A week in Spanish wells

A secluded beach located on Eleuthera, prime location to find many fish, including bonefish!

Spanish Wells—an island nestled on the northern edge of Eleuthera, in the heart of the Bahamas—feels as if it were plucked from a page of a fisherman’s dream. The winds drift from the Atlantic, and the water, a luminous blend of turquoise and emerald, stretches out endlessly, welcoming the tides in their rhythm. Here, time seems to slow, much like the pulse of the island itself. This sleepy fishing village, built on the backbone of the spiny lobster industry, is at a crossroads. Though the sport fishing economy is beginning to grow with the steady rise of tourism, the air remains unchanged—filled with the scent of salt and the promise of adventure. The Pinders, the Higgs—families with names that echo the island’s history—carry their traditions forward, but the world around them is transforming, albeit slowly, like the soft sunrise that greets the sleepy streets of Spanish Wells each morning.

I landed in the Bahamas after a journey that, if anything, reflected the very essence of adventure. The flight from Toronto to Nassau tested my patience, with delays and lost luggage that could’ve dampened the spirit of any would-be traveler. But not this time. The thought of the flats and the bonefish waiting out there—their fins slicing through the shallows with a kind of elegance I’d only read about—kept me going. After a short hop aboard an old, rattling twin-engine puddle jumper—one of those planes that you can’t help but feel a fondness for, the kind that shakes and hums as if it’s in on the joke—I finally caught sight of Eleuthera’s coast. Below, the land was a patchwork of greens and sandy browns, punctuated by homes painted in vibrant pastel hues that seemed to be holding on to the last remnants of a more innocent time.

The simplest of airports. It gets the job done!

Landing at Eleuthera’s quaint airport was like stepping into another world. No glossy terminals or sterile waiting areas—just a quiet strip of runway, a quaint terminal, pair of sun-bleached trailers, and the remnants of the past in the form of a weathered fire truck standing guard. It was exactly as it should be—humble, unassuming, timeless. A local, a man with the same last name as so many who call this island home—Pinder—met me at the gate, and our journey to the dock began. The roads were narrow, but they were full of life. Villages passed by, their charm enhanced by colourful homes that stood like sentinels against the backdrop of green forest and the vast sky. Fishermen and tradesman tied their boats along the shore, waiting for clients or an order of material to take to their small island.

The docks in Spanish Wells were no different—simple, functional, and alive with the sound of life. There, I met Mike Fitzgerald, an old acquaintance whose name was becoming as familiar as the bones we were about to chase. Mike had lived for this—had tasted the waters and learned their secrets over multiple trips, and he was as eager as I was to see what these famous flats would reveal. After a brief exchange and a quick ride in his golf cart—Spanish Wells’ own form of island transport—we made our way to the rental cottage. It was everything I’d imagined. Quaint, simple, and perfectly aligned with the pastel hues that dominated the village. Fly rods were already strung up, waiting for the day's adventure, and it didn’t take long for me to join them, rod in hand, ready for the week ahead. The night was spent in quiet camaraderie, the clink of cold Kalik beers offering a gentle punctuation to a perfect evening. I knew, then, this would be a week to remember.

Fishing the Flats

The first day began before the sun had fully emerged from its slumber. We set out to the flats at 6:30 a.m., the low tide offering the perfect conditions for bonefish. The flats themselves felt like a different world, teeming with life. Rays, sharks, turtles and countless other creatures moved beneath the water’s surface, their shapes casting shadows in the shallows. Mike’s eyes, had become sharp over the previous 3 weeks, he caught the first glimpses of bonefish tails—those delicate fins breaking the surface in rhythm with the water. My heart raced, but my vision—my ability to pick out those elusive shapes—wasn’t quite there yet. At first, the water seemed a blur, the movements too subtle to notice. But after an hour, the pieces started to click. Slowly, I began to spot them: the bonefish, tailing in the shallows, their movements graceful, almost otherworldly.

The morning stretched on with highs and lows. The flats were alive, and we were walking them in search of fish, each step taking us closer to a shot, closer to a connection. But for me, frustration also loomed. I had a series of missed opportunities, each one more disheartening than the last. At one point, a nearby offshore fishing boat—a larger vessel with imposing engines—passed us, and the captain, with a voice louder than needed, called out to his guests: “Look at all the bones around that guy!” The words rang in my ears. This was it—my moment, my chance—but the pressure was unbearable. I made a cast, the school of bonefish scattered, and I knew then that I had failed. The captain’s voice echoed over the water. “Oh man, that guy sucks.” The words stung, as he pushed the throttles down, a reminder that sometimes we’re our own worst enemy.

Spanish Wells is surrounded by prime locations. From turtle grass flats to white and pink sand beaches. There is always somewhere new to go explore.

But Mike, ever patient, kept me focused. He continued to help me, laugh with me and offering encouragement even when I faltered. By midday it happened, I’d hooked my first two smaller bonefish—small victories, yes, but victories nonetheless. The thrill of landing that first bonefish on a bright spawning shrimp pattern over deeper water is a memory that will stick with me forever. And as the day wore on, I was reminded that the flats hold more than just bonefish—the pockets at low tide are home to a variety of species. Snapper, grouper, and plenty of small barracuda kept us on our toes, adding variety to the day and filling our bellies with the fruits of the sea.

The first bonefish to hand, on day one!

The boat captain’s words haunted me, but each shot brought me closer to redemption. The sting of failure, sharp at first, faded into motivation, and by the end of day one, I knew the next days would offer more chances to prove myself.

The Days That Followed

Day two dawned with a quiet calm, and we decided to take the government ferry to Eleuthera—a quick, $6 trip each way. The ferry ride wasn't quiet serene, the smell of the old diesel engine, that sounded like it was running on one too few cylinders, but it did the job. Upon arrival, we were greeted by a school of bonefish gliding effortlessly through the shallows. Mike, with his practiced eye, smacked me on the shoulder as we walked, said “there!” as he pointed to the edge of the turtle grass, I took my time, waited, and my cast was met with success. Another fantastic run, another bonefish and another step toward confidence. But the day was not without its challenges. We searched for larger species, perhaps a barracuda or something more toothy, but only one brief encounter was provided. Luck was not on our side. It was Mike, however, who felt the sting of the day’s challenge. He hooked into what could have been the fish of a lifetime—a massive bonefish that fought strong and fast, but it was short lived, the line going slack after a quick battle. I could see the frustration in his eyes, and though I knew he was holding it together, there was no hiding the pain of that loss.

An average bonefish. Caught on a squimp on the edge of the flat.

Day three brought with it a strong wind that made the fishing conditions tricky. Despite our best efforts, the bonefish proved elusive for me. But Mike’s patience finally paid off. In the shallows, a giant fish appeared. I watched him focus from 200 yards away, his cast was flawless, and the fight that followed was a thing of beauty. The bonefish was large, a true testament to the skill and experience Mike had cultivated over the past few weeks. At the end of the day, we tried our luck with the dock lights that night, hoping to find some jacks or even a tarpon. It was I who hit the jackpot, this time. I hooked a dozen jacks, and even a tarpon, though that one broke off before I could get a grasp on the situation. In the glow of the dock lights, it was clear: Spanish Wells had a way of keeping you humble.

Mike with an above average bonefish. His new Personal best!

The winds persisted on day four, but a breakthrough came when I decided it was just time to go fishing. I cast blindly along a beach on Eleuthera. After a series of frustrating encounters with small barracuda, the line finally went tight, and I was hooked into a beautiful bonefish. Then, for the first time on this day, the sun broke through, I was surrounded by bones, allowing me to sight-fish for a brief moment. Four more bonefish came to hand in only a 30 minute period—it felt like everything was starting to click.

One of four bonefish I plucked off the flat on a less then ideal day. Sometimes it just pays off to cover the water on low visibility days

The Final Days

By day five, the winds had picked up, and the conditions were difficult, but there was a fire in me now. After a frustrating break off due to a wind knot on a 2 lb bonefish, I spotted something extraordinary—a giant bonefish, slowly cruising toward me. My cast was perfect, my heart pounding in anticipation, but when the fish took the fly, it was as if time slowed. The fight was fierce, and as I fought to gain control, the line tangled in my hands, one last hard pull and the line popped. I couldn’t help but think of that earlier moment, the words of the captain still echoing in my mind, “that guy sucks.”.

On day six, the wind howled like a force of nature, but we pressed on. I strained my eyes and after 5 days on the water, I was seeing bones. They were coming in singles and pairs, a steady flow of silver fish. I stopped moving, crouched low, my focus narrowed. A large bonefish swam within range, and the cast—my cast—well it was lucky. The bonefish came directly up wind, in a gale that made us think twice about even hitting the water. When the fly landed two feet infront of the fish, it took the fly with confidence, and the battle began. With each blistering run, I felt the adrenaline course through me, I was in awe, I looked up, another yacht is coming down the channel, the same channel my bonefish had decided to cross. I put the pressure on and coaxed the fish out of the path of the vessel. This time the captain and guests were shouting words of encouragement, cameras snapping pictures as they sailed past. At last, the bonefish grew tired, and I landed it—my first big one of the trip.

After losing most of my larger fish, it felt great to land this 23" fish, a new personal best for this brand new bonefish angler.

As I admired the bonefish in my hands, the words of that first captain echoed once more before they finally were replaced with “That a boy! Great fish!” . I had redeemed myself, but more importantly, I had earned my place in the flats of the Bahamas. The journey was complete, and the bones, with their silver scales and sharp beauty, had taught me everything I needed to know about patience, perseverance, and the soul of a place.

Matt Martin