Caught between worlds – that of heathens and clowns, and any puritanical fly-only instincts he might have once held – LeRoy Botha had to make a call. What’s a soul worth anyway? Photos: Dougie Engelke, LeRoy Botha. As featured in The Mission Issue 48 (Nov/Dec 2024).

Have you ever imagined fishing on Mars? The Red Planet as it was millions of years ago when it still had oceans… Can you see it? The sky was platinum-white with splashes of green and gold and violet; the sun and its aura pierced and painted the thick atmosphere with swashes of burning silver and peach and red, all in shades not yet named and impossible to describe. Across the horizon the sky blended into a sea of mercury and turquoise, so vibrant as if someone had turned the saturation dial to 11. It was either Mars or heaven. It was not the sea that I knew.

Dancing in the distance, in the blending zone between ocean and sky, was a flock of terns. I squinted to make sure I was reading them correctly, and informed the skipper. He didn’t hesitate. The boat turned sharply to port, and we flew for the horizon.

The skipper, Dougie, and I have been mates for a while. We’ve had endless discussions about fly fishing, music, life and death, but it’s rare for us to fish together. Like most of my friends, Dougie knows that I’d give my left nut to catch a yellowtail on fly. Sadly, I can’t get it back from the previous person I gave it to and would rather prefer to keep the one I have left. So, it was a most fantastic thing when Dougie called to say that the ’tail were firing off Brů’lsyxtrar, which is of course on Mars, and that all I needed to do was grab some flies and a rod and get to his place pronto. He’d do the rest. That’s nuts. I obliged.

To say that Dougie is an accomplished fisher is an understatement. In recent years, he took to fly fishing, but it wasn’t the come-to-Jesus moment it is for some. Fly fishing was added to his arsenal of methods, and, like at least one other great friend of mine, he uses it either when the stakes aren’t all that high, or when they are super-high and the situation demands it. To be fair, he relishes both those opportunities.

In the case of this trip, however, it was essential that we caught fish. We needed to catch a quota, and my own fly fishing ambitions couldn’t get in the way of that. A freezer with a small stack of yellowtail can save a lot of grocery shopping, which is the only real way for peasants like us to justify making the trip. So, excuse me, fellow catch-and-release fly fisher, when I say that my first yellowtail ever made me feel like I’d whored out my soul.

Clowns

We’d launched later than we wanted to – 9am, not 6am – and then raced penguins and seals out to sea. We found a gathering of other fishing boats and went in for a look. Unfortunately, we couldn’t have known that many of them were clowns. We wondered how they found the fish in the first place: It was maddening to realise that soon enough we were not only one of few boats catching fish, but the only one intently working with the birds. And when the other boats cottoned on, they’d simply wait for us to find the action, then race us there when we found it.

“I stood on deck with my fly rod in hand, but the clowns made it clear that I’d never get close enough for a shot.”

The problem was that you needed to approach the birds with care and in a very particular way, or they would beat a retreat along with the fish they were shadowing. Therefore, most of the fish we found were spooked by clowns. There was a particularly moronic fool with a rubber duck, who would wait for us to find a school of fish, before racing in and purposefully thundering straight through the school in order to balls it up for us. Keeping your cool when it goes like that is not easy, but Dougie took literal pains to emphasise the importance of doing so. There really are some jerks out there.

My first ever yellowtail was an emotional challenge, too. Initially, I stood on deck with my fly rod in hand, but the clowns made it clear that I’d never get close enough for a shot before they shat on it. I’d watched Dougie catch three beautiful fish. He said it straight: “I know it’s difficult, but grab a spinning rod, take your shot and enjoy it for what it is, man. There’s not much we can do.” It was indeed difficult, but I picked up a rod rigged with a Shimano Stradic 5000 reel and a stick bait (a heavy swimming lure, not actual bait or even a stick), and took a shot at the next school.

Here was my immediate reaction, not said out loud, upon landing my first ever yellowtail, notwithstanding the fact that it put up a ridiculous fight for something its size: “My first yellowtail is a rat, foul-hooked in the top of the head while using a spinning rod. Hilarious.”

Actors

I think Dougie could see that I felt some stupid way, and chose words that in the next few hours would slowly sink in. I’d boated three yellowtail of my own by the time the clown boats realised how futile both their fishing and sabotage efforts were, and one by one they headed back to land. Of course, we’d also encountered guys who came too close out of pure naive bubbliness, and who couldn’t help but strike up an overly friendly chat in an effort to find out “what they’re biting on”. I mean. It’s hard to be mad at friendly dorks like that.

And then there were one or two others who played like pros and got fish. By late afternoon, we were practically alone on the water, and I’d given in to thoroughly enjoying myself. Pound for pound, I became convinced, these were the strongest fish I’d ever caught. It was great.

Coincidentally, I found, pound for pound, that the false jacopever taken on jigs during quieter moments were the weakest fish I’d ever caught. I momentarily considered trying for one on fly, but besides their decidedly Martian looks, they more or less exactly failed to impress in every possible way. We quit hassling them.

Eventually, the terns dispersed and the fish seemed to disappear as the wind started picking up. Now, with no other boats in sight, we wondered if indeed the clowns knew what we didn’t, which was that late afternoon was a waste of time. “Of course not! Hell. Obviously their wives expect them home by five.” We reluctantly started our way back to the harbour. All day, the very atmosphere of the place struck me as strange, compared to the sea off Mossel Bay back on Earth, where most of my inshore and offshore fishing had been done in the past.

But by now, the visuals were stranger, stronger, more beautiful and more moving than any I’d ever seen or attempted to induce with psychedelics in my distant past. As we headed north, I couldn’t tear my eyes from the vision to the west. In the very centre of it all, a large flock of terns began the hustle.  

Earlier, we’d stopped chasing them because it blew our game every time, and our last few fish before the quiet hour were taken by simply sitting easy and waiting for fish to show up near us. We’d pin-pointed the heart of the feeding zone, and in the process we noticed that the yellowtail were accompanied by large Atlantic bonito. We noticed because Dougie caught two of them. Neither species got close enough to throw a fly, though.

Kings

When we saw those birds on the horizon, we silently but surely agreed that we couldn’t ignore them. Dougie turned the boat. It would be just us and the terns. When we reached them in the warm light of the Martian sunset, we could tell that we’d made the right move. Another boat appeared out of nowhere and approached, but they turned out to be one of the friendly ones. In fact, it appeared almost as though they were following simply to watch us fish, and kept a respectable distance so as to not disturb our game plan.

Now, the game plan, may I just say, was lush. A quintessential example of high quality analytical, maximum-effort teamwork, but to tell you all the details would perhaps be a tad premature, if not downright undoable. I can tell you that the way the terns look at you, almost smile at you as they bless your effort, truly is a thing to behold. Once in position, Dougie and I threw our stick baits, and two turns of the reel handle later the water exploded around mine. We both went tight. I could instantly tell that the fish I’d hooked was something special, as I had already upgraded my first fish substantially, size-wise. This one was on its own level. Our battle was legendary. Upon landing it, cheers erupted on the spectator boat and ours. It was a fine fish for Mars.

“I had long questioned the notion that fly fishing stands on some higher moral ground than other forms of fishing.”

Out of breath and high as a kite, I relented, “This is real, Dougie. Holy shit. I’m struck.” I had long questioned the notion that fly fishing stands on some higher moral ground than other forms of fishing. In this moment I told myself it was all horseshit, that we’re all full of it, and that everything would be OK.

We waited for the birds to line up our next move, and repeated the procedure. We pitched our lures and both of us hooked up in no time. This time, however, the school came to within fly-casting range as we fought our fish. I almost threw up. Turns out it would not be OK. I held out, we boated our fish and then I told Dougie: “Go again,” I pointed at the birds, a small group of which were doing the required behaviour, so to speak, “but if I don’t do this round with a fly, I’ll never forgive myself.”

“Dougie turned the boat. It would be just us and the terns.”

I stashed the spinning rod, grabbed my 9-weight and hopped onto the casting deck. Earlier in the day, while both of us were fighting fish, Dougie laughed his ass off as I manoeuvred myself around the boat in the style of Emily Rose working a staircase. At that point, any previous experience I had on boats was about as easily spotted as a leopard hiding in the undergrowth. I was, undeniably, rusty as hell, but it was all in an effort to not get hooked by the myriad lures pointing out from rigged spinning gear in rod holders, not fall overboard and to not allow my fish to tangle up with Dougie’s one.

But now with my fly rod in hand I rode that casting deck, surfing over the waves like a man with the sea legs of Captain Teach, and felt as steady and confident as I simply couldn’t earlier on. I stripped a cast off the reel as we moved into position. The terns winked and smiled, and I clutched my fly as we waited for them to signal the yellowtail’s presence. I’d take my shot as soon as they were close enough. You could say it went down without a hitch. I sent the fly, by luck and determination, as well as I could. It landed true, and three or four strips in, a fish ate it. I strip-set and leaned in.

Dougie hooked up, too, and immediately we could tell that his fish was another big bonito. We could tell because it almost launched itself into orbit when it attacked his lure. As my fish sped off, ripping into the backing, I tightened the drag as much as I dared and quietly prayed, “Sure, I’ve caught bonito. If this is another one, it’s proper and I swear I’ll be happy.”

It wasn’t a bonito. Another unforgettable dogfight later, we boated my yellowtail on fly. Dougie gripped me for a bro hug as we yelled hallowed expletives of pure victory. We’d done it. The spectator boat cheered and applauded. And because of a clean hook-up, quick photo session and an already filled quota, I could release my fish. We were stoked to watch it swim away strong.

The strange atmosphere on Mars lulled us into a state of bemused wonder, and we could tell that Whoever governs this place was smiling upon us. For a few more minutes we watched the terns, and as they turned and smiled, signalling another round, we turned towards land instead. One bird came right up to us repeatedly throughout the late session. This last time, as he flew low overhead and looked down at me, I said, “Thanks for the help, bud. Pass it on.”

I wished I could take a picture of the brazen young tern. Then again, often when you take a photograph of something, the still picture becomes the memory, replacing the recollection of the moment itself. So, maybe it’s a good thing my phone’s battery was pushing daisies and that Dougie was occupied handling the boat. We’d planned to do two days of fishing but having done what we just did in such fine style, we called it off. The spectator boat followed us in; it was just about dark. On shore, one of them ran us down to enquire, “Hey, guys! What did you catch that last yellowtail on?”

“Fly, brother!”

“Yoh, I could see you were pulling that line all like this,” he shook his head and laughed as he gestured a fly cast and a line-stripping hand, “No ways. Well done, guys.” He snapped his fingers and disappeared. Not really, but it would have been apt as hell if he did. Not even a friendly dork. Just a friendly dude. Not mad. What a day. We were back at Dougie’s house by 3am.

This story first appeared in The Mission Issue 48 (Nov/Dec 2024). You can read the whole mag below for free, forever.

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