Every group of anglers has that one friend: the flats junkie, the permit geek, the inland-born but tropically-oriented misfit who’s willing to fly thousands of miles for bonefish and tarpon. These are not your everyday anglers content to fish within state lines. They’re hopeless world travelers with up-to-date passports and an unstoppable desire to have them stamped in warm places.
In my fishing circle, Ben Weidemer fills that role. Ben has a barebones social media presence, so you never really know what he’s doing at any given moment. Sometimes we’ll go months without a word from him, and one day we’ll get a random text from him that just says, “Turks and Caicos,” with a hastily taken picture of a giant bonefish in the water. He lives in Virginia but travels regularly to the Florida Keys, Bahamas, and other equatorial destinations without a huge need to document or share his experiences.
Although my friends and I enjoy a few distinct flavors of Mid-Atlantic saltwater fly fishing, Ben is the motivating force behind some fairly aggressive international trips. These can be planned for months in advance or randomly dropped on us because of impossibly low airfare costs or a cancellation. To be friends with him is to be in a constant state of declining reasonable offers for tropical adventure.
The truth is that I’m fundamentally an introvert, and I love fishing in home waters by myself, so Ben’s invitations aren’t hugely tempting. But last year, I said yes for some reason. Maybe it had something to do with post-COVID America and having a greater appreciation for social activities. Maybe it had something to do with a friend’s sudden and unexpected death the previous year. Maybe I was just feeling older and like my time to do cool stuff was honestly running out.
But with an impossibly rare intersection of free time, available funds, and light expectations at work and home, an invitation from Ben came through, and I was able to really consider it. Did I want to exchange the rain and gloom of a Pacific Northwest February for sunshine and bonefish? And did I want to spend a few days with some old rugby teammates who were long overdue for a visit? Yes. Yes, I did.
So I sneaked off for 6 days to fish the shallow water flats surrounding San Pedro, Belize. I knew that Ben had an established program after 10 years of visiting the region, but what I didn’t know was just how accessible, affordable, and amazing a trip to Belize could be. All told, I spent around $2,000 for 4 full days of fishing, round-trip flights, baller accommodations, and all the beer and tacos that a guy could reasonably consume over 6 days in San Pedro (To learn how we pulled this off, check out Belize on a Budget, here).
About a week before the trip, our group chat reached its peak. We discussed rod selection, flies to bring, lens colors, and questions about fishing licenses as we packed and prepared for the trip. To further fuel the conversation, a few days before our arrival in Belize, the forecast called for 80-degree days, clear blue skies, and 30mph winds for the entirety of our trip. Naturally, wind and concerns about it became a topic of discussion.
A forecast like that is a tough hand to deal with on a fly-fishing destination trip, but there’s not much to do about it. Rescheduling wasn’t an option, and sometimes you just have to take it like a grown-up, pack your bags, board the plane, and see how hard it is to cast in a stiff breeze. After all, it couldn’t blow the whole time, could it?
The four of us were coming from different parts of the US: Seattle, New York, and various parts of Virginia, so our arrivals were staggered. I landed in Belize City on Tuesday afternoon, took the short flight over to San Pedro, and met Ben at the condo that evening. Our friends Brantley and Nader would arrive late the next day.
Ben and I caught up over dinner at the Truck Stop on our first night, a clever collection of food trucks, bars, and covered seating just north of downtown San Pedro. We both ordered beers and fish tacos: crisp, ice-cold Belikins, a local European lager, paired with grilled snapper and pineapple tacos alongside fried plantains. The tacos at The Truck Stop quickly became a staple of our trip.
As we ate, we devised a loose game plan for the week. Initially, we planned to fish independently on the eastern side of the island. However, with the wind blowing directly from the east, we anticipated challenges. Ben promptly emailed a few guides to explore booking trips for the week. Regardless, our morning plan was to scout his familiar spots. If conditions required a change, we’d consider the western side for potential shelter.
The following morning, we drove north on the main road in our golf cart. Ben maneuvered aggressively over bumps and potholes while I held onto our strung-up rods. After several miles, the road forked, and we turned right towards the eastern side of Ambergris Cay. What began as pavement transitioned to gravel and eventually degraded to a sandy path along the beach. Passing houses, small stores, bars, and restaurants, we attracted little attention as we drove by with our fly rods.
Back at the condo, we had felt the wind on our balcony and noticed palm trees swaying ominously. On the water’s edge, we experienced its full force. Driving north along the beach, we observed waves breaking over the reef, churning up the water closer to shore. Spotting fish and casting proved challenging, with little success in our attempts.
Ben, a former professional athlete, approaches fishing much like rugby. He reads the environment and adjusts accordingly. His casting technique is solid from consistent practice. Coachable and effective under pressure, he learns from mistakes. Standing at 6’6″, his height provides a unique advantage for sight-fishing on the flats.
The upside was that casting remained feasible despite the wind, albeit not elegantly. Unfortunately, the water conditions were unfavorable. Persisting on the east side of the island, we battled wind during our casts and searched for signs of feeding fish, yet the conditions weren’t conducive. At one point, we spotted the sickle tail of a small permit in the wash of waves just inches from the beach—one of the few fish sightings within close range.
Around 11 o’clock, we paused at a small restaurant for beers and breakfast burritos. Despite less-than-ideal conditions, it was difficult to feel disappointed while enjoying a dockside bar overlooking the Caribbean in mid-February.
“I’ve seen it perfectly calm here, with tails of permit and bonefish breaking the surface,” Ben remarked as the wind blew across the water, with clouds drifting by. “There are usually big tarpon lurking under the dock.”
Having completed our scouting mission on the east side, we decided to explore the western side of the island. Returning to our golf cart, we set off for Secret Beach.
After a brief drive, we parked and strolled past the bar, following the shoreline north past several vacant houses. The west side of the island offered noticeably more shelter from the wind. We hadn’t ventured more than 50 yards past the bar when Ben spotted bonefish in the shallow waters. I attempted a cast, but they spooked and retreated to deeper waters.
We didn’t have to walk much farther before finding another promising cove. On a whim, I cast into water that looked promising, and after a few strips, I hooked up with a small bonefish. Over the years, I’ve caught good-sized stripers, salmon, and steelhead, but the strength of this frisky 1lb bonefish was truly surprising. It made several strong runs, but I managed to bring it in on my 8-weight rod.
And just like that, we were on the scoreboard. No guides. No 80-foot casts. No super-selective fish. Just wet-wading along the shoreline and fishing as we would back home. I spotted deeper water with different features, including some grass that could conceal fish along an open, sandy edge. I made a cast and connected. Despite this being my first day of flats fishing, it felt as natural as picking apart pocket water in the mountains or working the edges of a farm pond for bass.
I kept fishing and landed a few more small bones while Ben scouted for tailing fish along the shorelines. The hard, easy-to-wade sand and ample grass in the cove provided ideal habitat for fish and their prey. At one point, I discovered a group of mangrove snapper holding in deeper water near a dock. They eagerly struck the fly after two or three strips and put up a spirited fight.
By mid-afternoon, with the other half of our group arriving in a few hours, we decided to call it a day and head back to the condo. As far as first days of fishing go, this experience far exceeded expectations, and we still had the bulk of the trip ahead of us.
Later that night, the four of us caught up over tacos and beers back at The Truck Stop. I opted for the birria tacos, Ben stuck with the grilled fish tacos again, while Nader and Brantley started with the chicken and avocado tacos.
“F!*k these are good,” Nader exclaimed.
Brantley was already halfway through his meal. “After a day of airport food, anything would taste good, but these are honestly solid.”
Although I had been in Belize for 24 hours already, it felt great to have all four of us together again. Years ago, we had all lived in Washington DC and played for a rugby club there, so we had spent a lot of time together between practices, games, and tours around the US. While our rugby playing days were mostly behind us, we still made a point to fish together whenever possible. Initially, this meant fishing our home waters in the Chesapeake Bay for redfish or stripers. However, as we had grown older and moved to different parts of the country, our fishing trips had expanded in scope.
As Brantley and Nader ate, Ben brought them up to speed.
“With this wind, the fishing on the east side of the island is pretty much blown out, so we’ll need to focus on the west side. Gaba and I scouted it out today and found some fish. We can wade some spots there for small bonefish if we want. I’m keen on targeting permit, and I know Brantley is too. I reached out to a few local guides this afternoon and found some available for this week. Their rates are reasonable, and they’ve been spotting permit on the flats with some baby tarpon deep in the mangroves. We can fish as much as we want with the guides, or we can mix it up with some DIY fishing around the island. It’s totally up to you.”
So we discussed our preferences over another round of beers at the table. Ben and Brantley wanted to focus on permit, so they each booked their own guides. Nader and I were content to fish for bonefish and tarpon, so we split a guide for two days, with another day reserved for DIY fishing.
The silver lining to the windy conditions and booking guides was that we would experience a much more diverse fishery than originally planned. We had come all the way to Belize; for a couple of hundred bucks more, we could explore even further, gaining access to different waters, different fish species, and local expertise.
As much as I enjoyed exploring and finding fish on our own, heading out in our guide’s boat the next day was an undeniable thrill. With our bags and rods loaded, Nader and I departed south from the dock at Secret Beach to the flats around Cangrejo Cay with our guide, Eduardo Ortega. The wind was still blowing up to 20 mph, but the skies were clear, and the sun was shining, which made spotting fish easier.
Eduardo was a quiet man but a clear communicator about what we could expect. We would navigate around the sheltered sides of small islands and shorelines in search of bonefish, and later in the afternoon, we planned to explore the mangroves as the tide rose to hunt for baby tarpon.
After a short boat ride, Eduardo stopped on the west side of an island and cut the motor. Before climbing onto the poling platform, he inspected our flies and leaders and made only one change: he removed the front rubber legs from my fly but kept the back portions. It seemed Belizean bonefish preferred subtlety over action.
As Eduardo quietly poled the boat closer to shore, we scanned the clear water for signs of fish. Initially, we only spotted indentations in the sand where fish had rooted around for worms and tiny crabs. Soon, a group of fish casually cruising in shallow water came into view. Nader took the bow first, stripped some line off his reel, and made a precise cast above the fish.
“Pause. Strip. He’s interested. Strip. Strip fast. He’s moving,” Eduardo coached from the stern.
Nader’s line tightened, and the fish darted off, scattering the school around it. The fish made several strong runs before Nader brought it to hand. I couldn’t help but notice with mixed feelings that it was about a pound larger than the bonefish I had caught the previous day.
That set the tone for the first part of our day. Nader and I took turns fishing, each landing fish weighing between two to three pounds. As the day progressed, we improved at spotting the subtle movements of fish in the water. Sometimes it was an obvious shadow on the sandy bottom, but more often, it was a faint shimmer just below the water’s surface at the edge of the sun’s glare.
My best fish of the trip came with Eduardo that day—a good-sized bonefish cruising about sixty feet off our bow. Several factors were against me: the wind affecting my cast, the boat drifting towards the fish, and the fish swimming away from us. Despite these challenges, I managed to make the right cast. The fly landed in the fish’s path, and we all watched as it committed to the fly without hesitation.
Unlike the smaller bonefish from the previous day, this one took off, peeling a significant amount of line off my reel and even getting into my backing. I worried it might head for the nearby mangroves and break me off in their roots, but fortunately, it stayed in open water, allowing me to bring it to hand. It was a spectacular fish: easily weighing 4 pounds, pure silver, and full of power.
After more than a decade of traveling and fishing saltwater flats, Ben has evolved into a specialist in catching permit. It’s not that bonefish and tarpon aren’t interesting or enjoyable, but the intense challenge of landing a permit has truly captivated him. While Nader and I enjoyed catching cooperative bonefish, Ben and Brantley were experiencing similar success targeting permit with their respective guides.
Ben fished the waters around Ambergris Cay with his guide, Darryl Smith, while Brantley ventured farther north, near the Mexican border close to Bacalar Chico National Park. Each of their boats was equipped with a senior guide on the poling platform, scanning for signs of fish from a higher vantage point. A junior guide stayed close to the angler, providing additional direction and assisting with managing the fly line on the casting deck. Depending on the location or the behavior of the fish, sometimes the angler would disembark and wade the flats with the junior guide, while the senior guide remained on the boat to spot fish from the poling platform.
As Ben and Brantley described it over drinks, their experience sounded more akin to hunting than fishing, involving a lot of waiting and watching until the perfect moment arrived to cast a small crab pattern. It was challenging fishing, but most of the time, if they could get the fly in front of a fish, it would strike. Perhaps the wind made the fish less skittish, but overall, Brantley landed three permit over his four days of fishing, while Ben caught four, including his largest to date.
After a couple of days in San Pedro, we settled into a routine. We returned to The Truck Stop for a third night of beer and tacos, and the energy around the table that evening might have been the high point of the trip. All four of us had caught fish that day, some more easily than others, and there was a palpable satisfaction in celebrating our initial successes while knowing we still had a few days ahead of us.
The next two days flew by as our routine became almost ritualistic. We would wake up and check if the wind had calmed, then enjoy breakfast burritos on the balcony. After that, we’d load up the golf cart and make the short trip to Secret Beach, where we either met our guides or waded the shorelines in search of small bonefish. Ben attempted his east-side spots a few more times, but the persistent wind refused to let up.
We consistently found fish north of Secret Beach, though I never encountered the school of mangrove snapper again. Around 3 pm, the boats would return to dock, and we’d gather at the beach-front bar for a few drinks, discussing the day’s adventures before heading back to shower and have dinner. By sundown, we’d be back in the condo, sometimes tying a few flies before bed.
Our final day with the guides proved to be the toughest of the trip. The fish were scattered, and our opportunities came swiftly, often resulting in missed shots due to their skittish behavior. Throughout the trip, we had spotted large barracudas lurking in various spots. To pass the time, our guide tossed a big rapala at one of them, and it responded with a ferocious take that I’ll never forget. He handed the spinning rod to Nader, who valiantly fought the barracuda, albeit somewhat sheepishly.
After lunch, we ventured into one of the northern lagoons in search of baby tarpon. We found them in abundance circling a small island, but despite our efforts, none of them took the fly. Poling deep into the mangroves in search of them was a fascinating experience. Some were nestled in small pools within the mangroves where only a roll cast was possible, while others were tightly packed around islands in large schools.
Later that afternoon, we worked the open waters of a protected lagoon where a wary school of permit swam. The wind likely hindered our positioning, and it seemed they were always just beyond casting distance. It became a delicate game of cat and mouse between our guides and the fish for several hours. Nader and I took turns on the bow, eyes peeled, poised to make a precise cast. Finally, around 2 pm, everything aligned, and I took my shot. Unfortunately, my line tangled around my guides, causing the cast to fall short, and we lost our opportunity as the fish darted off into deeper waters.
It was a sizable permit, easily weighing 15 or 20 pounds, and the guides were understandably disappointed that we missed our chance after spending so much time tracking it. Soon after, we headed back to the dock. Despite this setback, I was still euphoric from the numerous catches over the previous three days. I had landed numerous bonefish independently and with guides, which was a tremendous experience in itself. However, missing a shot at a big permit is apparently part of the true flats fishing experience, so I can now check that off the list of things flats anglers should expect to encounter.
In terms of story arcs, aside from contending with the wind and a few missed opportunities, there wasn’t much conflict or drama. We all packed our bags and traveled to Belize, each of us setting out in search of fish and finding them despite less-than-ideal conditions. Our DIY days were fulfilling and productive, while our guided days were exciting and memorable. In art, building suspense is crucial for sustaining a story, but in life, sometimes it’s refreshing to simply pursue and achieve what you set out to do. That’s Belize for you.
The excitement of our trip wasn’t akin to the hype of spring break beer commercials, even after some incredible catches and successes. Perhaps we’ve all outgrown that kind of exuberance, but what replaced it was a quieter, more relaxed midlife joy—a far cry from the wild, booze-fueled debauchery of our rugby days, yet undeniably authentic.
I suppose that’s the natural evolution of friendships and fishing trips over time. A shared love for rugby and fly fishing brought us together in our 20s and 30s, and now in later years, we leave the rowdiness behind in exchange for something different. Maybe it’s mature focus or the ability to enjoy a trip and the activities we share without needing excess.
Belize seemed to epitomize that midlife shift with its laid-back atmosphere and lack of drama. I expected the sandy beaches, palm trees, crystal-clear waters, and pleasant Caribbean weather. What surprised me was the ease of travel, the straightforward access to fishable flats, the exhilarating fight of a one-pound bonefish, and how affordable such an adventure could be.
The only regrets I have from the trip are that we didn’t capture a single picture of all four of us together and that I never tried the spicy pork tacos at The Truck Stop. I departed San Pedro early the next day before the guys woke up for their final day of fishing. I had acquired a serious Chaco tan on my feet that would endure through September, and a strong desire to return lingered in my thoughts.
Angler story by Brett Gaba, be sure to follow Brett on Instagram at @originalgaba.
