Surfcasting in Montserrat.

The birds were still hushed as I rose at 4 a.m., stirring my senses to life with a bitter cup of instant coffee and a quick breakfast of overnight oats prepared the night before. I had thought about this trip for months, but in reality had no idea what I was prepping for. I didn’t know what was awaiting me fishing in these unknown waters, and that was all the allure. I hiked down to the the beach, just as the sun peeked over the horizon's edge.

I made my way to a rocky point I had spotted on google maps. I reached the rocky tip and armed myself with a lure that’s earned legendary status in my surf bag, a Nomad dartwing. My good friend and even better fishing guide Josh Rayner found the plug on one of our striper outings and gave it to me. Since then it’s caught countless Stripers and Blues in the northeast, and even some small Tuna in Costa Rica. The lure was covered in teethmarks, but with some new split rings and VMC hooks it was as good as new.

I began casting it into the still, dawn-kissed waters. For a period, all was silent save for the lapping waves and occasional pelican cry. Every surfcaster knows the feeling as basking in the calmness, is slowly transformed into an anxiety over the lack of action. The sea remained still, giving no sign of the teeming life beneath its surface.

However, as I was least expecting it the deceptive tranquility was soon shattered. Just as I began to reel in my popper for another cast, a savage blow-up erupted from the water, just feet from the shore. Like a freight train, my line bolted through the sea parallel to the rocky shore. Adrenaline surged as the realization hit: this was a VERY big fish. I instantly became nervous the fish would slice my braid off on the sharp volcanic rock.

I was only using a 7 1/2 foot rod collapsable travel rod, the kind that costs $20 at Dicks. I stepped up on the rock to my right, and lifted my rod high to keep as much of my line out of the water as possible in this unfamiliar water.

I frantically scrambled on the slippery rocks to try to keep pressure on the fish while leading it away from the jutting boulders. As soon as I had the fish away from the rocks the reel's drag began screaming even louder as it ran into open water in short powerful bursts. Each burst shocked me with the power and speed, ending with a sudden change of direction leaving me with a slack line wondering if I had just lost the fish. As time wore on each run was weaker and had more time elapsed since the previous burst. I locked down my drag and began to bring the fish in using my whole body, walking the fish back before running back to the waters edge reeling in the slack (and falling on my ass a few times in the process).

After an intense battle, I finally got a glimpse of the fish in the surf - a massive barracuda. Luckily my plug was pinned perfectly in the corner of its jaw, preventing its massive jaws from shearing my 40 lb leader. Thanks to the inline VMC hooks on my dartwing, I was able to unhook and release the barracuda swiftly and safely. No sooner had the barracuda returned to the deep, a bar jack (Caranx ruber) blew up on the popper. I considered live lining it as bait, but the risk of tangling my line amidst the rocks was too high, so I quickly released it.

With the tropic sun now in its full power, my morning of surfcasting took an unexpected turn. A vibration, subtle at first but rapidly growing in intensity, rumbled through the ground, eventually becoming audible. It was as though a freight truck was barreling past me, and as I looked to my right, and less then 100 feet away an impenetrable cloud of dirt was rapidly spreading down the mountain, the flow was so violent at first I could not tell if it was a flood. After a few seconds I was able to see the a series of monstrous boulders flying through the cloud and realized it was a small mudslide. As the largest of the boulders met the water, the thunderous crash echoed around, followed by terrifying rush as the displaced water surged onto previously dry rocks soaking me knee deep and nearly knocking me over. I gathered my belongings along with my nerves, and hiked away from the cliffside towards the sandy beach.

The arid regions of Montserrat layered with dust, sand, dirt, and ash are prone to violent mudflows called lahars, especially after heavy rain like the region had been experiencing the past few days. While the mudslide was small, it clearly indicated that the heavy rain had compromised the structure of the cliff face at least temporarily, and that another collapse was entirely plausible. After thirty minutes of casting off the beach without any strikes, I made my way back to our house to shower before a day of classes.