Tales of World-Record Giant Tarpon

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EDITOR’S NOTE: Jim Holland's tarpon beats Brian O'Keefe's 187.6-pound fish (20-pound-class record) taken at Sherbrot Island, Sierra Leone, April 9, 1992. Billy Pate's 188-lb. tarpon caught at Homossassa, Florida, on May 13 remains the 16-pound-class record.

This article was originally published in the December 2001 issue of Fly Fisherman.

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My first memories of growing up are of fishing and hunting with Gary Loomis, founder of G Loomis Rod Company, and my father. I first traveled to Alaska in pursuit of king and silver salmon at the age of eight. On that trip, I boated my first salmon, a 45-pound king, the only fish of the entire boat in five days of fishing. To this day I can still hear Gary and my father yelling to me while I played the fish, "Only once around the boat, Jimmy, or we'll cut your line." Of course, I doubt they really meant it, but I took them at their word, forcing the salmon to the beach without a second circle around the boat.

After leaving the Kenai, I began learning the ways of fly fishing by catching sockeye and hefty rainbows in Alaska. I transferred those skills to the trout streams and lakes of the West, fishing alongside anglers like Stu Apte, world champion fly caster Steve Rajeff, Gary Loomis, Tom White, and Air Force Brig. Gen. Chuck Yeager. I learned my fly fishing from these men.

In 1996 I transferred my acquired skills to the tarpon flats of the Florida Keys. That year, my father succumbed to a tarpon addiction that he had resisted for decades. His enthusiasm infected me. For the next three years I honed my saltwater skills in Islamorada, Key West, Ascension Bay, the Bahamas, and Belize, spending close to a month on the flats each year.

In 2000 the giant-tarpon fever grabbed me. That year, Stu Apte introduced my father and me to Homosassa tarpon guide Capt. Steve Kilpatrick. Kilpatrick said that he had no open dates that year, but that he might have a cancellation several years down the road. Fortunately, veteran guide Ted Johnston volunteered to guide us for a week, during which we experienced some of Homosassa's best tarpon fishing, jumping 16 tarpon in five days and landing one over 150 pounds.

When he heard of our success, Kilpatrick found an opening in his book for May 2001, and on May 6 we arrived at Kilpatrick's 'poon camp, weary from over 2,000 miles of traveling but too excited to sleep.

The next day was disappointing. The wind gusted from the northeast at more than 20 knots, and we only had a few quick shots at fish. I had one large tarpon eat the fly coming directly at me, a terrible hooking angle, and despite my feverish stripping, I could not come tight. The next day provided few fish and fewer shots, but Dad saved the day by hooking and landing a 150-plus-pound tarpon.

For the next three days we barely saw a tarpon, much less cast to one. The wind blasted from the northeast at over 20 knots; the visibility remained at zero; and the fishing did not improve.

On day five we saw not a single fish. That night, perhaps sensing my disappointment in the lack of action, Kilpatrick sat down at the tying vise and tied the most gorgeous tarpon fly I had ever seen–a black, white, and red deer-hair Slider, tied on a 5/0 Owner hook.

On day six I rose at dawn. The morning felt different; the air was warmer and more stable than it had been over the past five days, and although it was not the hot, humid, tarpon weather we had hoped for, things looked promising if the visibility held.

Unfortunately, luck spit in our eye. Great white cumulus clouds rose in the sky, reflecting off the water's surface and hampering visibility. Then the wind dropped, turning the surface into a solid mirror of white. It was too cool for the tarpon to roll actively on the surface, and there was too much glare to see them under the water. Our chances were slim.

For the first three hours we saw no fish, although occasionally an angler threw a prayer shot at a school of tarpon just under the bow of his boat. Then the stars began to align.

Kilpatrick spotted a large, happy school of rolling fish a half-mile away, and we could see guide Al Doperick poling on the fish. Doperick's angler, Tom Evans, made a textbook presentation, but the school rejected the offering and the fish continued in our direction.

We poled on the fish, their broad bronze backs glistening as they rose from liquid silence into the morning sun, then silently slipped back again. There appeared to be no small fish in the group.

I could feel my heartbeat, and I prepared myself mentally. "This is it, game time, what you've been waiting and training for. Calm yourself, they're just fish; big damn fish, but only fish. No room for fear, hesitation, or doubt. Do not hold anything back on the cast. Get it in them. Show them the fly. Line speed. Load the rod. Don't drop the tip. Keep the pace slow, don't rush it. Be patient, be deliberate, be precise."

Then Steve shouted, "Now, Jim! Take the fish floating on the surface! Drag it right past his nose!" I cast and delivered the fly 6 inches past the fish and about 2 feet in front of it.

I stripped the fly across the tarpon's nose, and in front of six or seven others. No take. "Impossible," I thought, "These are tarpon, and happy tarpon at that. They should eat."

I watched helplessly as the large school swam under our bow, each fish rejecting my beautiful breakfast offering. And then they disappeared.

It felt like a bad dream, the one in which you move in slow motion and everyone else moves at full speed. I felt cheated. It wasn't fair, standing on the bow for six days, waiting for one perfect shot, only to be sent home with a rejection. But fishing isn't about fairness, or deserving, or ego, or records. It's about the fish, about unobtrusively spending a small time in a wild place where humans don't belong, playing tug-of-war with some of God's greatest creatures.

Fishing rewards the eternal optimists who believe in their hearts that "the next fish will eat my fly." Fish Karma is the embodiment of this spirit-the ability to transfer the love of the sport, the respect for the fish, and your skill down through your hands, past the rod tip, down the fly line, and into the fly. Other athletes call it "the zone," but whatever the name, it's about a state of mind.

I shook off the rejection, more determined than ever to trick one of those prehistoric silver kings.

"Let's change flies," Steve shouted.

Steve picked the slider, the fly that he spent the previous night teaching me to tie; I attached the floating fly to the Cortland Tropic Plus Ghost Tip line with a clear, intermediate tip. The presentation would pull the fly downward in a diving action when I stripped.

Steve relocated the school, this time far ahead of us, and we made a wide circle to intercept it without spooking the fish. When we had position, I told myself to calm down.

As the black mass of the school closed to within 120 feet of the boat, I began my cast. When the fish reached about 90 feet, I fired, aiming my 9-foot, 12-weight Loomis GLX for the lead of the school. I can't say that I purposely picked the largest fish and cast to it. I could not see the fish clearly, so I aimed for the first big black back and fired at it. Luckily, my shot was accurate and landed on target.

"Good cast," my father whispered. "You're in them!" Steve said.

On the third strip, the lead fish charged from the pack, flashed on the fly, and turned. I continued stripping until my hand stopped abruptly. I set the hook.

The next thirty seconds of chaos was a blur, as the line hissed off the floor of the boat and the fish came tight to my Gulfstream reel. I struck her several more times, and, feeling the sting of steel, the fish launched herself halfway out of the water.

It jumped a second time, again directly away from us, and although we knew it looked big, we couldn't see its girth nor could we gauge how big it was. Not knowing its size was the greatest luck of all. It enabled me to remain calm and to settle into a good fighting rhythm. It allowed me to pressure the tarpon as hard as I would any other without worrying about losing a world record. We closed the distance between the boat and the fish using the electric motors. If we could get the fish on the fly line, I could start sticking it.

The fish would have none of it. It took line at will, repeatedly going deep into the backing. I have fought many large tarpon, and can whip them quickly, but this fish just would not budge. Finally, I regained the fly line and pulled strongly, causing the fish to roll frequently. And with each roll, our estimate of its weight climbed. After an hour we estimated the fish at between 160 and 165 pounds.

I finally worked the tarpon to within about 30 feet of the boat, where she laid on bottom, and, despite the 12 to 15 pounds of pressure on the rod, remained dead weight. I wondered if she had chained herself there. Then, suddenly she made a blistering run. A large, hungry bull shark appeared and threatened to eat my prize fish.

Steve started the engine, closed to within 10 feet of the tarpon, and revved the engine. It worked; the shark swam away.

When we killed the engine, the fish resumed its position on bottom and I lifted once more. The amount of pressure it takes to lift a fish of that size off of the bottom is indescribable. Had I not pushed the break strength of the tippet, I would not have landed the fish.

Every tarpon you hook comes with an invisible timer, and you never know when its time is up. You know the time has expired when the fish breaks you off, the hook pulls, a knot slips, the rod breaks, a shark eats the fish, or any of a thousand other possible reasons ranging from angler error to tackle failure.

You must fight tarpon hard. It minimizes the chances of things going wrong or breaking under prolonged stress. Pushing fish hard puts less stress on them and your releases can survive to fight another day. And closing quickly on a fish (to within 50 to 80 feet) and pressuring them breaks the fish's spirit to fight, a necessity to defeat giant tarpon. If you let a big fish catch its breath and get its tail wagging in a steady rhythm, you are in trouble.

There I am, fish chained to the bottom 40 feet away with sweat running off my nose. I finally feel the fish move a few inches and I reel down and lift, this time pulling slightly harder and in a different direction. I gain inches.

Gradually I bring the giant fish to the surface, where I finally get a good look at it. Again, we change our estimate, now to between 165 and 170 pounds: No record, but a fine fish. I begin the last and most crucial portion of the fight, bringing the tarpon to hand.

It's easy to get greedy at this point, when you're physically and mentally tired and all you can think about is how badly you want the fish in the boat. But good tarpon anglers always remember to relax and be patient, not lightening up on the pressure, but continuing to do exactly what is necessary to get the fish close.

I patiently drew the fish closer to the boat, the tension mounting with each inch of closure. As the bigger-than-life silver slab lay sideways to us in the water, Steve reached down, grabbed the shock tippet, and lip-gaffed the tarpon.

I instantly gave slack. Steve is 6 foot 4 inches and over 240 pounds, and he's experienced with gaffing large tarpon, but when he tried to drag the fish up onto the gunwale of the boat to tape it, all he could lift was its head.

"Jim, give me some help here!" he shouted. I dropped the rod, grabbed the fish behind the gillplate, and together we hauled the giant halfway out of the water. When the tarpon's belly spread across the gunwale, my jaw dropped. I had never seen a tarpon's belly do that. The tape showed a 47-inch girth, and then we slid the fish into the boat to determine its length.

My father grabbed the calculator and punched in the equation: girth squared times the length, divided by 800. Two hundred and six flashed on the screen, and you could hear a pin drop as we all stared at each other.

We sprang into action, removing the fly from the tarpon's mouth, carefully stowing the rod, trying to locate a certified scale, covering the fish with wet towels, and tagging it. Then we raced for the dock.

At the dock we stripped guide Dan Malzone's truck looking for his certified scale. "Found it! Back in the truck! Go! Go!" Off we shot, truck, trailer, boat, and fish, sailing over the pavement, rounding corners on two wheels, babbling like schoolchildren–too giddy to make coherent sentences.

When we reached camp we dragged the tarpon from the boat, found the nearest tree, tied a rope to the scale, and attempted to haul the tarpon and scale into the air. But the weight of the fish bit the line into the tree, forcing us to rethink how to haul 200 pounds into the air on a tree limb.

Finally, we moved the rental car under the limb and we three lifted the tarpon onto the hood of the rental car. Then, standing on the hood, I hooked the scale in its lip, grabbed the gillplates, and lifted it as high as I could while my dad and Steve pulled on the rope. After we raised the fish halfway off the car hood, Steve tied the rope off and I backed the car out from under the fish.

It worked, and with the giant finally suspended, we looked at the scale–202.5 pounds!

"Oh my God, we just made history!" Within the hour, cars crowded the driveway as fisherman gaped at the potential world-record tarpon. That started an evening of celebration I hope to never forget. Beer, wine, whisky, rum, fish stories, guides, anglers, and well-wishers burst from the seams of the little 'poon camp. We captured the Holy Grail, and I am forever grateful.

Jim Holland was a law student at Willamette University in Salem, Oregon at the time he wrote this.

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