THE SPOT
About fifteen years ago, I found a spot in the Bahamas that is, really, about all an angler could ask for. It’s not too far away from “civilization”—a gas station, a small grocery store, and a liquor store that carries the essentials (rum, Bahamian beer, ice). The house is nothing fancy, but it has comfortable beds and a decent kitchen. It sleeps three, max, which is a good number for a do-it-yourself bonefishing trip and is the precise number of hardcore anglers who know it exists—at least that I’m aware of.
The place comes with a ten-foot dinghy, powered by a 15-horse Evinrude that is mostly reliable, but just coughy enough to keep you focused. The house is surrounded by flats—some you can walk to, others require boat transport—with sufficient white sand and turtlegrass to fill a full day’s wading schedule regardless of tides. The bonefish are nice-sized and fussy. I’ve seen one school of permit there.
I’ve long referred to this spot as “the Point,”—partly as a way of forcing myself to keep a lid on its existence and whereabouts. I’ve never once in my
