Giving new meaning to the term ‘trash fish,’ Fred winkled this Titan triggerfish out from some polluted waters.
coastline, some in total disrepair with not a soul in attendance while others are kept together by minimum maintenance and a patchwork of repairs. The keepers were always helpful and would often come and prattle away in French while we stared with blank faces trying to decipher the hand signals and facial expressions. Off every beach was a coral reef and dropoff that plummeted down to inky blue depths. The coral flats themselves, while full of life and in incredible condition, were an awkward depth for shore fishing – too deep to wade effectively with the dropoff being a little too far over which to effectively fight fish – we bled tackle from day one. There were good fish all the way up the coast. Not as frequent as one might hope, but plentiful enough. Allistair fished the drop-offs as best he could with his heavy popping gear and I went exploring with the long rod; searching for fly-friendly areas. In a lagoon I found some bream tailing around the carcass of a dhow, tipped over on its side with its ribs protruding, harbouring stories of its past. Further along I picked up a little giant trevally and further still got denied by a smaller titan triggerfish. Later I grabbed a kayak and headed for the drop-off where I got absolutely obliterated by something large and angry. My 80-pound hard fluoro leader came back in tatters. That was the daily routine. New spot. Walk. Fish. Get bust up or not find anything at all.
30
The day before we left on the trip, a friend texted me asking what the plan was. My response: “Fly tomorrow. Fish for a week. Make everybody jealous.” On that beach in Obock, four days later, I was beginning to worry about the jealousy part. Precious time was being lost to small fish and long walks. I had even resorted to throwing my spinner gear more and more just to reach the average-size fish, which always seemed out of reach of a fly. And the triggers had eluded me too. I had to keep reminding myself that this is the nature of a DIY trip. Shit doesn’t always go your way. That when you take the decision to spurn the well tread path of guides and hot meals you may come back with nothing but a bruised ego to show for your hours of planning and the physical effort you’d invested into actually finding a fish. And the unexpected bevy of beauties on that beach did not make the fact that I may have to accept defeat in a couple of days any easier to swallow. One fish of consequence was all I wanted. That evening, over baked potatoes and whisky, Allistair and I discussed a game plan. There was a spot we had passed by on route to Obock. We’d had a few casts some ways before where the water was accessible and a good fish had been lost, but we never gave the option of exploring further much thought – it was hard
W W W. T H E M I S S I O N F LY M A G . C O M