In June 2001, I took my first sea-kayaking and fly-fishing trip to the Sea of Cortez. I hired a guide from Southern California to take six of us to the islands near La Paz. It was one of the most amazing adventures I’ve experienced. I say this despite arriving without any of my equipment, because the airline failed to deliver it. That’s when I first learned how to make lemonade out of lemons, or in other words, how to have a great time even though things don’t turn out the way you think they should.
And often, with me, it seems, they don’t. In April 2004, I made another trip to the area. One of my best friends and longtime fishing buddies, Mark Carlisle, had sailed his boat from San Francisco to La Paz the previous fall and offered to set up a fishing trip in the Sea of Cortez.
Mark and I arranged to sail from La Paz to Isla San Francisco, an island approximately twelve sailing hours to the north. Our plan was to meet a group of fortysomething-year-old friends who would be driving down from San Diego and launching their boats from Loreto. Mark flew in early to get the boat out of dry dock and buy provisions. I couldn’t wait to experience this fly-fishing wonderland once again — this time with all of my equipment.
While preparing for the trip, I learned to tie many new types of flies that challenged my novice abilities, creating long, f lowing, sparkling saltwater f lies out of feathers, flash, peacock herl, and using five-minute epoxy. I tied flies for months in order to prepare for the inevitable experience of being broken off by powerful fish such as skipjacks and pargos. I brought along lots of new equipment, including a stripping basket and special pliers to help release fish.
You may have already guessed where this is headed. Once again, my bag never arrived. Luckily, in anticipation of the very unlikely event that my bag would not arrive again, I had carried onboard my new 10-weight fly rod and new 10/11 saltwater reel. I also carried on my digital camera, reading material, and anything else that I couldn’t f it into my stuffed checked bag, including a can of cashews, a towel, and one T-shirt.
When we arrived in La Paz and went to the baggage claim, I anxiously awaited my bags on the cart that came from the plane. My mind was eased when I saw that my backup two-piece 8/9-weight rod had made the trip, so I figured that my gear bag was somewhere in the mix.
Well, I figured wrong of course. I thought to myself, “ Unbelievable — it happened again!” Angrily, I filled out the necessary paperwork and was told to check back the next day to see if my bag finally made it. It didn’t.
So, here I was in La Paz with a new 10-weight rod, new reel, one T-shirt, a couple of cameras, and a can of cashews. I actually would have been fairly OK with this, since I was headed for a beautiful week of sailing, kayaking, and fishing at Isla San Francisco, but one key ingredient was missing. Can you guess what it was?
My flies. My flies! I had debated whether to carry them on, but I couldn’t get a straight answer from the airlines about whether or not I could, and I didn’t want to risk having my flies confiscated. All the flies I had tied for months and bought for the trip, along with my fly-tying kit and materials, were in my lost bag.
What to do? I had to find a way to get some flies. All of my other buddies were spin fishers, so they couldn’t help. I went to the marina store and asked in broken Spanish, “Donde hay moscas para pescando?” — “Where are flies for fishing?” The guy looked at me like I was nuts. He told me in Spanish, “People don’t fish for these kind of fish with flies.” I tried to argue and explain, but that didn’t help. I wasn’t going to find a fly shop in La Paz before I needed to leave. Things felt hopeless.
I’m not one to give up easily, though. The wheels in my mind churned. I noticed in the marina store lots of traditional fishing gear — jigs, lures, and whatnot. I wondered if there was a way to piece some of these items together into a fly. I found a large weighted jig with lots of feathers that were placed in order of the colors of the Mexican flag — green, red, and white. I thought, “Hmm, if I could figure out how to tie some of those to a hook ” I asked the clerk if he had some hooks, and sure enough, he did. I found some 1/0 hooks that were offset — bent — at about 10 degrees. “I could make these work,” I thought, “but what about thread, glue, something dark along the back, some hair to build a body? ”
I shared my dilemma with Mark, who has a degree in mechanical engineering and has made modest riches by inventing toys that can be found in stores such as The Nature Company. Mark offered some thick, dark blue thread that was almost twine-like, all that he had on the boat. It certainly would be strong enough, but it sure was thick. Mark also offered his fillet knife, nail clippers for cutting, and two-foot strips of two-inchwide tinsel that was red on one side and reflective on the other. He also gave back to me two old jigs I had given him that had once belonged to my grandfather and that had white elk hair as part of the body.
Back at the marina, I bought 20 hooks, some rubber squid bodies, a pair of needle-nose pliers, and some superglue. My fly tying kit was complete, except for one thing. How would I tie a fly without a vise?
We left the marina late Monday afternoon after almost two frustrating days of trying to recover my bag. I had some squid jigs that I could fish and a bunch of materials, but no vise to tie them with. We arrived at a cove about two hours north of La Paz in the early evening with just enough light to get my kayak in the water and do some angling before dinner. I was itching to fish, so I set up my 8/9-weight with one of the squid jigs and a hook that I had purchased at the marina. I saw some bait busting the surface and birds diving, so I promptly paddled my way in their direction and cast the unwieldy squid.
It worked! It wasn’t the most beautiful cast, but it certainly worked! A few casts later, I caught a fish. Yes, I caught a fish! All was not lost. I caught two tasty cabrillas that first evening, and we barbecued them for dinner. I went to bed pondering if there was a way to tie a “real” fly.
My next opportunity to fish came when we arrived at Isla San Francisco the next day. We arrived in the early afternoon after about ten hours of sailing, almost running into a pod of whales, and after I dealt with a bout of seasickness. I had plenty of time to come up with an idea on how to tie a fly without a vise. I asked Mark if he had a piece of wood. I intended to stick the point of the hook into the wood, which would hold the hook while I tied the materials onto it. Mark gave me his cutting board. I pushed the hook into the board as hard as I could. “Bummer,” I yelled. The hook fell out as soon as I put any kind of pressure on it.
I was about to give up, since I figured that I could still use the hooks with the rubber squid bodies and try to make that work. At least I had something that would catch fish, even if it was unwieldy to cast. But Mark isn’t one to give up easily, and he intervened. “Why don’t you just tie it by hand?” he said.
“Tie it by hand? How do you do that?” “Just hold it in your fingers and tie it.” I said, “Well, I never thought of that.
I wonder if that’s possible? I guess I could give it a try.”
Try I did. My first effort wasn’t pretty, and it was awkward, but what do you know — I tied a fly, a real fly! I tied some more, and some more after that, each time adding something new, doing it a bit differently, perfecting my system. After my first tying session, I had five flies, and they even looked like they might work. But would they?
Mark was anxious to fish, so after getting the sailboat settled in the cove at the island, we went fishing in Mark’s dingy. I tied my new fly to my virgin 10-weight rod and reel and let out about a hundred feet of line behind the dingy. Mark set up his spin system and trolled out the other side. Minutes into our fishing, my rod was practically yanked out of my hands, and line was screaming off my reel. I was the first to hook up. Ten minutes, a few runs, and a death spiral later, I landed and released my first big fish of the trip — a 10-pound skipjack. “This is amazing,” I exclaimed. “I caught a fish on a fly that I tied in my bare hands!” I was in survivalist Nirvana!
My next fish came soon after. It was a three-pound barracuda that tore most of the tinsel from the sides of the fly. I still had a few more flies, but I could see that it wouldn’t be long before I would have to get back to my tying table back on the sailboat if I was going to continue fishing for the rest of the seven days. I established a daily ritual of fixing the flies that were getting chewed up and tying new ones, and my system and efficiency improved with each new fly that I tied. I even found a small piece of buoy on the beach that I carved and tied into a popper. I was getting quite cocky with my newfound ability to tie flies and catch fish without any “proper” materials.
I settled on one fly that worked extremely well and spent most of my time tying it. I call it the Cortez Flapper. The “Cortez” comes from the Sea of Cortez, of course, and “Flapper” comes from the sound that the irregularly shaped pieces of tinsel that I tore off and tied to each side make when you cast it: “flap, flap, flap (back cast)… flap, flap, flap, flap (forward cast),” and so on.
What an incredible adventure. I had a fantastic time hanging out with my buddies, catching lots of fish, and even inventing a new fly, despite most of my gear never making the trip. One can make lemonade out of lemons in the Sea of Cortez!
Epilogue: I eventually did get my bag back when I returned to my home in Elk Grove. Unfortunately, it was missing about thirteen hundred dollars worth of flies, fly-tying equipment, and other stuff. After a protracted phone and e-mail battle with the airline, Aerolitoral, they finally agreed to reimburse me for my stolen items and inconvenience.