Mag Bay Recap: Mangroves

Words: Michael Lettieri; Photos: Aaron Loomis, Michael Lettieri

There is a snook, slipping into the shadow of the dead mangrove branch, in the pocket just off the bow of the panga. The boat drifts in the gusting wind, and I lose sight of the fish as I try to angle a cast back toward the roots. We are deep inside the mangrove channels north of López Mateos, tucked along the edge of a tiny bay, past a small oyster farm and an abandoned phosphate mining complex, throwing small clousers underneath the branches. It’s hot today, with tropical humidity. Mangrove weather.

Yesterday, we found bunches of snook along a different stretch of roots, darting out to grab our flies, a flash in the tannic water the only indication to set the hook. No snook have shown today, but several broomtail grouper have eaten with outsized aggressiveness. From the branches, a night heron watches us, curiously eyeing each cast. As the afternoon stretches on, the tide begins to rise, and though we spot fish, few eat. Then we find a school of spotted sand bass, eager orange-eyed marauders, that are deemed both cute and ugly.

Tomorrow, the morning will be chill, with thick fog and still air. In this dim light, drifting along the channel, a different experience. Throwing black and purple flies into the dark arches of roots, I come tight with a larger grouper that deeply bends my fiberglass rod, and a finescale triggerfish that pulls just as hard. A corvina attempts to eat a hooked sand bass, then finds my fly, silvery-blue headshakes breaking the glassy calm. It is a mean-looking fish, vampire fangs and yellowed eyes, but delicate, and I slip it back into the water quickly.

If the ocean outside the bay is open and infinite, the mangroves within feel like a labyrinth, countless miles of hidden channels and sudden drop-offs, holes and edges, inviting exploration, demanding one more cast.