“The house was built on the highest part of the narrow tongue of land between the harbor and the open sea. It had lasted through three hurricanes and it was built solid as a ship.”

Islands in the Stream

Ernest Hemingway

It was mid-April and my wife and I were in Destin, Florida, our “happy place,” but I was not completely happy. The weather was sunny and mildly warm, with the winds out of the south at 15 to 20 mph blowing across the gulf – a huge fetch of water – and the surf was up. Rip tide warnings were posted in the weather forecast and the surf flags flew the dreaded red, doubles no less, standing straight out in the wind, as in “stay out of the water.”

For flyfishers of the Emerald Coast, April can be an incredible time to fish for pompano which are migrating northward along the Gulf and Atlantic coast of Florida, searching the warmer coastal waters, and on the feed after spawning in the Gulf, offshore. Pompano will move seeking their ideal water temperature, moving inshore from the Gulf after spawning for warmer coastal waters above 68 degrees and then moving north ever-seeking water in the 68-to-75-degree range, not too hot and not too cold.

It was pure torture for this flyfisher, knowing the fish were there and not being able to get to them with the high surf conditions. So, I monitored the weather daily, viewing the beach cams and hoping and praying to see a drop in wave height and action. Unfortunately, as long as the wind remained blowing strongly out of the south, the surf just continued to build and get dirty, another condition that can turn the bite off for pompano.

After a week of this, I finally noticed a change in the forecast that predicted a wind shift out of the north. On the Florida panhandle, northerly winds translate to lower surf, and better access for fly anglers who generally must wade out to fish from the first bar. Conventional anglers need only wade out to cast a long line, anchoring their baits, then retreating to the beach where they can wait for the bite while basking in the sun on the beach.

Meteorologists get a bad rap for forecast accuracy but Weather.com was right on the money when it forecast a wind shift. Early the following morning I stared in disbelief at a surf that was almost as calm as a mill pond. The surf laid down to the point where I was wondering if what I saw on the beach cam was a still picture in place of the usual video stream. The winds were still on the breezy side, but I could deal with that. A coffee or two later, I saddled up in the golf cart, gear at the ready, my 8 weight TFO BVK home-build strung up with a 350-grain intermediate sink tip line and 5-foot leader, with a pink and white clouser, size 4, on the business end.

A pink and white clouser – a terrific searching pattern to use for pompano, as well as redfish, ladyfish, and sea trout. Like rainbow trout, pompano like a little bling.

I parked near the beach access and made the hike eastward beyond the hotel beaches where swimmers and sun-bathers were already taking station. Soon I was striding at a good pace along the wet sand, eyes on the water for bird play, signs of fish, and surf structure. The water was crystal clear and the white sand bars stood out in contrast to the emerald green and deeper blue of the troughs.

Beautiful Destin – looking westward to where I was fishing. Note the first and second bars and the trough between them. Often times the pompano will cruise that trough and come up on the first bar in search of food.

On my way, I stopped and talked to a spin angler, hoping he’d gotten into some pompano. He was fishless at that point but reported a good knockdown on his rod soon after his first cast. I remained hopeful as I continued eastward, pausing at a spot where the last house on the beach stood – a massive single floor mansion that had the look of a bunker – it’s outer skin concrete white – dotted with a series of magnificent windows looking south over the beach and to the expanse of the gulf. Beyond this house was the Topsail Hill Preserve Park and miles of unoccupied beach. Normally I would continue on to a place where I had done very well on previous visits, but this place looked fishy, and the first trough took an appealing curve in close to the beach. I decided to drop my pack there, under the stony gaze of that mansion, and give it a try…

I waded a bit beyond the first bar, waist-deep in the still relatively cool clear gulf surf, fanning casts out to the deeper water off the edge of the bar, then stripping the fly back in short erratic retrieves. A few skipjack, smaller but very aggressive surf dwellers, would annoyingly attack the fly and sometimes hook up. But after a few minutes I finally came tight to what would turn out to be my first of over a dozen pompano, with half as many lost. As typical with pompano, the take was solid and followed by some spastic headshakes and then the launch of a fish with drag-strip speed.

A beautiful pompano of good size. These fish are terrific gamefish on the fly rod, having tremendous speed (note the forked tail), and using all of that deep side profile to their advantage in the fight. They also are wonderful on the grill, with firm slightly oily flesh and a skin that crisps. Amazing table fare.

I landed that first fish under the gaze of a few beach-combing onlookers. Much to my delight, the bite lasted an hour and a half. At times, large schools of pompano of 30 or more would cruise through, their silvery sides shimmering as they scavenged for sand fleas, crabs, and small baitfish.

The sand flea or mole crab, a favorite food of pompano, among other surf-dwelling fish. These crustaceans inhabit what is known as the swash zone, the wet sand area where the surf coats the sand and retreats. The sand flea can hold its appendages close to its body, allowing it to roll in the tidal currents and waves but it can also quickly dig into the sand and disappear from predators.

The fishing was on and off as the pompano cruised the trough – fast and furious one moment, dead the next, requiring fast casting when sighting an approaching school, almost always followed by immediate hook-ups.

Vlahos’ Marbled Sand Flea – a great fly pattern designed to imitate the real thing. I have used this pattern with great success – cast it out, let it sink, and let the surf move it about, interspersed with occasional strips and hang on!

My time fishing on the bar was as always almost magical in terms of the plethora of marine life seen, including sea turtles, rays, schools of big jacks moving through just out of casting reach, distant sightings of porpoise, and an occasional shark. On this day, one very large shark sauntered in, sinister black against the white of the sand bar, leaving me to slowly vacate his hunting grounds until he was well out of sight.

As in most of life, all good things must come to an end. Perhaps porpoises had moved in stealthily to drive the fish off, or maybe the pompano just moved on as is often the case with many fish of the surf, roaming endlessly for miles in their incessant search for food. The previous spring, I had fished this same bite but had given up in desperation with waves that occasionally broke over me as I fished the trough. On that venture I witnessed a pack of porpoises herding the pompano and playing with them like a cat does with a mouse, literally flinging the fish high into the air just 30 feet from me. At least I knew I had found the pompano, but who could blame them for ignoring my fly when fleeing for their life!

Having had more than a day’s worth of fun, I grabbed my pack and started my walk back to the beach access hidden in a morass of beach hotels and towering condos. On the way I stopped to speak with a spin angler who was set up with several surf rods. He was an older man, sporting a colorful shirt that worked hard to stay buttoned. We talked about the fishing and after learning of my success, the angler inquired as to where I’d found fish. I described the place, and this affable fellow immediately recognized it. “Oh,” he said, “that place belongs to Jerry Jones. I know Jerry through his son…” On he went with a long-winded oratory about his bountiful business connections, his southern drawl mixing with the cacophony of sunbathers close-by – radios playing, laughing gulls on the breeze, kids shrieking, water lapping up on the sugary sand. And all the while above his chat, the high-pitched whine of my fly reel played in my ear. The warmth of that late morning just sweetened the happiness of coming home after some solid fishing.

After politely disengaging the spin angler, I continued my homeward walk. It was close to noon, and the hotel beaches were crowded with vacationers from places like Columbus, Ohio, Ridgeland, Mississippi, and Memphis, Tennessee – the heartland and the southeast- all basking in the warmth of the sun, adoring the brilliant Gulf waters, and enjoying a mere sip of the good life that attracts so many to such a place. Seeing them and thinking of my own short visit made me wonder whether Jerry Jones even stayed at his place and whether he knew what lay just beyond his very own front yard…

The place that Jerry built…