By Geoffrey Norman, Donovan Webster, Chris Dixon, Kirk Deeter and Roger Pinckney | Dec 08/Jan 09 | Features

The Hidden Bahamas

30 new reasons to head south, way south

Fishy History

I wasn’t the first angler, by any means, to discover bonefish on Andros, the largest and least populated of the Bahama Islands. A place of vast stands of mangroves, meandering saltwater creeks, endless shallow flats, and a reputation for indifference, even tolerance, when it comes to the activities of pirates and smugglers. As far back as the thirties, wealthy sportsmen had been coming over from the mainland in their yachts and hiring locals to guide them on the flats. For a good while, this had been the drill because there was no place to stay on the island. You came over from the east coast of Florida with enough food and whiskey to hold you for a few days, and you caught bonefish. The fish were abundant, large, and nowhere near as educated as those in the Keys.

By the fifties, there was lodging in the form of a place called the Bang Bang Club, up in the sheltered water of what are called the bights—channels that cut all the way through the island, from east to west. Then, there was a hotel, the Lighthouse, in Andros Town. But the Bang Bang burned, and the Lighthouse failed. By the time of my first trip to Andros, in the early eighties, there were people—dopers and a few sportsmen—who were squatting in the  hotel. Andros had a reputation among anglers, by then, as a sort of frontier destination.

On that day when I spotted a bonefish from my hammock, I was staying at Small Hope Bay Lodge, a place that was famous for its diving (the barrier reef off the eastern side of Andros is the world’s third longest) and where there were comforts enough for me and my wife. At dinner (fresh conch and lobster) that night, I said something about my bonefish to Dick Birch, Small Hope’s owner.

“Would you really like to see what kind of fishing there is here on Andros?”

“Well…yes.”

“Then we’ll send someone down to find Rupert.”

Later, while I was enjoying a nightcap of rum and something, Dick sent someone to tell me that I should be ready in the morning, early.

I rode from Small Hope to Fresh Creek in an old beater of a car and paid the driver an extortionate fee when he dropped me off at the dock where Rupert Leadon was waiting. I thought, at first, that the boat—a Dolphin, one of the standard bonefish skiffs—was some kind of miniature or economy model. Rupert looked too big for it. Tall and big boned, he made you think of one of those gifted NFL tight ends or a large, prowling cat. He had a big voice and a thick Bahamian accent, and he greeted me like it was a genuine pleasure.

“How do you do, sir. Glad to have you aboard.”

If I’d liked Rupert before we’d left the dock, I liked him even more ten minutes after he cut the engine and started poling a wide flat with a marled bottom.

He had the eyes of a sniper; he saw everything and at ranges that didn’t seem possible.

“Small bonefish, two o’clock.”

I would stare out at the water, concentrating, and eventually I might pick up the shape of a fish. If the fish was moving, Rupert would lean on the push pole and spin the skiff to give me a good angle.

Beyond the preternatural vision and his artistry with the push pole, Rupert seemed to have a kind of instinct for when a flat was ready to come alive and when the action was dying and it was time to move.

“That’s enough here,” he would say. “Wind up and let’s go.”

We would move, and a few minutes after he’d cut the engine, I’d hear him say, softly, “Good fish. Ten o’clock.”
And I’d look…and look. And when I’d finally picked up the shape and was about to cast, he would say, “Not yet. Let me get you closer.”

Family Business

We had a fine day, and for the next few years, I described it in vivid detail to anyone who might be remotely interested. But, then, I wasn’t the only one out spreading the word. Celebrated anglers like Lefty Kreh and Mark Sosin fished with Rupert. George Hommel, the dean of the Florida Keys guides and a man who knew them all and could talk about guiding presidents and Ted Williams, proclaimed Leadon among the best he’d ever seen and spread the word about the lodge Rupert was building. In fact, Hommel even took credit for coming up with the name—Andros Island Bonefish Club.

It had been in existence for five years when I called to book a trip.

“Sure I remember you,” Rupert said. “You stayed at Small Hope. We had a good day on Cargill Creek.”

Yes, I said, we sure did. And I’d like to do it again.

“Certainly,” Rupert said. But he wouldn’t be able to guide me himself. He was booked.

Probably into the next century, I thought, and said I understood.

“But my brother will guide you,” he said, implying that this was the next best thing. Most of the dozen or more guides working out of Rupert’s lodge at any one time are relatives. Brothers or, mostly, sons.

“He told me once that he has nineteen children that he knows about,” a friend said. “You might call his operation a patriarchy.”

So I spent four November days in a bonefish skiff with Dennis Leadon, and we caught fish and a lot of them. One day, when a front came through and the wind was strong out of the east, we ran through the bights to the west side where we could fish in a lee. We probably could have found plenty of sheltered spots on the east side, but I had been asking about the bights and the west side. Like a lot of anglers, I figure the farther you travel and the deeper you get into uninhabited country, the better the fishing. Dennis wasn’t wild about making the trip. For one thing, you burn a lot of gas on the run over, and for another, “if the motor breaks down, we going to be spending the night over there.” He did not carry a radio, and, he said, there wouldn’t be any other boats where we were going. That just made it sound better to me. I figured at the end of the run we would be floating the Valhalla of bonefish country, and it would belong entirely to us.

It wasn’t that good. Merely wonderful. On my second cast, I hooked up with the mythic “ten-pound bonefish” of so many anglers’ dreams. He broke off when I was gaining line after that long, wild first run.

“Coral, must have been,” Dennis said. “But that was some nice fish, mon.”

As Dennis had predicted, there were no other boats on the west side. And the flats and the mangroves seemed to go on forever. Like some vast, remote mountain range, it made you feel very small. And the sound of the motor turning over when Dennis hit the starter at the end of the day was very comforting.

The kitchen was serving pan-fried grouper that night. The fish had been swimming a couple of hours earlier, and I ate like I’d been on short rations for a week. Then drank an incautious amount of rum while watching the Monday night football game. Rupert’s place may not be long on luxury, but it has the essentials covered.

“My kind of place,” an angling friend once said of the place. “It’s like the Red Roof Inn only without the amenities.”
In the morning, I got up with a hangover and did it again. We all have our own ideas about paradise, and we can’t resist returning to the scene of our best memories.

Which explains, I suppose, why I consider it a personal failure when I go too long between trips. Last time I talked to Rupert to set up a trip, I said, “How long has it been?”

“Since we first fished or since I’ve had the club?” he said.

“Since you’ve had the club.”

“Twenty-two years now,” he said with pride. In the islands—any islands—operations like Rupert’s come and go.

“Still getting out?” I said. “Or do you stay in the office and let your brothers and sons do all the guiding now?”

“Oh, I still get out. I like being on the boat. Much better than the office.”

“Still got the eyes, then?”

“Oh, yes. I see even better now.”

“Come on.”

“Lots of things are different now. But I’ve still got the eyes, and we still got the fish. Plenty of them. And big bonefish, too.”

Good to hear that hadn’t changed, I said.

“No, sir. That doesn’t ever change. Not ever.”

For more information about Rupert Leadon's Andros Island Bonefish Club, go to www.androsbonefishing.com.

Andros Island Hideouts

Kamalame Cay: This is a genuine luxury resort, located on a smaller island off the northeast coast of the main island where the food, wine, hot tubs, private beach, and other comforts are all elegant, exquisite, and good enough for Sports Illustrated to have used the resort as the locale for one of its recent swimsuit issues. In this milieu, the fishing can sometimes seem almost an afterthought. It isn’t. www.kamalame.com

Stafford Creek Lodge: This very small lodge (eight guests, maximum) is located on the northeast side of Andros Island with access to the Joulter Cays, some of the best water for bonefish and occasionally permit in all of the Bahamas. The owner of this operation is Prescott Smith, one of the finest skiff guides in the Bahamas and the son of the legendary “Crazy Charlie” Smith, for whom the ubiquitous bonefish fly was named. Clean, comfortable, and as intimate as a good New England bed-and-breakfast. www.angleradventures.com

Bair’s Lodge: Located at the southern end of the island, at the mouth of Deep Creek, Bair’s is intimate (seven rooms) and remote and well appointed with access to some of the country that sees relatively little fishing pressure, which the lodge insures by limiting occupancy to twelve anglers at any one time. Bair’s is all about the angling, without roughing it or crowding it. www.bairslodge.com

Mangrove Cay Inn: This resort is located on the north shore of the Middle Bight, which gives the angler ready access to flats on either the eastern or western side of the island. It may be the most ideally situated of all the lodges on the island. Clean, modern cottages, local seafood, wonderful fishing. www.mangrovecayinn.net

Tiamo: This lodge on South Andros is very small, designed for a low environmental impact and keyed to the eco-tourist experience to include snorkeling, hiking, and kayaking. It is ideal for those who want to see and experience Andros and get in a little fishing as well. www.tiamoresorts.com