At 5:00 p.m. on August 12, I showed up at my buddy Andrew’s house to begin meticulously rigging up our tuna gear. While he put together the spinning tackle, I contemplated how to set up my fly rod. As I reviewed photos of tuna fisherman catching fish on jigs, a lightbulb went off. Rather than chasing a tuna blitz on the surface, what if I sank a fly down to streaking fish in the 50-foot or less range?
With that in mind, I put together my setup—a 12-weight G. Loomis NRX-2 paired with a Cheeky Limitless 475. For backing, I used an entire 600-yard spool of 40-pound-test Cortland 16-strand hollow core. Next, Andrew and I tied a Bimini Twist in the backing and attached a fresh spool of Cortland 500-grain sinking billfish line. As the line slithered through my hands, I was baffled by its density and diameter; however, I knew it was needed to tame a beast. Once the setup was complete, we tested the backing knots and fly-line strength. As we pulled as hard as we could on each end, we laughed, knowing that I might be in trouble if a tuna actually ate my fly.
At 12:30 a.m. on August 13, I jumped out of bed in Port Washington, New York, threw on my deck boots, grabbed my 12-weight, and hit the road to meet Andrew and another buddy, Joe. As I pulled up to Joe’s house, Shimano Stellas and Saragosas glistened under the bright moonlight. We made the two-and-a-half-hour drive from the North Shore of Long Island to New London, Connecticut, wired on coffee, Red Bull, and Zyns.
Upon our arrival, we were greeted by a mulleted Joe Diorio. We hopped on his 22-foot Bluefin, where Diorio’s first mate, Carter, greeted us, and then we filled every rod holder with a different rod-and-reel combo. As we began our journey through eastern Long Island Sound toward the ocean, my friends fell asleep in beanbags, but I was wide awake, imagining the day’s potential.
As we approached the mouth of the Sound, the sun slowly began to rise. The first crack of light brought an orange haze and a beautiful look at the hallowed ground that is Montauk Lighthouse. Stories of Montauk surf legends like Jack Yee, “Crazy” Alberto Knie, and Bill Wetzel flooded my mind. As the world’s surfcasting capital disappeared behind us, we were greeted by a steady, gentle swell that periodically covered the horizon.
At 5:15 a.m., the boat slowed, the sun popped up, and giant pods of massive whales surrounded us. Diorio maneuvered toward the whales and instructed us to begin fishing. Within three casts, Andrew’s plug was blown into the sky by a big tuna. Five minutes later, we repositioned and the screen lit up like a Christmas tree, with tuna streaking up from 100 feet to 50 feet. As soon as we dropped our jigs, we quadrupled up on bluefins. The drag on my reel screamed as the rod absorbed pounding vibrations. After the battles, we boxed two 40- to 50-pound fish and released the others. Riding the stoke of our success, I refueled with yet another large Red Bull and grabbed my fly rod.
I attached an 8-foot section of straight 80-pound fluorocarbon leader and scanned my fly box. Like an omen from the Thunnus deities, a ray of sun beamed down on one particular fly—a yellow-over-white Squimpish-fiber Deceiver tied on a 4/0 Gamakatsu SL12s hook. The fly spoke to me; I could almost hear it whispering, “tuna time.”
Ready for war, we reset our drift and pulled up alongside another whale. As we got closer, the familiar streaks lit up Diorio’s screen. I slid into the corner of the boat, took a nervous gulp, and dumped a full spool of fly line into the slick ocean. I let the full-sink line do just that—sink. As the fly descended through the water column, the fish rose up from 70 feet to 30 feet. I slowly worked my fly with two hands when, suddenly, it got walloped. My natural response was to set the hook with a couple of powerful strips, and in seconds, the fly line burned out of my hand, and I screamed, “I’m tight! I’m tight to a tuna on the fly!”
The mess of fly line shot off the deck and knotted itself at the tip of my rod. As the tuna made a mad dash, the knot refused to budge. I began to panic when, miraculously, it slid right through the top guide. Still, I knew I was facing a huge handicap with this knot, but I didn’t have time to think—it felt like I had a Dodge Hellcat running away with my entire spool. The boys on the boat stowed their rods while I assumed the bow position. Racing toward the tuna, I cranked in what felt like 150 yards of backing. As we got closer, the fish began to dive for the depths, taking the battle vertical while it still had me deep in my spool. Back and forth we went for 20 minutes before I could see my fly line touching the spool again. Once the knot was close enough to the rod tip, Joe finally grabbed the line and slid a hook through the knotted loop. As soon as the knot was free, the tuna made me pay by ripping another hundred yards into the backing, this time going straight down on its side. In a stalemate, both the tuna and I refused to budge. I could feel the thud of its tail as I applied maximum pressure.
As lactic acid filled my arms and exhaustion set in, the tuna finally began to rise through the column, and I responded by gaining as much line as I could. I was beginning to stack line when the tuna locked itself sideways again, its silvery-blue body illuminating the water column like a strobe light.
I knew I was at a disadvantage. Fly rods aren’t made to withstand the force of pumping a fish vertically through the column. Instead of risking a shattered rod, I leaned over the tall gunnels, locked down my drag, and pointed the rod directly at the fish. All of the pressure was now off the rod and onto the winch (my reel). As the fish thudded violently, I cupped the spool while pulling back with my elbow. I was gaining on it—I could see the blue hue of its back. A few moments later, it began doing death circles. As it looped around the side of the boat, Diorio grabbed the leader, and I leaned over to grip the fish’s tail with both hands. After 45 grueling minutes, the tuna hit the deck, and we absolutely lost our minds. I may have even shed a tear or two. Holding the beast by its tail, I felt its overwhelming muscle and power as it thrashed in my grasp. I estimated its weight to be around 50 pounds.
Wiping the sweat from my brow, I let out a sigh of relief, sat down on the console cushion, and kicked my feet up on the gunwale.
You’re probably thinking one tuna on the fly was enough. For a second, I thought about relaxing, but I couldn’t help myself. As we reset our drift and pulled up on another whale, all hell broke loose. Tuna began streaking up the entire column. Naturally, my buddies dropped a chandelier of jigs down and immediately hooked up. Like before, I set up in the corner, dumped a full spool of fly line out, and went to work. Just 20 seconds into letting my fly line sink, I began to strip when the fly was swallowed by another bluefin. The line shot through the air like a heat-seeking missile, and I felt another rush of energy. Shouting at the top of my lungs in disbelief, I hollered “I’m tight! Let’s go, boys!”
It was time to lock in again. I tightened down my drag, and the fish proceeded to dump out a cool 150 yards. Maintaining a low rod angle, I put the heat on this tank of a schoolie tuna when it suddenly spun around and swam directly at me. Bewildered, I cranked like a madman, struggling to keep up. I had filled up the spool with 60 yards when the fish decided to beeline toward the bottom in 150 feet of water. By this time, I was beginning to fade. Luckily, the fish pinned itself deep, and we spent the next 20 minutes playing a vertical game of tug-of-war. (I’ve never had my cardiovascular endurance tested in the game of fly fishing.) Applying maximum vertical pressure with a locked drag, I pointed my rod straight down and pulled up with my elbow as if I were snagged. Slowly but surely, the will of the fish began to break. In a game of inches, I was slowly winning.
On the brink of exhaustion, the bluefin finally rose to the surface. As its tail sprayed salt water into the air, we locked eyes. Reaching over the gunnel, I grabbed its still vibrating tail and held the fish for a photo—its sheer power coursed through my body as it flexed and shook in my arms. I reached into its mouth and freed the nearly straightened hook. This tuna was pushing 60 pounds. When I released it, it shot off like a bat out of hell.
Laughing like a lunatic, I took a sip of water, popped another Zyn, and sat on the console seat with my head in my hands. I couldn’t believe what had happened—not one, but two tuna on the fly! As I looked up, the boys were raring to get back to the school of fish. Time to rinse and repeat.
For the third time, we pulled up to a whale and immediately found a mass of tuna under the boat. I grabbed a pair of pliers and reshaped my hook from the paper clip that it had become back into a working fly. Again, I assumed position in the corner and emptied another spool of fly line into the ocean. As the fly sank, I watched Diorio cast a popper. Three twitches later, a tuna went sky-high, and his drag began to sing. Then, just as I began to strip my line, the four of us all hooked up at once. Yet again, I was tight to a very mad bluefin. The fish took a rocketing run deep into my backing. Knowing what I was in for, I sat on the console, put my feet up on the gunwale, and prepared for a long battle. While everyone landed tuna after tuna, I was in it for the long haul. Thirty minutes later, I was staring down another 50-pound bluefin. Once I had it in my hand, I ripped the fly out, snapped another hero shot, and sent it back into the deep blue. Holding the straightened hook, I smirked to myself and thought, “Now THAT is badass.” Looking to the sky, the sun was now high and the summer heat began to get to me. I took a break, which meant more caffeine, a quick lunch, and another Zyn.
After a 15-minute break, I grabbed a fresh 80-pound leader and tied on one of my favorite patterns—a Postfly Box yellow synthetic squid—and hustled back to the corner of the boat in preparation for the next battle. As Diorio positioned the boat, whales rose and dove through the column. Like clockwork, a gang of tuna entered the screen. I launched my fly, let it sink for a couple seconds, stripped it a few times, and immediately came tight. Laughing hysterically, I held on for my life as the tuna went manic around the boat; 45 minutes later, I was holding my fourth tuna on the fly. It felt like a dream. This was tuna madness at its finest. With the Postfly squid hanging from its sandpaper mouth, the tuna hurled up a dozen extra-large sand eels.
Finally, I’d had enough. I was dehydrated, exhausted, and my arms felt like deflated balloons, but I had accomplished what I set out to do with the help of our captain. That’s when things got interesting.
While I momentarily waved the white flag, my friends were still itching to jig and pop, so we circled back toward a surfacing whale and began our drift. While fewer tuna filled our screen, they were still well within fly range. I mustered enough strength to stand up and hand my rod to Diorio. Although he first refused, I insisted he try his hand at catching one on the fly. We watched the screen light up again as the perfect pod of schoolie bluefin came into view just 40 feet down. With a simple cast, Diorio let the fly sink, and two strips into the retrieve, Joe was tight. Thirty seconds later, the spool shot off the reel frame and flew into the water. Confused, I watched as it sank, inch by inch. Acting fast, Joe immediately grabbed the backing and kept the fish pinned.
I couldn’t accept that this fish was going to escape. I threw my hat and glasses on the ground and dove headfirst into the abyss of the open Atlantic. The saltwater stung my eyes as I tracked the bright spool glistening in the high sunlight; it was still close enough to retrieve. I furiously kicked my legs—the only muscles with any juice left, grabbed the spool, and resurfaced. My buddies stood in the corner, speechless. Thankfully, I made it back to the boat, tossed the spool in the air, and heard it clunk down on the deck as my friends grabbed me by the arms and hauled me over the side. Backing stretched across all 22 feet of Diorio’s Bluefin. We swiftly cut the tangled line and managed to tie a line-to-line knot in the C16 hollow-core backing, slapped the spool back onto the frame of the reel, and tightened the drag down. Fifteen minutes later, that tuna was in the hands of the skipper, with a fly square in the corner of its yap.
The last hour of the day was quiet, and that was fine by me. I’d spent roughly two-thirds of our time fighting tuna on a fly rod. As we headed back toward Connecticut, I laid in a beanbag at peace. This day would remain at the forefront of my mind for the rest of my life. Days like August 13, 2024, keep me coming back for more.
