Skiff and turbid waters meet rattling joints and pounding cartilage as we run into uncharted territory, tracing the edges of banks and cuts in an effort to avoid open water- until the last possible moment. Every mile or so, we come off plane and bob hopelessly in the open basin, to clear rouge sargassum from the prop. Tunnel hulls and floating vegetation do not get along. Before we can start fishing I am already enthralled with the backcounty. A place so vast, no amount of “google earth-ing” could have prepared me. The spot that is “just over there” on the smartphone, is eight miles through teeth of an angry basin. A place so wild even intermittent channel markers seem sacrilegious.

We decide to valiantly pole some banks known for tarpon, despite the windward orientation. The skiff barrels down the last possible channel from the leeward, no ocean rollers today, but sustained winds carry over miles of open water to terminate at the 15ft hull. We pole a bank with the wind, out of spite, where backcounty meets open gulf. It feels more like riding a longboard than poling a skiff. Hopeless.

The large bonefish spotted yesterday ease our minds into giving up on tarpon for the day. The wind is again blowing from the Atlantic, 18-20mph. We brave another turbid basin until we are leeward of an exposed bank. Miles of shallow turtle grass calms the relentless wind. Sun is high, illuminating grass and it’s grazers.

At home on the southern Indian river, if you find any turtle grass its a good day, and will often hold fish. In Florida bay, there is so much grass it becomes a desert. Plenty of rays and a few sharks. But no bonefish or promises after an hour of poling. We run deeper still into the back country, in search of diverse habitat.

We settle on a pair of islands jutting from a leeward bank, divided by a large channel and surrounded by more turtle grass. We pole to the island begging for shelter from the wind. Hoping to see a tail breach the surface or pronounced wakes of game fish.

Needle fish, lemon shark and barracuda peruse leisurely. Rotating between mangrove, grass and channel. Each juvenile shark offers a spike of hope preceding a letdown just as steep. As we near the natural channel’s edge, multiple wakes push onto the flat, right toward us. We immediately infer that they are not sharks or cudas. I am on the bow with trembling knees. Wakes form in the water and vanish just as quickly, with no clear direction or intention. School after school materialize from the channel’s depth and dissipate before casting range.

Finally a lone wake pushes towards the nose of the skiff, we assume they are bonefish for sure. Until I finally get a glimpse at one of the hollow fish-

Permit.

Each school is comprised of young permit, much more wily and unpredictable than I had imagined. Once I learn this, my knees grow unsteady and my casting gets more arrhythmic. We end up staking out. A couple hours go by, we each try our hand at plopping a fly down anywhere near school after school. Even a 12 foot lead results in blown out fish.

Eventually the frequency of the schools ceased, we have a few more spots in mind before the day’s end. The next flat yields nothing. On a whim, we run to a semi-protected bar that looks likely to hold back country tarpon. We gently pole in the direction of two large logs, suspended by water. Both of us strain eyes in disbelief, until one of the logs flicks a tail and advances a few feet. Holy shit. My buddy fires a good cast too late.

With new hope, we pole windy bars jutting into basins, but the sun is waning and glare is increasing. I would have rather caught fish today, but I am feeling ok on the long run home. We found a couple laid up poons and permit schools on our first trip to the back country. If the weatherman is right, we are going ocean side tomorrow. Winds less than eight mph they say, ill believe it when I see it.