In a pinch, I could claim this a surf fly, one that can reliably fool surfperch and croakers, maybe even a corbina now and then, and leave it at that. Anybody with any experience tying for the surf will recognize a host of proven attributes: small size, sparse body, inverted hook and weighted eyes, a wing that says nothing more than I’m alive! I wouldn’t hesitate to pitch the fly anywhere fish are grubbing about the shore break. All the better if I could find a little trough or riptide, a deep spot or pinch of current that stirs up the bottom, exposing what-all to fish feeding on the push of an incoming tide.
Or I could use it the next time I fish for carp.
But most readers will immediately recognize the fly for what it actually is, a version of a Crazy Charlie, perhaps the most successful template ever created for flies tied specifically for fooling bonefish. And from a goodly portion of this same erudite group, I can anticipate a uniform howl of dissent:
I’m a California fly fisher. Why the hell do I need a bonefish fly?
Funny you should ask.
For a long time now, we’ve all heard reports of bonefish getting caught in San Diego Bay — not necessarily by flyrodders, but genuine Pacific bonefish nonetheless (Albula esuncula, or, more recently, A. gilberti). Now and then there are also claims made from Mission Bay, Dana Point Harbor, Newport Bay, Huntington Harbor, Alamitos Bay, and, in the opposite direction, from Estero Beach below Ensenada. All such reports share a hint of the fantastic. They’re usually secondhand, at best, and the sense is that each is another case of a weird anomaly, like someone hooking striped bass off the Ventura river mouth or bluefin tuna just outside the La Jolla kelp beds.
Yet the seas are big, and there’s so much we still don’t know. Plus, there’s the odd tilt to the climate these days, such that nothing seems too far-fetched, even if we can’t quite imagine bonefish ghosting the inshore wash, snatching sand crabs as if corbinas haunting shadows beneath foamy lies.
Or so all things bonefish stood for me — until I began poking around in the surf outside Baja’s Magdalena Bay.
I didn’t have to go far when I decided to look for a genuine bonefish pattern, something more specific than the Clousers and common baitfish flies I used to fool those first Baja bonefish. Why I thought I needed a pattern other than those perfectly effective surf flies probably has a lot to do with how I ended up writing a fly-tying column, yet might reflect, as well, some of the same interests — or compulsions — of readers here. If all I hoped to accomplish in this sport was catch fish, I’m sure I would have given it up long ago. What it is I’m actually after remains anybody’s guess, but finding new fish in new waters and then proceeding to the vise to tie flies designed for that specific species in those specific lies goes a long ways still, effecting a sense of clarity in the face of so much else that seems fuzzy or caked in mud.
Now where was I?
I had met Peter Koga the previous year. It was at one of those venues where tyers from five different states gather to demonstrate patterns and skills that most of the rest of us consider beyond the pale. Koga, however, was tying a little surf fly that seemed both doable and something that might actually catch fish. From Huntington Beach, Koga fishes water I’m familiar with, but as we got talking, I soon discovered the real target for this and many of his flies are the bonefish that haunt the flats sprinkled about the islands of Hawaii.
We don’t need to hear about another distant bonefish destination, other than to say that Hawaii is the real deal, with big, spooky bones that test every aspect of an angler’s game. Peter Koga qualifies as a genuine pioneer of Hawaiian bonefishing, and even though the islands’ flats have far more in common with Caribbean or other tropical waters than they do with anything found in California or even Magdalena Bay, I recognized elements in Koga’s flies that urged me to pay attention.
As luck would have it, Koga was tying another bonefish pattern when I ran into him this spring at the same tyers’ venue as the year before. A precise, graceful tyer, Koga gives off an air of quiet confidence that I expect he carries to the water, although I’m sure he gets as excited as the next guy when a bonefish eats. Only when pressed did he sheepishly offer possible names for the fly: Magic Charlie, Peter’s Magic, Koga’s Magic. It’s a Crazy Charlie — but with the usual tweaks and subtle variants that work their way into patterns that eventually become our own.
I don’t take careful enough notes to replicate anybody’s pattern perfectly. Of course, there’s also the challenge of locating specific materials, especially if the guy tying selects just the right hair from the whole tail of an animal that most suppliers sell patches of the size of a 99-cent chip brush. Which is only to say that the fly described isn’t exactly Peter Koga’s pattern, but it’s close enough that he gets all the credit, unless the slight changes I’ve made screwed it up somehow so that it fails to fool even a lowly surfperch.
I don’t think so. Besides the classic elements of a Crazy Charlie, what intrigues me most about the pattern is its color and segmented body. Has anyone done a better job of creating the impression of the ubiquitous ghost shrimp? If there’s one thing California bonefishers agree on, it’s the use of ghost shrimp as bait. Steelheaders employ orange in their General Practitioners and the like, but otherwise, it’s not a color I turn to with any frequency. But here, Koga’s fashioned an orange that looks less like juice and more like the translucent tint of the youngest, tenderest Noetrypaea californiensis.
Does color matter? Does size, or profile, or the precise difference between bead chain and dumbbell eyes? When I e-mailed Koga after taking up so much of his time at the tying venue, he wrote back to say that I shouldn’t get too excited about his fly. “You’ve been fishing long enough to know,” he said, “that eighty percent of catching fish is presentation.” Which is like telling a doctor that diet and exercise are the best prescription for health. I know the fly’s not the answer. But the next time I find Pacific bonefish rafting like mullet in the inshore wash, I’ll have one more thing to believe in as I try to make the cast.
Materials
Hook: Gamakatsu SL11-3H, or similar, size 4 to 6
Thread: Tan Veevus 8/0
Eyes: Gold bead chain, 5/32-inch
Tail: Flashabou, two strands; yellow Krystal Flash, two strands
Body: Medium amber D-Rib, tied over tan Veevus Body Quill
Underwing: Pink Ice Fur, bonefish wing
Overwing: Tan arctic fox
Tying Instructions
Step 1: Secure the hook and start the thread. As I’ve suggested in the past, create a bump of thread wraps just forward of where you intend to position the eyes, in this case, about one-quarter of the hook shank length back from the eye of the hook. This bump of thread helps to stabilize the eyes.
Step 2: Position the eyes just aft of the thread bump. Because of the slender wrist between them, bead chain eyes seem easier to secure than dumbbell eyes. Go across the wrist in one direction with a dozen or so wraps, then the other direction with a dozen or so more. Tighten the wraps by winding around them, staying above the hook shank and beneath the eyes, again using a dozen or so wraps. Repeat the entire process. Finally, add a drop or two of lacquer or head cement to the entire lashing.
Step 3: Wind the thread back to the bend of the hook. Double a length of Flashabou around the thread and secure it to the shank. Do the same with a length of Krystal Flash. With the tailing material secure and reasonably aligned, clip it evenly about three-quarters of an inch long.
Step 4: I’m ambivalent about adding an underbody other than thread wraps to this fly, but I’ll include it because Koga does something similar with his pattern. First, attach a length of D-Rib, securing it at the root of the tail so that when wound forward, the round side of the material will be away from the hook. Hold the D-Rib aside. Attach a length of body quill, also at the root of the tail. Advance the thread to just aft of the eyes. Wrap the hook shank with the body quill, tie it off, and clip the excess. Then cover the body quill with wraps of D-Rib set one against the other. Secure it behind the eyes and clip the excess.
Step 5: Advance the thread to just forward of the eyes. Turn the hook upside down by rotating the vise or by removing and reinserting the hook in the jaws. For the underwing, use a slender tuft of Ice Fur and secure it just ahead of the eyes on what’s now the top of the hook. Ice Fur is so easy to work with as a winging material that it’s easy to overdress a fly. Don’t. More is not better. Clip the Ice Fur so that the wing ends about even with the bend of the hook.
Step 6: Koga ties the overwing of this fly with material clipped from a beautiful arctic fox tail that he bought for 20 bucks from a guy at an East Coast fly show. You probably won’t have that luxury. Instead, you’ll be tying from a fluffy swatch that seems mostly underfur, rather than the actual hairs you really want. Do the best you can. Start with a big tuft, rake out as much of the underfur as you can, and with luck, you’ll be left with enough hair to constitute a wing. You don’t need too much. Pull out the longest hairs so that the tips are somewhat aligned. Tie in the wing so that it extends just past the bend of the hook. Clip the excess, fashion a smooth head, whip finish, and saturate the head with lacquer or your favorite head cement.
