley where the crew cooked up a spicey Creole meal for themselves in the evening. We had the option to eat a skinny chicken baguette sandwich, but I don’t think anyone was brave enough to eat it. The head got the most visitors, and every trip in there was an adventure once the boat rounded the tip of Mauritius into unprotected waters.

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Captain on the bridge with a member of the Mauritian coast guard

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Crew members of the Albatross tending handlines off the stern.

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The head became a carnival fun house ride while riding swells on the open ocean. Hope you don’t need toilet paper!

By the time the sun set over the horizon, everyone had found their ideal sleeping spot for the night. I settled into a cluster of bean bag chairs facing the propeller wash. Despite the occasional salt spray, I liked the cooler breeze on the stern. The scopolamine was kicking in and falling asleep with the roll of the boat came quickly. A crew member taking a smoke break by the fuel tanks occasionally woke me, but soon they disappeared into their bunks for the night. “This isn’t so bad,” I thought while nodding off.

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Staring at the horizon as the boat pitched and tossed, twisted and rolled.

Sometime around midnight I had a nightmare that the boat was taking on water and the deck was barely riding above the waves. I woke up disoriented by the pitch black and the violent tilting of the boat in the growing easterly swells. A big wave must have sprayed water in my face; my vision was blurred for a moment. Then I saw a thunder squall encroaching on us fast, holy shit! The Albatross’s rhythmic rocking had become an irregular twisting jolt with a punishing slam on the sixth wave of the series. I dreaded that sixth wave in the set. My bladder was swollen, but the 25 foot walk to the head seemed impossible and nobody would notice if I fell over the rail at night. It was an eternal wait for sunrise to come.

I must have fallen asleep again at some point, because I remember the pink glow of the building dawn waking me. The weather had calmed down and the 4-6 foot swells were more regular. Some of the crew soon appeared out on deck and a couple of other guests were awake. Now the long waiting game began. Swells rolled out to the horizon without a speck of land or another ship in view. Take a drink of water. Suck on another ginger candy. Stagger around the buckets, barrels, and coolers scattered on deck to reach the head. Breathe in the secondhand tobacco fumes of the deckhand crouched down next to a No Smoking sign. Repeat.

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The crew put out hand lines to catch yellowfin tuna, wahoo, and bonito. Ugh! Tuna blood!

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Hazardous reefs gave Cargados Carajos Shoals its Portuguese name (loaded crow’s nest).

Finally, after more than a day at sea, a crew member said something in Mauritian Creole that I interpreted as “Land! Land off the starboard bow!” We all jumped to the railing to see it. In the far distance there was a thin line of coral sand with a large shipwreck at its southern end. Just seeing that sliver of land was enough to energize us and put a smile on our faces. Two of the crew deployed heavy monofilament hand lines off the stern to troll plugs in the propeller wash. Yellowfin tuna, wahoo, and bonito would occasionally slam the lure and they laughed and yelled like young boys on their first fishing trip. If the fish was boated, blood splattered everywhere until a wooden club ended the struggle with a solid thwack. Then we were ordered off the sleeping matts so the bled fish could be dropped into the big cooler hold below. It was probably the most entertaining part of the crossing.

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A shipwreck at the southern tip of the atoll was the first sighting of land on Cargados Carajos Shoals.

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Rafael Island near the northwest tip of the atoll is home to most human residents and infrastructure.

A few hours later we approached tiny Raphael Island, home of the Raphael Fishing Company operation at St. Brandon atoll and the FlyCastaway guest house. I was especially grateful to see the boat ride nearly ended, because for the prior two hours I was having scopolamine induced visual hallucinations. A stack of white planks in front of me were beginning to move like giant worms! I’ve had an issue with scopolamine affecting my vision before, so I wasn’t too concerned once I removed the patch. We disembarked onto small skiffs and our feet touched the beach at Raphael over 28 hours after leaving Port Louis. It was a typical crossing time according to the captain, crossings in bad weather have taken 36 hours or longer.

FlyCastaway’s head guide, Milan, greeted us with refreshments and a short orientation session. The heat and humidity on the island was oppressive in the late afternoon sun. I made the mistake of drinking a beer and eating a little food. As he started the safety talk, a wave of nausea suddenly struck. My hearing faded out and I started to get tunnel vision. “Are you okay DimeBrite… DimeBrite?” Thud! I woke up seeing the concerned faces of Brian and Paul hovering over me asking medical questions. Dehydration, the heat, and the scopolamine triggered a vasovagal response (I fainted). My recovery was rapid, but I felt shaky and low energy for a couple days. “It’s not unusual after the boat ride,” Milan coolly commented. “I’ve seen it happen before.”

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Sunrise on Rafael Island

My room in the guest house was warm and stifling, despite having windows open and fans pushing air. I rose before 5:00 to look around the island and wait for the sun to rise. The cooling breeze coming off the water brought me back to life as the twilight broke into dawn. I watched in awe as the billowing clouds on the horizon slowly brightened with the most vibrant pastel colors I can remember. My mind somehow recalled the musical score from the Bruno Lawrence karmic sci-fi classic, The Quiet Earth. This place might really be Saint Brendan’s Island.




Up Next... The Silver Bones of the Moon, The Golden Pompano of the Sun

Damn, what a trip so far.
 
How dare you write such magnificent reports without any actual fishing, well, 'cept for the Yellowfin. 😆

It is such a pleasure to go on these adventures with you, keep it coming!!
 
Dime's description of the crossing is one major reason why I won't be taking a trip like this, for fishing or for any other reason! Driving to Montana suits me just fine. Don't get me wrong, I do love to read about the history, culture, geography and geology of far off places. I'm just not a great fit for the travel necessary to get there when it involves long hours on the ocean.
 
Oh wow, this is awesome... thanks Dime!
 
St Brandon and keeling islands are the top 2 places I want to go! Excited to get to read your first hand account of your trip!! Thanks @DimeBrite!!! Your trip reports are always awesome to read!
 
I think your Melville quote shows your lust for this trip and all of your adventures; I really appreciate living vicariously through your travel journals!
Buzzy, speaks truth was going to add that Moby Dick, one if not the greatest fishing story of all time, spends most of the time not talking about fishing....

Dime, you are ever stuck on a shitty crossing exposed to intermittent jets of smoke remember Ahab's plight and dull resolve.


Chapter 30, The Pipe

When Stubb had departed, Ahab stood for a while leaning over the bulwarks; and then, as had been usual with him of late, calling a sailor of the watch, he sent him below for his ivory stool, and also his pipe. Lighting the pipe at the binnacle lamp and planting the stool on the weather side of the deck, he sat and smoked.

In old Norse times, the thrones of the sea-loving Danish kings were fabricated, saith tradition, of the tusks of the narwhale. How could one look at Ahab then, seated on that tripod of bones, without bethinking him of the royalty it symbolized? For a Khan of the plank, and a king of the sea and a great lord of Leviathans was Ahab.

Some moments passed, during which the thick vapor came from his mouth in quick and constant puffs, which blew back again into his face. “How now,” he soliloquized at last, withdrawing the tube, “this smoking no longer soothes. Oh, my pipe! hard must it go with me if thy charm be gone! Here have I been unconsciously toiling, not pleasuring- aye, and ignorantly smoking to windward all the while; to windward, and with such nervous whiffs, as if, like the dying whale, my final jets were the strongest and fullest of trouble. What business have I with this pipe? This thing that is meant for sereneness, to send up mild white vapors among mild white hairs, not among torn iron-grey locks like mine. I’ll smoke no more-”

He tossed the still lighted pipe into the sea. The fire hissed in the waves; the same instant the ship shot by the bubble the sinking pipe made. With slouched hat, Ahab lurchingly paced the planks.
 
Agreed.

Dime mentioned the supply vessel being diesel and as such in many parts of the world that fuel is still not quite up to DOE standards, let’s say. Open air cooling ventilation and exhaust rolling back over the stern would give a case of diesel brain in a heart beat.

Probably put your cigarette out if you tossed it away into a puddle of it.

Standing by for Chapter III.
 
Part 3: The Silver Bones of the Moon, the Golden Pompano of the Sun

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Wary bonefish school for protection on a flat near the surf zone.

The fish you have never touched is the one you desire the most. A mythology builds in the back of your mind that in time leads a once productive life into some frivolous or even reckless choices. I gazed up at the dozens of photos hanging from the walls of the equipment room while pulling on my wading boots. Anglers holding exceptional bonefish, giant trevally, bluefin trevally, golden trevally, and Indo-Pacific permit smiled with a sense of accomplishment and relief. “Clients need to have reasonable expectations,” Milan had cautioned the group during a dinner conversation. If you are unsure of what you desired in coming here before the trip, it will be revealed during your long walks on the flats. It builds in your mind, but you don’t dare to confess it to yourself or verbalize it to anyone else. Rest assured that on Saint Brendan’s Island your fish of myth will come within casting range and the rest comes down to you and fortune.

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The boats are prepared for the day’s fishing by FlyCastaway guides Milan, Juan, and Jared.

BONEFISH:

I truly love bonefishing. The sudden appearance of an aquamarine shape on the flat moving slowly up current gets me excited every time. At St. Brandon, quality shots at bonefish in small groups or singles are available in abundance. Flats like “Julie’s”, “Boiler, and “Boneyard” provide great action for hours on a pushing tide. Easterly winds consistently push cooler water from the open ocean onto St. Brandon’s flats, producing ideal conditions for bonefish. The bottom is coral ruble or compacted sand with some areas of dense turtle grass that are perfect for wading. To get started, just kick up the bottom and walk in the direction the current takes the silty cloud. In an average bonefish session we hooked six or seven bones and landed four. The appearance of Indo-Pacific permit or the occasional monster GT persuaded us to pass up countless bonefish shots.

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An average bonefish at St. Brandon weighs 5-6 pounds and gives a great fight.

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A stunning flat of compact coral and sand extends to the horizon.

The FlyCastaway guides carry landing nets and BogaGrip scales to collect data for their catch database. The first few bonefish I landed were average fish weighing 5 or 6 pounds in the net. “These bones would be 10 pounders in Mexico or Christmas Island,” my guide Jared laughed. Average or not, each fish I hooked screamed into the backing of my nine weight and took plenty of time to land. I broke a tip section on the afternoon of the first day while landing a nice bonefish on my own. I had to slow down and fight each fish with care.

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The moving shadow of this bonefish gave its position away despite heavy rain and a dimmed sun.

One morning while fishing with guide Juan, I made a cast to a large shadow on the outskirts of a bonefish school. It aggressively ate the fly and a long torpedo shape ripped across the flat toward the surf. “That’s a really big fish!” The reel kept screaming but something was off with the line angle. “He’s wrapped you around a coral head, let’s go!” We charged toward the obstacle to clear it, but it was too late. It broke me off. I comforted myself with the thought that I had done well to select the right target and made a good cast, but it still hurt. A couple days later I had another encounter with a big bone. While walking the shore past a channel I spotted a pair of shapes coming up onto the flat from deep water. One was an average bonefish, but the other was a real toad. I placed my cast for the big one to see and it ate the fly greedily. It turned 180 degrees to run as I set the hook. Snap! “Unlucky,” Juan declared. “That was a really big fish.”

And so the seed in my mind had germinated and taken root. I was burning to land one of these big bonefish that were on another level. 10 pounds or 4.54 kilograms, why does crossing this arbitrary barrier matter to me? To catch a typical bonefish on the fly is thoroughly enjoyable and very achievable. However, these older wiser bones are on the fringes of attainability. You may spot one from 200 feet, then move a half step toward it and the fish has already turned away sensing you. “They didn’t get to that size by being stupid,” Jared wisely pronounced. Even when you execute the cast and strip-set perfectly the big bone is likely to smoke you into the nearest patch of coral. The quest is to beat the odds by selectively fishing to the biggest shapes and shadows on the flat and hope you survive the dance long enough to touch an exceptional bonefish.

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Stalking the edges of sandy islets for cruising permit and bonefish.

The screaming outbound click from my Nautilus CCF-X2 reel was ringing out over the flats with a hooked-up bonefish on its third deep run. “You’re having a good morning DimeBrite,” Milan remarked. “Let’s get a weight on that fish.” It was a thick shouldered bonefish a bit over eight pounds. Shortly afterwards, a plus-sized needlefish attracted to the sound of struggling bonefish joined the party and ambushed my fly, even though I had frozen my strip. It blew up the flat with the leaping gyrations of its snake-like body. “The poor man’s marlin!” I leadered the pesky beast and cut the tippet to avoid its razor sharp teeth. Before we departed, I had landed ten bonefish and lost a half dozen others. It was a classic St. Brandon session.

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Big bonefish of 7-9 pounds are encountered most days and will challenge your gear and patience with multiple scorching runs deep into the reel’s backing.

Neap tides gradually formed as the full moon faded away. This opened up the best opportunity for prolonged bonefish sessions on flats that were known to produce big fish. The previous day at “Boneyard” Jared and I spotted a couple of cautious bonefish in the distance we agreed were trophy sized, but my best landed fish was 7-plus pounds. Now Milan and I were stalking the same flat and again encountered large bonefish in single and doubles. My chance came when the beast I was hoping for entered into casting range. It smoked my spawning shrimp fly and ripped out nearly half of my gel-spun backing three different times. My forearms were aching from all the reeling as I held the rod as high as possible over my head. This bone felt different; it had serious mass and resisted fiercely throughout the fight. It made a tight circle around us and panicked into another run when it saw the approaching net. That’s when the barbless hook bent out just enough for it to gain its freedom. I briefly descended into despair after losing that bonefish. Once I regained my composure, I wondered why I was so upset. Catching a good fish won’t alter the course of your life.

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When facing sideways submerged in shallow water a bonefish’s reflective scales make it nearly invisible.

On the morning of the second to last fishing day on St. Brandon a bright rainbow formed over the guide boats from a passing rain squall. I took it as a hopeful sign that something special would happen. During fishing trips you can feel snake bit if you allow expectations to rise to unreasonable levels as Milan warned about. But that irrational drive to hope and hold out for an exceptional fish is what thrusted you out of the comfort of your home on the long journey in the first place.

Jared took us to a flat he called the “Fighting Pit”, or “Baklei Pit” in Afrikaans. I mechanically landed several bonefish of four and five pounds while keeping watch in the distance for the one. When I spotted it, I thought it was another average bone. It was barely visible feeding in a white sand hole surrounded by mats of brown algae. As I came closer, I saw the tip of its tail break the surface. Hmm, the water is above my kneecap here, so it might be a big fish. I cast two feet in front of the bone without a response, it didn’t see the fly. On my second cast I got it within ten inches and the bone climbed on the spawning shrimp fly. It shot across the flat toward Jared and my fishing partner Paul, then to my amazement it screamed up current well behind me into a patch of coral heads. “He’s only got a twenty percent chance to land that fish,” Jared told Paul as they watched from a distance. The backing immediately wrapped around several coral heads and I chased the bone through the hazards, freeing the line from each snag while watching which direction the fish was moving. That damn bone hung me up on six coral heads, but I managed to free the backing each time and kept tight to it. From there I used my feet to fight him away from the coral onto a shallower sandy flat where it could be landed. Once I regained all the fly line from its final blazing run the bone circled and sulked, keeping its head down on the bottom. Jared eventually caught up to me with the net but this bonefish was far from broken. “Oh, that fish is easily over 10 pounds, guaranteed,” he exclaimed. “Take your time with him, we won’t net him until it rolls onto its side.” Wearing the bonefish down enough to lift its head into the net was pure psychological torture for me, it never quit. Jared finally netted it and the long bone weighed in at eleven pounds. “YES!” My life hasn’t changed, but I’ve felt so much lighter since that absurd burden lifted.

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An eleven pound bonefish landed after an unforgettable hook-up and nerve wracking fight through the coral heads of “Fighting Pit” flat.

INDO-PACIFIC PERMIT:

Seeing a gold sickle fin breaking the water’s surface is one of the most thrilling experiences in saltwater fly fishing. “Was that a piece of turtle grass? Did I imagine it?” Your eyes strain to stay open watching for it to appear again. Then in a patch of nervous water a pair of pointed tail fins emerge, followed by a curved dorsal fin a couple of feet away. “There are three permit feeding over there!” You wade toward them as slowly and quietly as possible, stripping out enough fly line for a shot. The permit are feeding their way up the current, turning in tight circles as they search for food on the coral ruble bottom. Now they are close enough for a cast, but each fish keeps shifting direction! Rush a cast now and it might hit the tail of an unseen permit. You make a cast to the biggest permit that has just tailed to the right of the others and the crab fly lands twenty inches from its head. Make a short strip, then pause. The permit moves to the fly, strip, strip, strip, the permit tails, the line comes tight and now strip set. Fish on! The wave of excited joy fades to irritation when you watch the three permit lazily swim away and the fish struggling at the end of the line is a juvenile spangled emperor fish. Even the perfectly executed plan often goes awry. Permit fishing is tough. But the prize is irresistible, the Indo-Pacific permit is the most beautiful of the four recognized permit species.

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A pair of trophy Indo-Pacific permit tail in the shallows as they feed on the edge of a fossilized coral reef.

As a novice permit angler, I quickly accepted that failure is commonplace and resilience is essential. My skills and instincts needed to expand to have more than random success targeting Indo-Pacific permit (aka – Golden Pompano). Part of the learning curve was gaining experience with how permit move and feed on the flat, so I could better recognize their alien body language. Most importantly, I had to overcome my bizarre psychological reluctance to decisively cast a crab fly directly into a permit’s cone of vision. Just relax and take the permit off the pedestal, it’s only a fish! Some lessons learned from targeting permit:
  • Wade quietly, approach slowly
  • Watch the permit and try to see all the fish in the group
  • Pick out a specific permit to target if visibility allows
  • Account for the direction of the current and the wind before casting
  • Relax and make your first cast your best cast: Accurately land the fly in its cone of vision
  • Decisively cast to a permit that has just tailed
  • If the permit are feeding near surf, cast when a wave moves over the fish
  • Let the fly sink and strip to straighten the line. Watch the permit. Strip the fly and watch the response.
  • Keep stripping until it is obvious that no permit are following
  • Make your second cast even better: Accurately land the fly in its cone of vision
  • If the permit tails on the fly keep stripping until it comes tight and strip set
  • A plucky bump on the fly is the permit eating, strip set
  • Some permit are more eager to eat a fly than others. Keep taking shots until you find the player.
  • Match fly pattern with water depth and bottom structure; use 15 pound fluorocarbon whenever possible
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Stalking the coral edges of Paul Island for tailing Indo-Pacific permit during the high tide.

The quarter moon tides brought more Indo-Pacific permit onto the flats than I had imagined. Most anglers who journey to St. Brandon do it for excellent shots at permit on days like these. After a productive morning targeting bonefish, Jared and I relocated to another flat with broad areas of dark turtlegrass. The tide was just starting to bring a few permit onto the flat in small groups. In the far distance I spotted a single fin and we slowly waded in its direction. A group of four permit revealed themselves, tailing onto the turtlegrass. My first cast was short. I recast to a permit that was inside of the others and began my strip while kneeling into a crouch. It eagerly swam over to the fleeing crab fly as it sank and ate it. I came tight and strip set. The permit turned and panicked once it felt pressure from the line and took off across the flat. “Now we’ll just follow behind it and keep steady tension on him,” Jared instructed. “It’s going to take a while to tire it out.” The ~15 minute fight was tense, but I kept close to the permit and gradually tightened the drag. Landing the permit in the net was the unpredictable part. Indo-Pacific permit are notorious for trying to swim through your legs in the last part of the fight. They pull in a hard tight circle keeping their head down, then they swim straight at you or the guy holding the net. After several close calls, the permit fatigued just enough to slip the net under him. Caught fish! My first ever Indo-Pacific permit was a dazzling iridescent gold specimen weighing a little over ten pounds. As we fished out the rest of the flat, two other nice permit followed my fly without eating. It was a day I will always remember.

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The greatest prize on the flats does not come easily but chasing them becomes a stressful addiction.

The permit at St. Brandon occasionally associate with stingrays, swimming on top of them and feeding on the crustaceans churned up from the bottom. These ray-riding permit can be less discriminating feeders and larger specimens of 10-16 pounds. If the fly lands near the stingray an eat is likely. As it happened, I only had one opportunity at a pair of big permit on a ray. My weighted tan Alphlexo crab was followed by the larger permit for a few feet, but it lost interest and swam back to its ray. Finicky!

During the high tides around the full moon, Indo-Pacific permit feed on coral edges on the fringes of islets around the atoll. Small black snails graze on fossilized coral in prolific numbers and they are an important food source for the permit. It is remarkable to see permit tailing in areas normally high and dry! One such spot is on the backside of Raphael Island next to the old crumbling helicopter pad. Juan took me there to fish it one afternoon and I had incredible shots at greedily feeding permit. The sun was blocked by clouds and a light breeze produced enough wave action to make the permit less spooky when the fly landed. After switching to a small white Alphlexo crab fly, I came tight to a good permit. We started to celebrate as it swam out of the small bay pulling out line. Then the hook pulled! Getting a permit to eat is ninety percent of the battle, but it would have been nice to get that one into the net.

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Permit regularly feed on black snails attached to ancient corals when the tides cover them with a foot or more of water.

TREVALLY:

The giant trevally of St. Brandon atoll are bonefish eating leviathans. Most of them are huge giant trevally (HGTs) over a meter in length. They are also discriminating eaters when it comes to a cast fly. Many times I presented a 6/0 tan brush fly to an approaching GT and watched it swim up to it and move on. These GT were resident to specific channels and islets on the northern end of the atoll and may have become accustomed to fly anglers. An alternative explanation is the GTs of St. Brandon need to see a much larger profile fly to trigger a feeding response. Indeed, the guides fish larger flies when they fish during weeks without guests. Even so, I had one of the most exciting GT sessions of my life on St. Brandon.

Jared took my fishing partner Steve and I far south to his favorite trevally hunting flats, “Snatch” and “Kraken”. This area is near the eastern surf zone where GT come onto the flats to feed. We stood watch on the boat drifting with the wind until spotting a school of about fifty GT. I jumped out of the boat and waded through waist deep water to approach them. I made a cast to a monster black GT on the left side of the school, but a small GT of ~15 pounds shot over and ate the fly. Jared helped me to quickly release this fish so I could take another shot at the big black GT. This time the big guy pursued and ate the fly and I gave him a hook set. I was surprised when it casually stayed with the school and didn’t immediately go on a hard run. To my regret, I gave it another hook set and the big GT pushed away at the same instant snapping the 100 pound fluorocarbon leader. Jared gave me grief for that mistake the rest of the trip, he wanted that big GT bad. I had several other shots at monstrous GT up to ~150 cm that day, but I couldn’t coax them to eat the tan 6/0 brush fly. It looked comically small in the water compared to these HGTs.

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Bluefin Trevally rove the channels and coral edges in aggressive packs.

St. Brandon is also famous for its unusually large and gorgeous Bluefin Trevally. Milan suggested that the lack of smaller juvenile GT on the atoll creates a niche for these hyperaggressive predators. Packs of 8 to 25 Bluefin trevally are encountered daily. Some of the mature fish are an incredible dark cobalt blue color and reach over 80 cm fork length. The most effective way to target them is during high tide as they ambush schools of baitfish. Throw your fly in front of them just as they launch their attack and you are sure to hook a Bluefin. Keeping them hooked was my problem since other Bluefin in the pack mob the struggling fish and often pull the fly out of its mouth. A two handed strip can help keep them solidly hooked as does fighting them with maximum pressure until the fish is landed.

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Trevally hunting a deep water edge at District 9

I confess to making a few casts to Lemon Sharks with my trevally rod on this trip. There are hundreds of juveniles (2 to 6 feet) swimming the flats near the surf zone at St. Brandon. Lemons are inquisitive and snappy sharks. I got one to eat a Gym Sock mullet fly, but the hook didn’t stick in its mouth. If there weren’t so many permit, bonefish, and trevally I would have given Lemon shark a more serious effort.

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Lemon sharks explode into a large school of baitfish.

St. Brandon has a respectable number of Golden Trevally feeding on the bonefish flats. Most goldens we encountered were 3-5 pound juveniles that feed together in small groups, often associated with bonefish. They will readily eat a spawning shrimp fly or a crab pattern slowly stripped on the bottom. Three times I saw large solo goldens (15-20 pounds) vigorously tailing well outside of casting range. These mature fish are usually surrounded by an entourage of surgeon fish and small trevallies. One morning I watched as my fishing partner Paul had the good fortune to hook into two massive Golden Trevally. Both fish ripped across the flats and snapped him off on coral ruble before he had a chance to pursue them. I asked Milan what was the special catch that had eluded him during his many seasons at St. Brandon. “I still haven’t landed one of the big Golden Trevally,” he answered. “All of them have cut me off on coral.” They fight dirty!

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Golden Trevally are always a special prize on the flats.

Greenspot (Brassy) trevally, Yellowspotted (Island) trevally, and Bigeye trevally were occasionally bycatch on the bonefish flats. Each of these species will opportunistically pounce on a stripped bonefish fly and put up a lengthy fight on a nine weight. All of my encounters with these trevally happened as I fished out a flat to the bottom near a deep water edge.

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Greenspot Trevally, also called Brassy Trevally, taken on a bonefish fly.

FINAL CAST:

“You can stay here DimeBrite and fish to that school of bonefish out there or walk with me around the island looking for permit until we reach the boat.” I contemplated Jared’s offer and choose my last cast on St. Brandon to be at a bonefish. He smiled and gave me his landing net, then disappeared around the corner. I slowly walked over to the nervous school of bonefish. Several lemon sharks were probing them on the outside, but not enough to cause me trouble. I made a long cast into the group, let the crab fly sink, and made long slow strips until the line came tight. The bonefish ran south along the coral reef over the rusted iron skeleton of an old shipwreck. I kept the drag loose until I could see it was clear of any interested sharks, then began to fight the fish while enjoying the moment. In time the bone tired out and I worked it into the net. It was a prime bonefish of nine pounds and incredibly beautiful. I watched it glide off through the clear water and reeled up my rod. I walked along the beach observing the nesting seabirds and looked for interesting shells. For the first time I gazed out onto the flats without wanting one of its fish. It was time to go.

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A school of large bonefish numbering in the hundreds seek shelter from giant trevally and sharks in the shallows.


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