TRONCONES, MEXICO -- The water between the incoming swells and the beach rippled to life and four-inch-long sardines sprayed across the surface. Torpedo-like upwellings -- big, ravenous jack Crevalle -- followed the sardines. The water erupted in froth and gaping mouths as the jacks trapped the sardines against the beach.
Samba, the skipper of our panga, hooted and gunned the engine. The boat swooped over the five-foot swells and headed directly for the foamy carnage. I dropped a $750 fly rod and reel on the botton of the boat and stumbled for the bow, where a silvery Krocodile lure dangled from the tip of an inexpensive medium-action spinning rod.
I looked behind me as Samba drove his boat toward the boils. A set of swells was about 100 yards from the feeding fish. I would have one cast to drop the lure in front of the rampaging jacks and hook a fish before Samba would have to spin the boat around like a ballerina and motor over the incoming swells before they broke into boat-killing waves.
Seconds later, Samba put the motor out of gear, and I lobbed the spoon into the teeth of the offshore breeze and in front of the jacks. I put the reel in gear as Samba turned the boat and piloted us over the first swell. I started reeling in the lure, and five jacks, banking like Cobra attack helicopters, tracked the flashing Krocodile.
As the boat reached the top of the swell, the jacks caught up with the lure, and it vanished in a swirling boil. By the time the boat slid down the backside of the swell, line was melting off the reel -- and Samba was gunning the boat for the next swell.
We were all laughing, yelling and screaming with pure joy -- and a bit of fear. All this happened in less than 10 seconds.
I've been a fly angler most of my life, and a spinning rod always feels a little awkward in my hand. Most of the time, especially when trout fishing, a fly rod, reel and line is my choice.
But there are times when a spinning rod is the key to catching fish, especially when I'm riding around on a panga off the Pacific Coast of Mexico.
That's what happened a few weeks ago, when Heather joined me on a trip to Troncones, a small surfing/fishing village about a half-hour's drive north of Zihuatanejo. This was my second trip to Troncones, and it is now my favorite spot in Mexico -- a country with a lot of cool places for the traveling angler/surfer.
We stayed at the Inn at Mazanillo Bay, which sit on an arc of deserted, sandy beach with jagged, rocky points at either end. Jungle -- and a few homes and tiny inns -- cluster just beyond the beach, and it's rare to see more than two or three people on the sand at any time. This place reminds me of Maui, only with fewer people and much less development. It is a paradise.
A nice left point break attracts surfers, and I was tempted to paddle out, but I'm addicted to La Saladita, a world-class point break about 20 minutes away. I'm a geezer longboarder, and Saladita's machine-like breaking wave is pure joy for those of us who like long rides -- often more than a minute -- while perched on nine feet of fiberglassed foam. I know a 60 seconds doesn't seem like a long time, but it is endless in the world of riding waves, where 15 seconds is considered a very long ride.
The break at Mazanillo Bay also offers sublime rides, but the swell was fairly small during my stay, and a small swell puts the takeoff point of the wave right over a rocky reef that is covered with a minefield of large, spiky sea urchins. I watched one surfer wipe out while paddling into a wave and come up with a leg studded with spikes.
So, when the swell is small, I get out my 9-weight fly rod and cast poppers for jack Crevalle, roosterfish, sierra, snapper and small grouper. The waves usually arrive every 10 to 14 seconds, so I have just enough time to snap out a cast, chug the popper three or four times, and then lift the whole catastorphe out of the way of the incoming wave -- unless a fish has pounced on the popper. All this seems pretty brisk, but it is slow in comparison to chasing boiling fish in the surf zone from a panga.
Riding in a boat that is greyhounding over the swells toward big, boiling fish is too much fun to miss. The warm, balmy air blows through your T-shirt and you can see fish swimming right through the clear, warm water. Sometimes the fish are in the swells, and they looks as though they're swimming in an aquarium. The breeze is usually blowing offshore in the mornings, and that, coupled with the wind from the speeding boat, makes it almost impossible to cast 40 feet of fly line and a big, bulky popper before it's time to race out to deeper water.
I know there are better, more-talented fly anglers who could pull off this stunt over and over again. I can pull it off about 20 percent of the time, but those incoming swells feel like a cold, hard gun barrel pressed into the back of my neck. And most Mexican skippers aren't willing to risk their boats while I goof around with a wind-blown flyline.
So, that's why I always bring a loaded spinning rod on the boat when I travel to Mexico. If we find fish boiling outside of the surf line, I pick up that expensive fly rod and feel big fish snatch the line out of my hand. If the fish are feeded inside the surf line, I pick up the spinning rod. If this sounds like chaos, well, it usually is.
But it is fun chaos, and I wouldn't miss it for anything -- even if some fellow fly anglers say I'm sinning. I figure I'm just spinning things into my favor at that moment, and I'm sure even the biggest fly-rod purist in the world would quickly pick up a spinning rod at the sight of those big boiling fish.
The nice jack just about emptied the reel of 15-pound-test line before Samba got the boat into deeper water and outside the swell line. Like most Mexican skippers, Samba believes in using the heaviest tackle possible, and, to prove his point, he settle down to watch me battle a big jack on what he regarded as foolishly light gear.
Heather snapped a few photos as I worked the jack toward the boat -- only to watch the fish just about empty the reel again. Jack Crevalle are among the strongest, most stubborn fish on this watery planet, and even a small one feels big -- and gives you a workout.
This fish was about 10 pounds or so, which is not huge, but it was big enough to keep me pulling for about 15 minutes. Then, suddenly, the fish was gliding beside the hull, and I reached down and grabbed it right ahead of the hard, streamlined tail.
We snapped a few photos, and I got a drink of water. Then the water erupted about 100 yards offshore -- well outside of where swells broke into waves --and I dropped the spinning rod and headed for the fly rod. Samba gunned the engine, Heather picked up the spinning rod, and we both got ready to cast.
Everyone was laughing.
