Angling Destinations' recent two-week fly-fishing adventure in Mexico was one for the books—equal parts success, chaos, and sheer luck. Week one started in Xcalak, where six of us—Clark, Cole, Scott, Brian, Truitt, and Woody—a rag-tag group of quasi-dedicated permit anglers, showed up like a band of lost pirates armed with fly rods rather than swords. Xcalak, Mexico is a quiet little coastal fishing village near the Belize border and it gracefully greeted us with warm hospitality, tranquil flats, some remarkable fishing and some fishing not-so remarkable. We landed plenty of fish, but the highlight was certainly releasing a few permit, which turned out to be just as elusive as we expected. Not that we didn't get shots. Each day, each boat had encounters with the elusive black-tailed devils, but we wound up tallying far more jacks, snappers and/or barracudas when we were certain we had cast in front of permit, often times tailing (so, yes they were permit). We were pretty convinced the fish were in on some kind of ruse, laughing back at us as if we were the unwitting players.
By sunset, we’d limp back to Xcalac on the Fly like heroes from a very strange war, collapsing at the end of a 250-foot dock that somehow got longer each evening. There, with a stash of cold beers and our dignity mostly intact, we swapped fish tales—some true, others greatly enhanced by the magic of the moment. The food was really good, though it’s entirely possible we were too sunburned and too full of ceviche to think otherwise. Every evening, perched along the coast of the Caribbean, we’d watch the sun dip down like it was winking at us, as if to say, “Good luck out there tomorrow, suckers.”
Tomorrow came, the day was calm, flat-fucking-calm and pretty damn hot. The fish (permit) were right where we thought they would be - visibly feeding, happily tipping up above the sultry surface, tails quivering with each successful "eat". Our crab patterns, some heavy, some lighter, some light and some floating were strategically cast and carefully retrieved where multiple fish would compete over our offerings only to pull away at the last minute and have another small mutton snapper hammer the fly from out in front of the curious permit. Okay, regroup. We limped back to the dock, dragging ourselves to the end of the "muelle" (Spanish for dock). It became our meeting place, a refuge where we could forget about the fishing and enjoy a few cold beers over exaggerated stories that flowed as freely as the breeze. We’d laugh until it hurt, poking fun at each other.
Fast forward a half-day van-journey later to Punta Allen, Mexico. The reinforcements arrived—Woody’s brother Rob, plus Doug, Alice, and Jim—because if you’re already in paradise, why not bring in a few more unsuspecting souls? The plan was simple: fish, eat, drink, repeat. But just as we hit our stride, Hurricane Milton rolled in with all the subtlety of a bison in a fly shop, bringing a “small craft advisory”—meaning anyone foolish enough to go out might make the local headlines. Stuck on shore, we watched as Kay Fly’s guide team and the Palometa Club’s crew squared off in a rowdy softball game that was more about bragging rights than actual skill. It was practically the World Series of Fly Fishing Guides, and from the sidelines, margarita in hand, we cheered them on like fans at a hometown game.
When Milton finally blew through, we hit the water as if on a mission. The final count: 20 permit, countless bonefish, 18 tarpon, and 10 snook, with a grand total of 176 margaritas polished off between casts—don’t ask how we know, but trust that it happened. Somewhere in the blur of fishing, salt, and lime, the line between fish and life blurred in the best way. By the end, we weren’t just chasing fish; we were chasing moments, each one a little wilder than the last and likely logged in the memory bank so long as the moment wasn't a total blur in the first place.
However, as every angler knows, the real treasure wasn’t in the catching of fish. It was the chaos, the camaraderie, and the magic of spending days with friends who knew how to laugh at every mishap. Like when Scott attempted to hook a tarpon without actually meaning to or when Rob yelled like he’d hit the jackpot after finally landing his first bonefish. Without a doubt, we’ll never forget the moment when ‘he who shall not be named’ showed up for his fishing trip—much to the bewilderment of onlookers preparing to board their boats for the day—completely lacking any clothing on his lower half. True story. These were the moments that made the trip something we’d never forget, the kind of stories that will outlast the gear we packed away.
As we loaded into the boats for one last ride back, already sun-scorched and deliriously happy, one thing was clear: we’d be back. The Yucatán had worked its way into our veins. Whether it was the fish, the sea, or perhaps those 176 margaritas, something told us this wouldn’t be our last cast in these waters. Until then, we’ve got the memories—and the hangovers—to keep us going.
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