Isla del Sabalo The Yucatan’s final tarpon frontier
by Dylan Rose
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A typical river tarpon. Photo: Dylan Rose
he pre-dawn light was dreary and gray. A humid fog stuck to our lungs and coated our skin. We sipped our coffee and eyeballed the interminable cloud layer that would certainly make seeing fish impossible. Our prospects were bleak. When Isla del Sabalo owner and lodge host, Marco Ruz, joined us on the beach, he had a sly glint in his eye. Our fishing outlook, he informed us, was perfect for an amazing day of chasing his beloved tarpon. For tarpon fishing at Isla del Sablao, it’s more important to have a glassy, calm surface, he said, than to be able to see through the water column. The air was eerily still as we set out in the panga. It wasn’t yet dawn. The water was steely gray and created a perfectly mirrored surface that was so reflective we could have used it for a shave. We began scanning for fish in the deafening silence; the only thing I could hear was my own breath. After 30 minutes, our guide’s voice shattered the silence. As he pointed to the horizon he hollered, “Sabalo ahi! There amigos!” About a quarter mile away, I caught the flash of water splashing in the air. Something had broken the surface; somePAGE 20
thing large. We puttered over to the scene of the action and as Sam, our guide, killed the engine, the deathly silence and stillness set in once again. After an endless hour, we wondered if our eyes had betrayed us; perhaps we had made the whole thing up. Finally, my fishing partner, Rob, broke the spell, “There they are!” Rob scrambled for his rod, buried in the gunnel of the boat. The large school of silver kings frolicked towards us like puppies set loose in a fresh green meadow and time stopped. Rob’s fly line went sailing towards the fish and he barely had time to make the first strip before a hungry tarpon engulfed his fly. The fish jumped into the air as though an explosive had been dropped in the water. For the next six hours, we witnessed awe-inspiring tarpon action. Waves of aggressive fish moved passed us every ten minutes and as soon as one fish was lost another was hooked. On one occasion six different fish ate the fly on a single retrieve. Like punch-drunk teens, we giggled and untangled our blending fly lines from multiple double hook-ups.
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