Jeff Tyser experiences the full spectrum of emotions while chasing Indo-Pacific permit on Southern Oman’s remote beaches in the Ras Madrakah region.

“What the fuck am I even doing here?”

I can’t recall if the words actually left my mouth or simply crossed my mind. The nearest human was at least two kilometers down the beach, might as well have been a scream.

It was early December, four days into a permit pilgrimage to the hallowed beaches of Southern Oman. Reminiscing now, ensconced in the comfort of hindsight, day four had been a particularly good one. I was finally finding fish. Truckloads, by permit standards. My crab had been in the zone so many times that day, I’d long since lost count. At one point I even came across a whole shoal of the bastards, which toyed with my emotions for a good twenty minutes before somehow evaporating right before my eyes. Then there was the setting. Dubbed ‘The Badlands’ by Ray Montoya, a nod to those dramatic geological anomalies of South Dakota, it’s hard to imagine a more spectacular backdrop to a permit flat.Days like this are the stuff of fantasy. I should have been in my element. I should have been out there in the last hour of sunlight, feverishly hunting shadows and golden fins. But I wasn’t. I was sitting on a rock, high up the beach, knee-deep in an existential crisis. With 26-years of fly fishing behind me – including a successful trip to these very beaches a year earlier – I felt incapable of doing anything useful with a fly rod, let alone enough to fool the ocean’s most cynical inhabitant. As you may have guessed, I was yet to touch a permit.

By day five the sea was well and truly on its head.

It felt like our window of opportunity had been slammed shut by the 30-knot gales. Ben and I had arrived in Oman hoping to find the turquoise millpond that keeps popping up in Ray’s Instagram feed. We were now faced with the polar opposite.

In search of calmer seas, we continued south towards the quaint town of Shuwaymiyyah, yet despite more stable conditions we didn’t see a single permit. With time running out, we had to gamble, and made the call to return to the Ras Madrakah region. There was no doubt it was going to be incredibly tough to spot fish up there (let alone put a crab in front of one), but at least we knew they were around. In a way, I found these dwindling odds quite liberating. With only a few days left, I made a conscious effort to relax and embrace the experience for what it was.

Day 7

A change in attitude and a little perspective had put a spring back in my step. Then Ben, like a true asshole, pinned permit number five. At least he proved it could be done. I gave him the most insincere high-5 of my life, and began scanning the windswept surf with renewed intent.

The conditions were now forcing our hand. Instead of walking ten kilometers a day, we figured our best bet was to stake out the calmer gutters and holes, where visibility was slightly better. While staring intently into one such area, I was distracted by a commotion a little further up the beach. My brain was a bit slow on the uptake, but I eventually realised what I was looking at. A permit had literally beached itself, and was flapping about wildly on the wet sand. Ray had told us that they sometimes err in judgment like this. I couldn’t believe my eyes.

Seemingly undeterred, the fish slid back into the gutter on the next receding wave and continued on his merry, crab-hunting way. It just so happened that that way was straight towards me. Instinct took over. The big Alphlexo landed short, but this dude was on a mission. He was all over it in a flash. I set, and the water exploded as he turned for deeper water.

“Holy shit, this is happening!” (I was definitely screaming now.)

The fight was a blur, if I’m honest, as was the frantic, fumbling selfie session that followed. Only once he’d kicked off powerfully from my hand did I begin to fully appreciate what had happened. I’d forgotten just how sweet that rush is. As the serotonin began to flood my brain, I also realised just how badly I had needed it.

This is only a fraction of Jeff’s Southern-Oman story. Read the full version in issue 9. It’s free, but you can buy us a beer on Patreon.