First off, credit where credit is due—this whole trip happened because my amazing wife Gina won the TDIC raffle. While most folks win golf bags or a new office chair, Gina managed to hit the jackpot: a full week, all-inclusive stay at Portofino Beach Resort in San Pedro, Ambergris Caye. That’s right—white sand, palm trees, turquoise water, and most importantly, the legendary fly fishing flats of Belize.

Now, when I read the resort brochure—which promised an “island getaway fringed by the azure Caribbean Sea… perfect for disconnecting from daily stress and reconnecting with nature”—my mind immediately translated it to: “Finally… I’m gonna get a permit.”

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But of course, this wasn’t just a fishing trip. This was Gina’s trip too, and I knew better than to vanish for five days in pursuit of a Grand Slam. Fortunately, our friends Steve and Henry jumped at the chance to join us. It worked out perfectly—Steve and I could fish together, and Gina would have a partner in crime for poolside cocktails and sightseeing.

Steve’s a seasoned fly fisherman and had fished Belize before. He told me flat out, “This is the best place on Earth to catch a permit.” That was all I needed to hear. I booked two full days with a local outfit called GoFish Belize. The rest of the trip would be filled with ruins, shops, rum, and some of the best seafood in the Caribbean.

But first, we had to get there.

Let me tell you: traveling to Belize from San Francisco is no simple hop. It’s a red-eye to Houston on United, a bleary connection to Belize City, a propeller plane to San Pedro, and then a boat ride to the resort. The whole journey takes around 12 hours. We booked business class thinking we’d sneak in some sleep—spoiler alert: we didn’t. The transfers kill any hope of rest. But somewhere along the way—surrounded by fellow travelers carrying fly rod tubes—I started to get giddy. This was it.

When we finally landed in San Pedro, I stepped off the Tropic Air plane and was immediately smacked in the face by 25-mph winds. The pilot had landed the plane at an angle that felt more Top Gun than Tropic Air. The flats looked like San Luis Reservoir on a red flag day—whitecaps everywhere. Still, I held out hope.

Bright and early at 7 a.m., a 24-foot panga pulled up to the dock. Aboard were our guides: Abby, a seasoned Belizean pro, and his 21-year-old son Emil. Abby immediately gave us what I call the “expectation recalibration talk.” The wind, he said, had kicked up sediment, turning the flats into a murky mess. No visibility, no oxygen, no fish. He called it a “Red Tide,” although in this case, it was more of a brown, muddy one. To top it off, record amounts of sargassum weed had blown in, smothering the shoreline like seaweed shag carpet.

He looked me in the eye and said, “If you want a shot at a permit, we’re gonna have to take a long ride—hour and a half—to the other side of the island.” And off we went, bouncing across the water in a saltwater blender.

That first day, we spotted just one permit. I got a good cast on it. Perfect placement. Total indifference. We ended the day fishing deep pockets for bonefish, picking up a few small ones and some snappers, just to make it worth our while. Still, I felt good—I had at least seen a permit. Abby, it turns out, isn’t just a guide—he owns GoFish Belize and comes from a lineage of legendary guides. His grandfather was one of the first on the island. Two of his sons are also guides, another is a marine biologist, and his daughter’s dating a guide. This is a family with saltwater in their veins. Abby himself had won the Grand Slam tournament the past two years.

Our next day on the water was scheduled two days later. Abby warned us it would be even windier. Fantastic.

On our day off, I let Gina take the lead, and we toured Altun Ha, an ancient Mayan city tucked into the jungle. The trip there involved a boat ferry and a car ride, but it was well worth the trek. We arrived to an empty parking lot and found ourselves alone among the ruins. It was haunting, humbling, and oddly peaceful. We climbed ancient stone steps and looked out over the rainforest canopy. We saw the Temple of the Masonry Altars, where they found the famous jade head of Kinich Ahau, the Mayan sun god. It was like stepping back in time, minus the bug spray.

Getting back to San Pedro, however, nearly turned into a sitcom episode. On the ferry ride home—surrounded by a party-hardy group of young Belizeans—we stopped briefly at Caye Caulker. Steve and I stayed seated, but I turned around just in time to see Gina and Henry…gone. They’d gotten off at the wrong stop, completely unaware we were still heading to San Pedro. I called her in a panic, yelling, “Get back on the boat!” They sprinted down the dock just in time to catch it. We laughed later, but let’s be honest—that could’ve been a night.

Back to fishing.

Day two was, in fact, windier. Abby told me the angler he took out the day before couldn’t cast at all in the wind and went home skunked. Still, we made the long haul again to the calm side of the island, near the Mexican border. And this time… we had eight shots at permit. Real shots. I made solid casts. The fish swam up to the fly. Looked. Sniffed. Swam away like I’d offered them a gas station burrito. It wasn’t my day. But it was promising—under normal conditions, I would’ve had a legitimate chance at a Slam.

I’ve fished Cuba. I’ve cast to spooky fish in the Keys. But this was the closest I’ve come to consistent permit shots. I could see myself coming back solo, staying in town, and fishing hard every day until I finally check that fish off my bucket list. And when I do, it’ll be with Abby or Emil.

Now, let’s talk food.

The culinary highlight of the trip—aside from Gina narrowly avoiding a night on Caye Caulker—was the seafood. Belizean seafood is next-level. With daily catches of grouper, snapper, blue crab, shrimp, and (in-season) lobster, the chefs at Portofino had the freshest ingredients imaginable. While lobster was out of season during our visit, we had incredible pastas, grilled fish, ceviche, and more. The angel hair pasta with seafood might’ve been the best I’ve ever had—yes, even counting that one place in Rome.

The steaks? Well… they were “island tough.” Perfectly seasoned and cooked, but you could bounce a fly off them. A waiter explained that Belizeans don’t differentiate steak cuts the way we do—they just cook it all the same, and no one pays extra for filet mignon. It explained a lot. But who needs beef when you’ve got snapper and mangoes that taste like candy?

Finally, a word about Marie Sharp’s Hot Sauce. I am, by nature, a hot sauce connoisseur. I travel with Tabasco. I dab Sriracha on eggs. But Marie Sharp’s? Game changer. Made with habaneros and carrots, it’s the perfect blend of heat and flavor. I tried all 13 varieties. I brought back a stash. I’m now rationing it like gold bullion. You can order it on Amazon—thankfully—or I might’ve tried to sneak an entire suitcase through customs.

All in all, no permit, no slam, and no regrets. Just a great trip with good friends, unforgettable food, ancient ruins, and fly fishing stories I’ll be retelling for years.

Next time, I’m bringing fewer shirts, buy more hot sauce… and I’m getting that permit.