By Vincent Bini
I hate permit! I said it. Do I mean it? Yes. And no. How can something be so awesome and yet suck so bad? I continue to search for that answer and, to be honest, I have a strong suspicion I am not alone. I have obsessed over these fish since I started flats fishing. My buddies and I put in many hours trying to coax these fish to bite whatever it was we were throwing at them and believe me when I tell you it didn’t matter if it was artificial or live bait—there was no rhyme or reason for why we did or didn’t catch one. I can’t speak for stream fishermen or anyone outside the realm of saltwater flats fishing—but I am almost certain that the permit is simultaneously the hardest and easiest fish to catch. Hands down.
Legendary Keys guide Capt. Rob Fordyce said it better than I ever could: “Anybody that’s ever chased permit on the flats knows that they’re not an honest fish. And what I mean by that is you can make the best cast as an angler, make the best presentation, have the best lure or the best bait, and sometimes the fish will bite—and most of the time he doesn’t.”
So why do it?
Good question—one that warrants serious recliner time. Possibly something insurance should cover. This swimming paradox—the sickle-tailed devil—has driven saner people than me straight to the edge. How many perfect casts have you made—perfect lane, perfect sink, perfect window—only to watch the fish ghost right by? Then, just to remind you who’s in charge, a cast that lands on its head gets casually inhaled and suddenly you’re in the fight of your life.
The Duality of Permit
That’s the beauty and the darkness of permit. Their unpredictability is what fuels the obsession—or causes mental and financial distress. Usually both, often simultaneously.
I consider myself a beginner in this world. Having put more clients on permit than I’ve personally landed has been the quiet bane of my existence. Some folks would hang it up after being rejected that many times. Not me. That’s permit fishing. You celebrate every single one.
My neurotic thoughts are a blip on the chart compared to my good friend, who in my honest opinion is one of the best permit fishermen alive. Which makes me laugh. Growing up he was a huge bass fisherman. Did the whole tournament thing too. I slowly introduced him to the Everglades, first putting him on his first redfish, which could be a whole story on its own. The redfish really piqued his interest, so the trips became more frequent. He was always a live bait guy, and I have always had a great distaste for it. One day I had him throwing artificial against his wishes. Well, three casts in, he hooked into and jumped a 100-plus-pound tarpon. After the fish jumped off, he stood in a semi-catatonic state, trying to comprehend how a fish that big ate a tiny artificial lure. Of course, me being a smartass, I rubbed it in his face by asking him “what were you using,” knowing damn well it was an artificial. He just grinned and went right back to casting.
After that day he launched himself into the world of backcountry and flats fishing. At our last conversation he was approaching 400 permit on fly. Not a typo. He has studied and fished for them more than most professional guides—and even with that many on the board, a rejection still hits him hard. The fish doesn’t care about your résumé. It never did.
Not an Honest Fish
That’s the thing about permit. You can’t study your way to certainty. You can learn their tendencies, read the flat, choose the right fly, make the right cast—and still come up empty. Then a cast that has no business working gets crushed, and you’re left wondering what you actually know. The answer, usually, is less than you thought.
Perfect, imperfect—it doesn’t matter to them. What matters is being present. Being there, on the flat, making the cast, staying in it when every rational part of your brain is telling you to find an easier fish.
Permit fishing isn’t the absence of frustration. Not by far. It’s understanding that sometimes the permit eats your fly and sometimes the fly eats you, and showing up anyway. You’ll still want to snap your rod over your knee when a fish you had perfectly positioned ghosts right through your presentation without so much as a glance. That feeling doesn’t go away. But something else grows alongside it—a stubborn, irrational, wonderful refusal to quit.
That’s what these fish do to people.
And someday—one will shock the hell out of you and eat when you least expected it. Not because you finally figured them out.
Because that’s just what permit do.
