Day 1,2,3,4,5,6,7
DAY 1: After flying across so many miles of empty blue Pacific, the isolation of this tiny speck of land is staggering. It would be difficult to imagine a place that more fully defines the phrase "middle of nowhere." And yet, here we are, stepping off the plane into the stifling heat and dreamlike pace of the tropics. We spend the day rigging nearly two-dozen rough, black Xi2 prototypes, from 6- through 14-weight, twisting an endless succession of Albrights, Biminis, double-surgeons and perfections, while rain pounds against our thatched palm roof. Serious rain. The guides interrupt their fly tying to scratch their heads and wonder how the hell anyone could need so many rods.
DAY 2: The native language of Christmas Island is Gilbertese. Koraba means "thank you". Teraoi is "you're welcome." And loosely translated from Gilbertese, I have a fly means "your flies suck." Here's how it works: As you step off the boat on the first day, sweating and squinting, you show your guide, Timon, the hundreds of flies you so carefully tied back in Seattle. "Which one should I use?" you ask. He examines them all, smiles and says, "I have a fly for you." And that's how it is on Christmas Island. Took the good ship Aanikai, a traditional outrigger canoe, across Nine Mile Flat on the high tide. Lots of opportunities to cast, compare and fight bones on the 6- through 8-weight prototypes. We dutifully carry our 10s and 12s, hoping for a shot at giant trevally, but no dice.
DAY 3: Blue. More shades of blue than anyone ever imagined. Cobalt. Azure. Ultra-Marine. Teal. Indigo. Sapphire. The water here vibrates with brilliant, electric shades of blue that words can barely describe. Incredible. Took the Aanikai to fish Paris Flats today, pushing heavy lead-eyes on long leaders into a breathtaking headwind. Perfect testing conditions. Our guides, Timon and Biita, take turns with the Xi2, rocketing 90-footers into the wind with either hand. Show-offs. Question of the day: Can a bonefish break a 6-weight with the drag cranked down and a 30-lb. flourocarbon tippet? Answer: Not until you move your hands way above the cork. The guides observe our antics with cringing amusement.
DAY 4: Our soft, pink, northern-hemisphere bodies are beginning to adjust to the equatorial heat and skin-sizzling UV. We're down to SPF 40 now. On the long truck ride to the Korean Wreck, we bounce around the back of our careening truck, rods banging and smashing into each other. Our kidneys do the same. Softball-sized land crabs scuttle across the road, waving their pinchers in a menacing fashion. Standing on the very edge of the jagged reef, we fire big deceivers and wind-resistant gurglers into the booming, double-overhead surf. An unbelievable El Nino-driven monsoon hammers us all afternoon, as we struggle to stand-let alone cast-in the torrential downpour and screaming wind. Good for rod testing, bad for comfort. As we head back to camp, Timon slumps on the tailgate, softly singing "Country Roads" without a trace of irony.
DAY 5: Time to get out the big guns. After fruitless hours of searching for the mythical giant trevally, and still needing to test our heavy rods under serious strain, we point the Aanikai out of the lagoon and into the great wide open. A single, lunatic wahoo and a half-dozen bull-shouldered yellowfin tuna allow us to max out our 12- and 14-weights. With backs aching and mouths watering for fresh sushi, we head in early. Timon can't wait on the formalities of soy sauce and wasabi-he seasons a small yellowfin with sea-water and eats it like corn on the cob. After dinner, it's back to "work," as we stalk the reef in front of camp with ridiculously light 6-weight Xi2s, fighting swallowtail pompano, small bluefin trevally, sweetlips and the occasional bonefish. The 6-weights are a blast to fish, and much more rod than we'd anticipated.
DAY 6: Blissed-out on tropical heat, you stand on a tiny pancake flat surrounded by endless deep blue water and sky, watching delicate fairy terns hover below a single, menacing black frigate bird. Thunderheads tower in the distance. Suddenly, Timon is pushing the 12-weight into your hands, yelling, "Get ready, get ready, get ready ... strip line, strip line," and you snap back into focus. Out of the peaceful, translucent water, two 60-pound torpedoes materialize and surge onto the flat, pushing water. They turn sharply, churning the shallows with tails and backs breaking the surface. It's an easy cast now, 50 feet and closing. You pick up line, make the haul and fire. The big streamer whistles past your ear, catches the fly line and crumples into a tangled mess. Silence. Replaced slowly by the pounding of blood in your ears. Later, after you've re-entered your body and feeling returns to your limbs, there is this: For all the technological advances we've come to appreciate in the Xi2, our testing has uncovered one major flaw-it can't overcome trevally jitters. We'll have to talk to Jerry about that when we get home.
DAY 7: Packing up, making final notes for our field test reports, comparing our stylish new flats-boot tan lines. It's time to say goodbye. And so, to Timon and Biita, surely two of the finest guides in the world; to Tess, master chef of mantis shrimp, wahoo and the greatest fried rice ever; and to all the kind people of Christmas Island who helped make our little business trip a success, a hearty Koraba. To everyone else, we'll borrow a well-worn phrase: It's a tough job, but someone has to do it. Honest.
DAY 2: The native language of Christmas Island is Gilbertese. Koraba means "thank you". Teraoi is "you're welcome." And loosely translated from Gilbertese, I have a fly means "your flies suck." Here's how it works: As you step off the boat on the first day, sweating and squinting, you show your guide, Timon, the hundreds of flies you so carefully tied back in Seattle. "Which one should I use?" you ask. He examines them all, smiles and says, "I have a fly for you." And that's how it is on Christmas Island. Took the good ship Aanikai, a traditional outrigger canoe, across Nine Mile Flat on the high tide. Lots of opportunities to cast, compare and fight bones on the 6- through 8-weight prototypes. We dutifully carry our 10s and 12s, hoping for a shot at giant trevally, but no dice.
DAY 3: Blue. More shades of blue than anyone ever imagined. Cobalt. Azure. Ultra-Marine. Teal. Indigo. Sapphire. The water here vibrates with brilliant, electric shades of blue that words can barely describe. Incredible. Took the Aanikai to fish Paris Flats today, pushing heavy lead-eyes on long leaders into a breathtaking headwind. Perfect testing conditions. Our guides, Timon and Biita, take turns with the Xi2, rocketing 90-footers into the wind with either hand. Show-offs. Question of the day: Can a bonefish break a 6-weight with the drag cranked down and a 30-lb. flourocarbon tippet? Answer: Not until you move your hands way above the cork. The guides observe our antics with cringing amusement.
DAY 4: Our soft, pink, northern-hemisphere bodies are beginning to adjust to the equatorial heat and skin-sizzling UV. We're down to SPF 40 now. On the long truck ride to the Korean Wreck, we bounce around the back of our careening truck, rods banging and smashing into each other. Our kidneys do the same. Softball-sized land crabs scuttle across the road, waving their pinchers in a menacing fashion. Standing on the very edge of the jagged reef, we fire big deceivers and wind-resistant gurglers into the booming, double-overhead surf. An unbelievable El Nino-driven monsoon hammers us all afternoon, as we struggle to stand-let alone cast-in the torrential downpour and screaming wind. Good for rod testing, bad for comfort. As we head back to camp, Timon slumps on the tailgate, softly singing "Country Roads" without a trace of irony.
DAY 5: Time to get out the big guns. After fruitless hours of searching for the mythical giant trevally, and still needing to test our heavy rods under serious strain, we point the Aanikai out of the lagoon and into the great wide open. A single, lunatic wahoo and a half-dozen bull-shouldered yellowfin tuna allow us to max out our 12- and 14-weights. With backs aching and mouths watering for fresh sushi, we head in early. Timon can't wait on the formalities of soy sauce and wasabi-he seasons a small yellowfin with sea-water and eats it like corn on the cob. After dinner, it's back to "work," as we stalk the reef in front of camp with ridiculously light 6-weight Xi2s, fighting swallowtail pompano, small bluefin trevally, sweetlips and the occasional bonefish. The 6-weights are a blast to fish, and much more rod than we'd anticipated.
DAY 6: Blissed-out on tropical heat, you stand on a tiny pancake flat surrounded by endless deep blue water and sky, watching delicate fairy terns hover below a single, menacing black frigate bird. Thunderheads tower in the distance. Suddenly, Timon is pushing the 12-weight into your hands, yelling, "Get ready, get ready, get ready ... strip line, strip line," and you snap back into focus. Out of the peaceful, translucent water, two 60-pound torpedoes materialize and surge onto the flat, pushing water. They turn sharply, churning the shallows with tails and backs breaking the surface. It's an easy cast now, 50 feet and closing. You pick up line, make the haul and fire. The big streamer whistles past your ear, catches the fly line and crumples into a tangled mess. Silence. Replaced slowly by the pounding of blood in your ears. Later, after you've re-entered your body and feeling returns to your limbs, there is this: For all the technological advances we've come to appreciate in the Xi2, our testing has uncovered one major flaw-it can't overcome trevally jitters. We'll have to talk to Jerry about that when we get home.
DAY 7: Packing up, making final notes for our field test reports, comparing our stylish new flats-boot tan lines. It's time to say goodbye. And so, to Timon and Biita, surely two of the finest guides in the world; to Tess, master chef of mantis shrimp, wahoo and the greatest fried rice ever; and to all the kind people of Christmas Island who helped make our little business trip a success, a hearty Koraba. To everyone else, we'll borrow a well-worn phrase: It's a tough job, but someone has to do it. Honest.
