“How do you guys pick a boat partner?” The tanned young fellow with an icy Pacifico in hand asking the question was one of eight upper-echelon conventional-tackle tournament bass anglers from the East Coast who had flown into Mazatlán. They had fished the Mexican bass lakes before, as was the case with my group of four fly fishers from California. Together, we were fortunate in being offered all fourteen slots in the seven bass boats with guides that would be among the first allowed to fish the new waters of fourteen-thousand-acre Lake Picachos. This hot new bass lake lay an hour east of Mazatlán in the Sierra Madre Oriental Mountains.
My partner took a pull on his Pacifico, then raised his eyebrows a bit, looked at our other two fly fishers, and said, “Very carefully.” We were at the communal table for lunch on our second day at the lake after the previous night’s attitude adjustment hour, a prodigal lobster and shrimp night, and a welcome that started the bonding process that all operators and put-together groups like to see.
We had arrived midday in the first week in January of a high-water year, which was prime time for top-water action, angler comfort, and lake aesthetics. We weren’t the first to fish the lake, but were the first group booked at Ron Speed’s new resort. As one angler pointed out, “fish camp” would be more appropriate, because it had been hastily thrown together when permission from the Mexican government and local authorities finally came through. Like the tournament guys a few years before, we also had fished legendary El Salto, two hours farther north, as pioneer fly fishers. We had fished the previous afternoon on arrival after hurriedly downing a welcome margarita and rigging our rods. José rang a wake-up bell at 4:50 a.m. and knocked on our meager casita’s door with steaming coffee at five. We hurriedly threw on shorts, sun block, widebrimmed hats, and long-sleeved shirts, and a short walk took us to a thatchedroof outdoor commidor for breakfast. Concurrently, our guides wiped down our bass boats, covered with slippery morning dew, using bath towels and rag mops, stowed gear bags and backup rods, and laid out the rods that we would use to make our first casts.
We were in our boat seats when hints of a morning sun peeked over Sierra Madre cloud tops. Soon we were heading east to our allocated area. Morning fishing ended at 11:30, and we returned for lunch, always followed by a siesta, a welcome break from a murderous sun.
All of us were in a great mood, because we found bays filled with threadf in shad and could fish the hoped-for top-water bite. Our initial excitement had settled enough that we were able to take in the stunning setting that we had been fortunate enough to land in, which would bring us back year after year.
Everyone in our small group of California fly fishers had angled and traveled together locally, regionally, and internationally for a number of years, and we got along well, without treading on each other’s sense of the way the trip should go and without getting in each other’s way while fishing. That’s because all of us, whether aware of it or not, were following the basic rules of etiquette that make for a stressless, pleasant day on the water, whether fishing from a boat, float tube, pontoon boat, pram, from shore, or wading. The fundamental rule when stillwater fishing, just as when fishing moving water, is simple: do unto others as you would have them do unto you.
Many anglers’ first stillwater experiences start with casting from shore or shallow wading — often overlooked approaches, especially when stealth is the order of the day and you must both search for and wait for your prey. Etiquette in that situation begins when you refrain from driving up to lakeshore and parking your vehicle in someone’s back-cast arc. If you choose to start fishing from shore or to wade close in, give the angler who arrived before you lots of room, and don’t charge into the water like a bull moose. What’s a reasonable separation? How about two full flyline lengths, combined with a respectful frame of mind.
Showing respect for stillwater anglers in small personal watercraft also boils down to a quiet entry and approach, which again means refraining from acting like a bull moose when launching your watercraft. Enter as carefully as you expect others to do. The same goes once you’re fishing. In the excitement of getting on the water, some don’t think at all about the situation and row, kick, or paddle right through a shoreline angler’s water, all the while asking, “What flies are working?” The question should be, “What flies were working,” because any respectable fish is long gone from that area.
Once you’re through the inshore zone in your watercraft, keep a reasonable distance from other anglers — the two-fly line-length guideline holds. Who likes to see a fly line cross and tangle theirs, or have a myopic kick boater run into them? It’s always thoughtful to watch your back casts. Avoid crossing other tubers’ wakes, and respect a sizable zone around a fellow angler’s fly. Perhaps the greatest breach of etiquette is casting to someone else’s fish.
Occasionally, another angler’s fish will run in your direction. If there is any possibility of a tangle, move your line. Another thoughtful action is offering to help land a fish or to take a photo, after asking if assistance is welcome. Take courtesy to another level by sharing information and offering a hot fly. Help drag a pontoon boat or pram to the parking area.
Here’s how doing unto others worked in real life during a trip to the Green Banks area at Lake Crowley. Our group was already on the water and kicking upchannel, but I was tailend Charlie, because I had to adjust new
Force Fins and was coming off back surgery. I was tickled to death about just getting back in a float tube. It took me half an hour to finally begin fishing. About a fly-line length from shore, I got a grab on my trailing line. Rainbows had herded perch fry into the inshore zone. After a second fish, I waved to a member of our group who, like me, didn’t want to go too far out into the lake for similar reasons. I could see he was hesitant to approach “my water.”
Given the OK, he moved close enough to talk. All I said was, “They are between us and the shore. Let’s work it carefully.” Two hours later, we sat under a sun shelter sipping beers as the rest of our flotilla returned, fishless. My friend had respected my space, asked permission, and working together, we had a memorable morning.
Doing unto others as they would do unto you thus works best when the doing is mutual. What could have been competition for the best angling becomes instead teamwork to exploit its full potential. Before the most recent back-to-back drought years I would arrange to meet a friend at an upper arm of a Truckee-area reservoir. We knew that there were several months when midmorning Callibaetis hatches would bring fish in from deeper water. Nighthawks high in the sky are common, but when they drop down to water level and are dipping and maneuvering like fighters from the Navy’s Top Gun school in Fallon, you know you picked a good day.

Joe and I would arrive early, sip coffee from bankside chairs and catch up, then help each other launch prams and wait until rises started appearing. Some mornings began with a gentle east wind that dies for a while. That’s when the bugs start hatching and the fish cruise slowly, periodically exhibiting a classic nose, dorsal fin, and then tail rise pattern as they sip in nymphs. A plan refined over several visits was to row out carefully, quietly anchor, and wait.
When the east wind predictably stalled, the lake mirrored, and fish began to rise, we were anchored two fly lines apart at the depth we wanted over a creek channel. Stealth, hoarding our casts, not intruding on either partner’s water, and working it carefully, with some breaks to lower the caution level of the trout, we were able to fish the hatch until the predictable late morning westerly Washoe Zephyr winds roaring down the canyon and ended our angling.
It was classic sight fishing and we worked as a team, alerting our partner to a fish that was behind or approaching in his casting range, all the while being careful to not beat the water to death so fish would stay in our area. It took us a while to settle on a fly pattern, Mike Mercer’s Poxyback Callibaetis, and to refine our strategy. These fish were wary, and it was easy to put them down. Working as a team, not competitors, is gratifying. I’m at the point in my life where watching someone else up close make a beautiful cast and hook up on an acrobatic rainbow is as exhilarating as catching one myself. Perhaps we should answer the perennial camp question, “How many did you get?” by responding with a “We,” rather than an “I.”
Fly fishing from boats adds complexity to the etiquette issue. Anglers cutting ahead of you when you are working down a shoreline can be maddening, but don’t be confrontational. With boats, a minimum of a quarter of a mile of separation is good. And “How do you guys pick a boat partner?” has special meaning for fly fishers, because line whizzing through the air with a hook at the end makes coordination and trust a priority A third member of our group said, “Selecting a fishing partner for a trip is as hard as finding a good wife. I should know, I’m on my third wife.” Recently, someone said, “A happy wife makes for a happy life.” So does a happy boat partner.
How do you make your partner happy? You should have comparable casting skills — preferably darn good skills. The issue of casting gives guides nightmares. A few weeks of practice before a trip can mitigate this problem. Is the partner’s gear adequate, orderly, and ready to go the moment you’re on the water?
Beyond such basic capability issues, both you and your partner should always be aware that there is someone else in the boat, in the space in which each of you is casting. It could be your partner in the front or back seat or your guide. Whether trout fishing in open water or working a shoreline and structure with bass bugs, respect that your boat partner has his or her zone and you have yours. Get into the habit of calling out “Casting!” Tangles take time to undo and often come when you are in a prime spot and the fishing is red hot. If you change the direction of a cast from your previous one, let your partner know: “I’m going to throw to the base of that tree with the big green iguana.” Everybody gets occasional gear tangles, but don’t let it mean that you miss 10, 15, or 20 minutes of prime fishing while rerigging. Be prepared to change a leader and fly, or better and quicker yet, pick up a rigged second rod.
When working shoreline from a boat with an angler in the front seat, one in the rear seat, and perhaps a guide between them, remember that the forward angler should cast well ahead of the boat, leaving shots at undisturbed water for the rear angler. If your partner has a better shot at a rising fish or at structure that you know in your heart holds a large fish, say, “You take that one.” Pass up shots where stickups may snag your back cast or where a crosswind means you will hook your fellow angler or possibly your guide.
This brings up the issue of who gets the front seat and who gets the back. Whether an angler is left-handed or right-handed may help determine the solution, but when bass fishing, I prefer rotating the seating arrangement at a prescribed time at least once an hour. In bonefish, permit, redfish, snook, or tarpon fishing, I welcome the chance to get off the bow deck every so often. A fatigued angler misses opportunities. Even then, I can’t just sit and take pictures. My job is line management for the caster.
Rotating seems to be the most equitable way to go. Some like to hold their seat of choice until a fish is caught, but that approach does a disservice to more proficient anglers, because they may hook up in a few minutes and their boat mate may take hours. I have a partner who prefers to fish from the second seat. I try not to take it for granted and offer him the front seat regardless. He happens to be a skilled caster with both his right and left hand and knows from experience that I will keep my casts ahead of the footprint, leave him good water in the rear seat, and give him good shots. He claims to outfish me.
When open-water trout fishing from boats with two f ly casters aboard, whether just drifting or fore-and-aft anchoring, show the same respect for your boat partner and his or her space as when working a shoreline. I often partner with an advanced angler who is an excellent indicator fisherman. He is right-handed and takes the bow seat. I fish from a rear seat and start by casting and retrieving, often using a clear intermediate line, to explore water to port, aft, and starboard, covering a half circumference around our skiff. We are working together, trying to locate fish and their level in the water column as well as food sources relating to subsequent fly selection.
That cooperation really is the answer to how we chose boat partners at Lake Picachos: we chose partners with whom we have worked well together. At dinner, the young angler who asked the question about selecting partners came over. He said, “We have much the same thoughts. We don’t use long rods and thick lines, but no one wants a treble hook buried in our neck or face, much less an eye, or to draw a partner who hogs the good water. I watched you guys through binoculars today. You worked that water as a team.”