Ascension Bay

Photo by Denys Nevozhai on Unsplash

Starting in the late 80’s my wife Susan and I began to travel down to Cancun to explore the Yucatan Peninsula. We had no interest in Cancun itself, as we considered ourselves not tourists but travelers, and in fact never visited the resort strewn beaches there. But the airport was convenient, an easy flight from home, and fares were cheap.

We had been at this on a regular basis for several years, sometimes with friends but then more often alone. Just the two of us, in a foreign and mysterious country we both loved. 

Like I said, we never stayed in Cancun. Just used the airport and, not having much money, would take a cab out to the main highway where we caught the bus down the coast. I think it cost somewhere around two dollars.

Originally we started going for the diving. The reefs and walls off Cozumel were the attraction, all this before some major hurricanes swept through and destroyed much of the good diving there. You could drift the walls not far offshore at a depth of ninety to one hundred feet, looking off below into the really deep dark water where large pelagic shadows cruised and prowled. Always keeping an eye on your depth gauge, it was a surreal way to spend a half day and we never tired of it.  

Looking for the next place we discovered Tulum, just a couple more hours down the mainland coast. At the time there was no electricity there, only that supplied by generators, and drinking water was mostly trucked in. But the beaches were some of the most beautiful in the world, uncrowded, with the azure Caribbean lapping the sand. 

Adventurous South Americans were there already, along with some northern Europeans and Italians. It was alway good to see Italians as it meant one could be sure of a good meal. In general it was novel, fresh, exotic, and cheap. The beaches were empty and unspoiled, and the pizza and seafood were fabulous, mostly cooked in wood ovens or open fires with fresh ingredients and good olive oil.

It was a special destination then. Simple, remote, unexplored. More recently, it has gained fame as a yoga and spiritual retreat, a new wellness destination for the wealthy. So on it goes. 

I have been fly fishing since high school, mostly for trout in the creeks and rivers of the southern Appalachians. I’m not especially skilled but enjoy it, as much for the scenery and solitude as the actual catching of fish. Or not catching fish, depending. So it was natural for these trips to turn my attention to saltwater, and the possibilities for bringing a rod along.

Doing some homework, Tulum was located at the northern end of Bahia de Ascension, or Ascension Bay, a haven for all manner of shallow water game fish – tarpon, permit, snook, and bonefish. Using Tulum as a jumping off point, we drove further down into the Sian Ka’an Biosphere, a protected area of over two thousand square miles. Including Ascension Bay, mostly accessible only by boat.

A thirty mile drive down an almost impassable dirt road brought us to Punta Allen, a lobster fishing village at the southern end of Ascension bay. Hearing us bouncing through the mud holes in our rented Hyundai, a few locals turned out in curiosity, which quickly turned to disappointment. They thought we were the beer truck, which was running late. Legitimate cause for concern.

Over drinks at the local watering hole we met an Englishman, Rodney, also there to fish. Traveling with a trunkful of rods, reels, and gear, he had found a boat and local guide to take him into Ascension Bay. He invited me along to split the cost. And for the camaraderie I imagine. The guide, Carlos, spoke no English and we spoke no Spanish. The only phrase he seemed to have perfected was “Big Bone,” referring to a castable bonefish. This was accompanied by much excitement and pointing motions. Turned out he had cause to use it a lot.

We met early next morning at his boat, one of the ubiquitous skiffs found all over the Caribbean coast. Using mostly Honda outboards, these skiffs have high enough gunwales to travel open water but shallow enough draft to float less than a foot of water in the flats. After a ten minute ride down the beach he cut the motor and drifted through a small gap in the jungle I never would have even seen otherwise. We could almost reach out and touch the mangroves on either side.

Photo by Brendalis Estevez on Unsplash

Entering Ascension Bay, an explosion of pink rose from the water. Thousands of flamingos were there for mating season and they flew off the water as one giant cloud at our intrusion. Almost immediately accompanied by Carlos’ “big bone!” The fish was cruising the line of shadows on the edge of the mangroves and I cast a few feet in front of his nose. He veered slightly and sucked in the fly. 

The reason we fish for bonefish is their speed and power. Not big jumpers like tarpon, on being hooked they will take off for a hundred yards. All a fisherman can do is slow them down a touch, keep light pressure on the line, begin to tire them out. After about fifteen minutes we got this one to the boat, took a picture, and released him. Back to his family, scarred but smarter. 

This type of fishing is called sight fishing, which is just like it sounds. First you see the fish, then you cast to it. Commonly done in shallow, clear water, it is an exciting way to fish. Bonefish are also known as gray ghosts, and as they cruise the shallows, looking for crab and shrimp, they look like torpedo shaped shadows. Spot one, cast ahead of it. Watch it take the fly, set the hook. And hold on.

Quickly it became apparent that Rodney was having trouble seeing the fish. Being nearsighted most of my life, I sympathized. Carlos, though, was becoming frustrated. He was there to help us catch fish, and Rodney was missing some good ones. I loaned him my polarized sunglasses, to no avail. Finally I would just tell him quickly, bone two o’clock forty feet, and that would put him in the vicinity. He was a good sport, the day was saved and we caught a few. The birdlife and beauty of the remote bay came at no charge, for all to share. It was a gem of a morning.

We returned to Punta Allen in the afternoon, just in time for the arrival of the beer truck. Everyone was happy. The dwindling supply had been worrisome, but now was fixed. Life could continue. 

Susan had made good use of her time and made some new friends while I was gone, shooting pool on the shaded patio bar. I had kept one fish, a seven pound snook lured from the mangroves by a squid fly. We passed him off to the chef and had him for dinner roasted whole with garlic, cilantro, butter, and lime. Also beans, rice, and salad washed down with the freshly delivered cerveza.

The entire small village, probably less than a hundred souls, got their TV service from a sixty foot tower in the town center, but one had to climb the tower and adjust the receiver to change channels. It was September, the Braves were in the playoffs and, at my suggestion, a young local scampered up the tower and found TBS, fuzzy but live. 

If it gets any better, I’ve yet to find it, as we sat on the patio with the freshly caught fish, baseball playoffs (in spanish,) and setting sun over the blue Caribbean. And not for the first or last time, a day to savor, and something like optimism.