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                            Far Eastern Fly Fishing
                                    
                                    
                                    
                                   By
                                    
                              James Fennell
                                    
                                    
                                    
     Dawn is just beginning to break as I quietly close the car
door.  The day holds promise as only a day of fly fishing can. My
pulse quickens in anticipation as I walk to the obscure path at
the end of the small clearing.  This point, where the path falls
away to the water below is the boundary between land and sea. 
Carefully, I ease down the cliff overlooking Kin Bay.  With
practiced ease, I let my feet find the good path, the one that
leads to a spot as beautiful as any I've ever fished. 
     Coral and lava outcrops make up much of the terrain here on
Okinawa, the largest island in the Ryukyu chain.  These coral
formations, uncovered eons past by the receding waters of the
pacific tend to crumble easily underfoot and are not to be
trifled with.  Caution is a necessary part of any predawn
excursion, especially for the angler hurrying toward the gentle
sound of a beckoning sea.
     I have taken this path before, often in fact and half listen
to the scurry of Hermit Crabs and other small things that move
away before me.  Part of my mind registers the small sounds and
categorize them, as I have a very real desire not to step on a
Habu, a local variety poisonous snake.  Pausing briefly I watch a
family of Mongoose skip away into the thick undergrowth as I 
near the water's edge.  These small predators are also watching for 
Habu, yet their intentions, as anyone that's read Kipling knows, are 
decidedly different from mine.
     The short scramble down the cliff, only some sixty feet or
so, has taken just long enough for dawn to officially arrive.  I
carefully assemble my nine weight pack rod, taking care to fit
the reel to the seat snugly.  Then squinting in the still dim
light, manage to thread the guides, pausing occasionally to take
stock of my surroundings.  Day is beginning to brighten the sky
and far to the east over a seemingly endless Pacific Ocean I see
a thin line of clouds.  Weak sunshine is threatening the upper
edges of the clouds with a range of pink and silver color so
glorious that it must be seen to be believed.  Closer in, I
notice that the tide is about to turn and begin its timeless rush
back toward the shore.  Coral heads silently stand guard as they
always have.  The short strip of white beach waits for the rush
of life giving saltwater that daily inundates its small length of
glistening sand.  The cycle of water brings life in infinite
variety, it also hosts the struggle for survival in a hostile
environment.  As smaller organisms rush in with the freshening
tide they are followed by larger, more aggressive and ultimately
hungry life forms.  This inevitable cycle that began with the
dawn of life continues virtually unchanged in its simplicity,
with luck, it will continue unchanged forever.   
     A quick glance up and down the bay tells me something I
already know.  I am alone, though not surprised by this fact, as
I have never seen another fly fisher on Okinawa.  The saltwater
fly fishing scene here is filled by myself alone, a situation
that I have seen repeated in many parts of the Pacific and one
that I fear has spoiled me.  Though I long, at times, to return
to favored east coast estuaries, I don't long for the crowds back
in the states.  Images of the chaos created when blue fish are
running or when voracious stripers crash into schooling bait fish
in a pounding surf, matched at times by the frenzied competition
of shore bound anglers flood my thoughts.  
     Here, I roam this small spot of green, wading the flats,
occasionally swimming small channels to get access to many of the
countless tiny coral islands that litter the perimeter of this
subtropical realm.  Not once, in almost two years, have I seen a
fly rod other than my own. 
     Quickly, I wade the first pool, cross to a lava shelf that
runs much of the way around the southeastern side of the bay and
make my way to the first stop of the morning, a tidal pool. This
particular pool averages a depth of roughly four feet at low tide
and covers about two acres.  The mouth of the pool is cut hard, a
slashing run of water through lava as sharp and brittle as the
day it bubbled up from the depths of the earth.  The relentless
surge of wave and sand cut tiny bowl shaped depressions into the
lava leaving edges that are sharp enough to cut.  Obviously,
these must be negotiated with some care.  This pool, the "Blue
Hole," as my young son calls it, is a custom made ambush site for
predators.  The small cut that feeds oxygen rich water to all
that inhabit this pool, also provides a perfect hunting site for
hungry predators.
     I'm after Barracuda this morning and the Blue Hole is a good
place to begin.  I have watched packs of "Cuda" patrol this cut
with the flow of the tide, wheeling in synchronized precision,
while performing an ageless and savage dance.  A dance driven by
a basic instinct for survival, driven by the need to feed.  In
their rush to consume, they sometimes strike so quickly at their
prey that it's over before the mind registers what the eye has
seen.  Each time I see this, I can't help but hope that the
Cuda's unfortunate prey doesn't have time to comprehend what is
happening either.
     The light is coming up quickly as I carefully ease forward
to scan the pool.  My eyes rove over the sandy bottom, generously
sprinkled with coral and lava formations.  Dozens of tiny blue
tropical fish, so bright in their neon colors they appear to glow
skirt the edge the cut.  A small octopus slowly climbs down the
side of a coral head, near enough that I could touch it with the
tip of my rod.  For a moment I watch the graceful movement of
tentacles before scanning the cut carefully.  Nothing.  I scan
farther out into the deeper waters, again nothing. The light is
still not strong enough to penetrate the depths, even in this
crystal clear water.  Looking down to gauge the light I notice
several serpent head cowries feeding on the rocks around my feet. 
The light is just strong enough to make out the small white spots
on the back of their shells.  I watch them for another moment,
then carefully scan the cut again, still nothing.
    A popper cast to actively feeding barracuda tends to be very 
productive in these waters. With no sign of surface feeding fish 
however, I decide to go with one of my favorite braided Cuda flies 
instead.  I tie on my "Bean Fly" an ugly but functional braided streamer 
in hot pink with a liberal amount of flash, then wait.  This pattern 
has taken a number of fish for me and tied on a 1/0 XX long hook doesn't 
require the use of wire or heavy monofilament leader in most situations.  
Of course, if the fish are unusually large, the use of wire or heavy 
monofilament is sometimes necessary. 
     The first notes of morning reveille drift over the bay, as
the 3rd Marine Division Headquarters stirs to life, when I see
the tell tale dark splashes of pectoral fins and deeply forked 
tail.  Cuda, while difficult to see over a sand bottom if you
look for the entire fish are relatively easy to spot by the
prominent darker colors that generally grace its fins.
I stare intently at these two dark spots until suddenly the fish
appears, then several more fish seem to materialize, until I'm
staring at a school of eight or ten fish.  These are juvenile
fish the largest maybe three pounds.  Patiently I wait, watching
as they enter the cut and start to prowl the calm protected
waters.  Quickly, I check to see how much line I'm holding,
consider the cast I'll make, then carefully strip off a few more
feet. 
     The rod comes up easily, requiring no thought, a false cast,
another, then the line shoots out turning the fly over and
landing several feet in front of and slightly left of the small
school of predators.  Rapidly striping line makes the fly dance
just under the surface.  Intently, I watch the lead fish of the
small school.  Seemingly of one mind the group turns slightly and
stops, staring at the fly.  The strike when it comes is fast,
very fast.  Focused on the lead fish I almost missed the blurred
movement as another fish darted forward from the pack and took
the fly.  Thankfully, the slack was out of the line and the fish
managed to virtually hook itself.  The small Cuda put a brave
face on it, dancing about and leaving the water once, but the
last notes of reveille had hardly ended when the fight was over
and the fish carefully released.
     I take a moment, breathing deeply, inhaling the salty smell
of the ocean. The light, stronger now, reveals a range of
tropical colors that is staggering, every hue of green and blue
surrounds me.  The dazzle of coral, its myriad of colors
projecting the very essence of diverse, healthy life, adds to the
bounty.   This is truly one of those places often quoted as good
for the soul.  I glance around carefully, almost jealously  and
smile, the only fly rod on the bay is mine. I'm still smiling as
I turn back and begin to scan the water again.....                
 

Flyfishing | The Odyssey- Part Two | The Odyssey- Part Three