Inside Panama's Islas Secas

A note from my angling partner and fellow planetary traveler Jeffrey Cardenas came as a surprise and made me blink. “Let me ask David if he would like to join me,” Cardenas had responded in an e-mail he’d sent to Carter Andrews, director of sport fishing at Islas Secas. I knew from our past adventures with Andrews that he had a nose for the best fishing on earth, and at this point I was thinking, Fly-fishing in Panama — now this I can handle.

Andrews has put the all of the pieces together to offer an incredible angling paradise for adventurous fly-fishermen at Islas Secas.

The island is located 25 miles from Boca Chica, Panama, in the Gulf of Chiriqui, which is within the larger Coiba National Park & Marine Preserve.

The Gulf of Chiriqui is influenced by five major oceanic currents, with a potential 16½-foot tidal exchange, making it an ideal spot for marine life to congregate. The pelagic species are here for the food, and the resident fish have no reason to leave.

A vibrant seafaring culture has existed here for centuries unknown, and in ancient times, magnificent pearls were harvested from the ocean floor around Islas Secas by native free divers. Legend has it that the souls of the divers who perished collecting the “tears of the sea” can still be heard throughout the islands. Just like the divers, Cardenas and I were on a quest to find treasure.

Dancing With the Dog
Andrews swung the cast net from as far behind him as he could, and it spun like a wheel as it opened. It landed with a whoosh over the nervous water, and before long we had enough threadfin herring and anchovies wriggling in the baitwells to make any mate’s arms sore. With a full well, the SeaVee responded as Capt. Antonio “Kid” Murray nudged the sticks, and with that, we were making our way out of the inlet, guarded on either side by towering volcanic cliffs shrouded in tropical green.

A large volcanic outcropping loomed close enough for us to hear the three-foot swell muscle through and around the barrier rocks protruding from the water. Kid carefully nosed the long open bow of the boat close enough to the edge of the boulder field for us to cast, and his first mate, Juan Spragge, didn’t need any direction or encouragement to pitch chummers to stir things up. The first several skittered across the surface without harm, but the next handful weren’t so lucky. In the blink of an eye, two of the three freebies disappeared into brick-red-colored boils. Fish the size and shape of carry-on luggage had inhaled 6-inch anchovies like popcorn shrimp. As I reached for my 12-weight outfit, my mind was racing, along with my heart — these fish were a chip shot away, and they obviously brought their appetite.

Andrews instructed me to make a cast as soon as the fish ate a live bait. Simple enough: A fish shows, and I drop the fly on the target, strip the fly, fight the fish, land it and take a picture.

The next baitfish splashed down and traveled two feet to the left, and in what seemed like slow motion, the color of the water under the bait turned rusty red. I gulped and made my presentation. I stripped the fly about a foot, and just before I made my second strip, the fly was intercepted by a thick-headed cubera snapper. With one kick of its tail, it disappeared into the depths. As the line came tight, Kid hit the throttle in reverse to back us out of the cover before the snapper could bury its head and the leader in the craggy bottom. I clamped down on my reel and held on for all I was worth in an attempt to drag this gladiator into open water. With the rod pointed almost straight at the fish, I had direct pressure from the boat, which was of no consequence to the chunky snapper. When the leader parted, I nearly fell over from the release of tension.

Cardenas stepped up to bat as I began tying on a new tippet and fly, feeling beaten. Even though we could see the fights from start to finish, had the right flies and could get the flies to the fish, we both knew that our angling skills would have to be tack-sharp to win this game.

Cardenas, who rarely misses, fixed his eyes on his target and made a cast. The fly landed and was almost gone before moving at all, taken by what was clearly a bigger cubera than the first one. Kid hit the gas to back out, and Cardenas braced for the ensuing tug of war. With every ounce of strength, he bent the rod all the way into the grip, giving up nothing. The rod shook violently and exploded in his hands, and with that, it was my turn to do battle once again.

I cut the 50-pound tippet and replaced it with 65-pound fluorocarbon, thinking that a stronger leash would tame the beast. I was wrong — my second hookup ended the same way the first one had.

As I rerigged, I heard Cardenas whoop and curse in defiance as the big Suzukis did their job and backed us out of and away from the impenetrable cover. More clashed words from the bow, then yelling and then, finally, just the sound of fish-fighting, of giving and taking. I was up in time to see a close-quarters battle with a fish that was amazingly powerful and determined. With the brute never more than 60 feet away, this was a knock-down, drag-out war of wills. After years of fighting big fish all over the saltwater world, Cardenas was more than prepared for this kind of contest. Minutes later Kid’s second mate, Billy Clair, gilled the 40-pound cubera and hoisted it into the cockpit for a better look. I cannot say that it was a beautiful fish in the pretty sense, but it was beautifully suited for being at the top of the food chain in this inshore world.

I cast to and hooked several more big snappers and lost some great-looking flies and about 20 feet of tippet before our chances were over. The tide swapped ends, and we were out of baits and needed a new plan for the following day.