I’ve known of Lee Haskins since my Millpond days—back when dinosaurs roamed, fly shops smelled like mothballs and head cement, and if you owned a vise you were halfway to being famous. Somehow, though, we’d never actually fished together or even had a proper conversation. The guy’s a legend in the foam-fly world and still cruises the Forebay in a float tube like it’s 1999.
I, on the other hand, sold my soul to horsepower about twenty years ago and drifted away from the float-tube crowd. These days I run with the “boat people,” the ones who think a cup holder is essential fishing gear. But Lee’s name still floats around every campfire—his flies, his ideas, and his ability to make tarpon eat things that look like pool toys.
When I heard he’d been fishing Tarpon Cay Lodge for over two decades and had designed a whole arsenal of deadly flies for those waters, curiosity got the better of me. Then fate—or maybe foam—stepped in. A couple of spots opened on his next hosted trip, and Lee called. Problem was, I was already scheduled for “Operation Grandpa Duty” in New York and Charleston. Babysitting the grandson is sacred ground in my house, but out of nowhere my wife said, “You should go.”
Now, every married fisherman knows that when your wife says you should go, you don’t question it—you grab your passport before she changes her mind. Within an hour the living room looked like a Fly Shop clearance sale exploded.
I’d tried to sneak in some tarpon days during a Cancun trip earlier in May, but grandkids have Jedi powers when it comes to derailing fishing plans. So when Lee said he might have a single spot open, I told him to keep me on deck. He posted it on Dan Blanton’s board—crickets. At the last minute he called and said, “It’s yours.” I jumped on it faster than a tarpon smashing a shrimp pattern.
Río Lagartos itself is small, safe, and easy to explore. A few cafés, friendly locals, curious kids, and pelicans perched on docks like grumpy old fishermen—all part of the charm. The town’s lifeblood is its octopus fleet, a daily spectacle of wooden pangas loaded with long poles, crab bait, and fishermen who look like they’re jousting the sea. Using the traditional jimba method, they poke and twitch those poles across the flats until a hidden Octopus maya or Octopus americanus strikes, sending water, poles, and tentacles flying in all directions. The chaos is pure art — generations of fishermen reading tides and currents, hauling in tens of thousands of kilos each season from August to December, feeding a regional economy that employs more than 15,000 people and exports most of its catch to Europe. From shore, it looks part rodeo, part slapstick — like Dr. Seuss meets Deadliest Catch — but it’s dead serious business here, the heartbeat of Río Largartos.
Our crew was a solid mix: Lee and his partner Ron, my striper buddy Frank and his son Anthony, and me—still a rookie in the juvenile-tarpon department but fishing single. Our guides were Kress, Alecio, and Martine — all of whom have been with the lodge for over 15 years. Kress spoke near perfect English, and I had the most fun with him. We’re both baseball fans, and he was eager to answer all my questions about the tides, weather, and water flows in the area. Alecio and Martine were polite and highly skilled polers across the flats.
I managed to get Kress and Martine to fish a bit, and I was surprised to learn that, despite working at a Sage Experience Lodge, neither Alecio or Martine owned fly-fishing gear or had opportunities to practice casting. They don’t fly fish for fun or have equipment of their own. Cress, on the other hand, ties his own flies and owns a couple of TFO rods that he actually uses. I think Sage should consider equipping their guides so they can better demonstrate techniques to clients — just a suggestion. All three guides know where to find fish, even when it seems like there are none around. They’re polite, attentive, and genuinely want to help, though it can be challenging since two of them speak limited English.
Getting there felt like traveling to the edge of the map. Tarpon Cay Lodge sits on the north shore of the Yucatán Peninsula, in the quiet little fishing village of Río Lagartos—the kind of place where time moves slow and every dog believes it’s the mayor. Fun fact: Yucatán time is one hour ahead of Pacific Standard during U.S. winters, which means a 4:30 a.m. wake-up alarm feels suspiciously like 3:30 a.m. That first cup of coffee hits like rocket fuel.
The lodge itself doubles as the Yuum Ha Boutique Hotel, a cozy six-room hideaway perched right on the boardwalk. “Boutique” sounds fancy, but this isn’t some minimalist yoga retreat; it’s fisherman-friendly with air-conditioning, occasionally-functional Wi-Fi, and ceiling fans big enough to lift a drone. Rooms come in “Deluxe” (king bed, bathtub, cable TV—for those who somehow watch TV on fishing trips) or “Superior” (two queens and a killer lagoon view). Every room has a private bath, toiletries, and a balcony perfect for drying smelly fishing shorts and shirts and repenting tequila mistakes.
Downstairs sits Maleconcito Gourmet, the in-house restaurant whose name promises art but delivers bliss. No microscopic food here—just honest Yucatán seafood: grilledshrimp tacos, ceviche that could mend heartbreak, Local Octopus that rivals Spain and guacamole so good it deserves its own pyramid. If it swims, crawls, or clings to coral, they serve it—usually with a cold beer and a sunset.
Each morning starts aboard 18-foot pangas—wide, stable, and and built for Fly Casting but not for stripping baskets. The guides handle them like ballerinas with 40-horse motors, and real wood push poles. Most of the fishing grounds are only fifteen to thirty minutes from the lodge. No brutal boat rides, just a smooth glide over weed choked and tanic shallows to water so clear you can see your fly’s shadow.
The best part? Floating lines only. These tarpon cruise in water barely a couple feet deep. You spot the wakes and rollers, make the cast, watch the silver flash—and then BOOM!—they blow up like underwater grenades. Ten-pound fish go full Cirque du Soleil ten feet from the bow. It’s visual, chaotic, and hopelessly addictive.
Tides here are their own brand of mystery. The nearest tide gauge is two-and-a-half hours away, so predictions are about as reliable as a liberal’s mood. Offshore wind can erase an incoming tide, onshore wind can flood the mangroves, and the guides—who’ve been at it their whole lives—just shrug and say, “We’ll see.” Yet somehow, they always find fish. We also hit the week of the full moon right on the money which can be bad for fishing. Around full and new moons, tidal swings (spring tides) are at their strongest, stirring up currents, flushing bait from flats, and often triggering feeding frenzies or famines. Under a bright full moon, tarpon may shift behavior: night feeding becomes more pronounced (they exploit the light), and daytime action can slow. Thank god that we had many days with overcast skies during the full moons which leveled the playing field by reducing light, which brought fish back into typical daytime feeding mode.
Because of that unpredictability, the lodge runs a “split-shift” schedule: fish from sunrise till about 11, return for lunch and a siesta, then head back out for the evening bite from 3 to 6. On Thursday , conditions lined up for a straight marathon going out an hour looking for bigger fish but most of the time it’s Fish tacos, naps, and two golden sessions. I even used the mid afternoons to tie flies for the evening session based on the morning —my style. The guides adjust like magicians—part meteorologist, part tarpon whisperer. They use poles made of wood that they claim last longer than fibergalss and are quieter. Acutally they look like the wooden outriggers on the local Octopus Fishing fleet. Coincidence?
After the evening blitz, walking into the Yuum Ha’s cool air feels heavenly. Every day we were greeted with an ice cold towel and a cold drink as we came into the courtyard from the morning session. Housekeeping restocks towels, linens, bottled water, and soap daily—which is good because sunscreen and DEET turn you into a glazed donut by noon. There’s a pool for cooling off, a full bar for erasing missed shots, and a breezy lounge where anglers gather to tell fish stories. A highlight for me was watching Frank and his adult son talk about who did better out there. I hope my son and I will have that kind of relationship. It was great to watch. Frank is an awesome guy. Im so glad we are friends.
Río Lagartos itself is small, safe, and easy to explore. A few cafés, friendly locals, curious kids, and pelicans perched on docks like grumpy old fishermen—all part of the charm. The town’s lifeblood is its octopus fleet, a daily spectacle of wooden pangas loaded with long wooden poles, crab bait, and fishermen who look like they’re jousting the sea. Using the traditional jimba method, they poke and twitch those poles across the flats until a hidden Octopus maya or Octopus americanus strikes, sending water, poles, and tentacles flying in all directions. The chaos is pure art — generations of fishermen reading tides and currents, hauling in tens of thousands of kilos each season from August to December, feeding a regional economy that employs more than 15,000 people and exports most of its catch to Europe. From shore, it looks part rodeo, part slapstick — like Dr. Seuss meets Deadliest Catch — but it’s dead serious business here, the heartbeat of Río Largartos.
By the end of the first night, sitting on the balcony with a cold beer, sea breeze in your face, and tarpon still leaping in your memory, you realize why Lee Haskins keeps coming back year after year. It’s not just the fish—it’s the whole rhythm of the place. The tides might be unpredictable, but Tarpon Cay has its own kind of tide: part adventure, part nap schedule, and all magic.
Day 1 – Tarpon Therapy and Thunder from Above
Woke up at 4:30 a.m. because apparently tarpon don’t believe in sleep—or mercy. Breakfast at five, boats at 6:30, and the sky looked Photoshopped—flat calm, no wind, and tarpon rolling everywhere like silver popcorn. By 7 a.m. I was in full swing: hooked 30, jumped 20, landed 13, and earned a forearm cramp worthy of an arm-wrestling trophy.
After lunch came a siesta (turns out I can sleep, just not before sunrise). Then the afternoon delivered thunder, lightning, and a reminder from above that fishermen are basically floating lightning rods with optimism. Still managed three more tarpon while my guide Martín yelled “No lift!” every time I trout-set like a rookie. Slow learner, fast fish.
Day 2 – The Day Martín Took a Hook to the Face
Woke to wind and rain—perfect weather for reading, not fishing—so naturally, we went fishing. Found tarpon way up in the mangroves where mosquitoes treat DEET like salad dressing. Landed two inside, three outside, and then watched one angry fish launch a hook that ricocheted off Martín’s face. He was not amused. Lesson learned: tire the fish before it decides to turn your guide into a target.
That night I tied flies with Lee Haskins, the local mad scientist. Weedless flies for the mangroves, shrimp for the flats, minnows for open water. Around here, shrimp rule—tarpon pop and slurp like kids with bubble tea. My “tiny” size-2 flies turned out to be perfect. Apparently, it’s all about small flies and big egos.
Day 3 – Crocodile Pursuit & Tarpon Sushi
New guide: Alecio—20 years poling, five words of English, endless laughter. We found pods of tarpon sipping shrimp in shin-deep water. I missed plenty because I was strip-setting like a caffeinated crab. The humidity could’ve steamed broccoli. Sunscreen just turned to lotion soup.
Evening chaos: hooked a tarpon beside the boat—epic take—and halfway through the fight a nine-foot crocodile shows up for the buffet. He slid right between me and the fish like, “You gonna eat that?” I loosened the drag, yelled “Not yours!” while Alecio laughed and filmed instead of helping.
Finally landed the fish; croc parked in front of us like he was waiting for Uber Eats. I asked Alecio if feeding him was okay—he laughed, which could’ve meant yes, no, or “you first.” Released the fish far away, but twenty minutes later our scaly friend was still tailing the boat. I hooked another tarpon, and the croc charged again. It was pure National Geographic: Dumb Ways to Fish. Somehow I unhooked the Chum Tarpon as the crock was closing in. Looked like I had two feet before donating a limb to the crocadile tourism scene.
Day 4 – The Search for Mr. Big (and the Case of the Missing Record Button)
We went way out—an hour run across open water—to find Mr. Big Tarpon. All three boats joined. Alecio, the legend, just smiled and pointed west. When we finally arrived: nothing. Flat ocean, zero fish.
I launched the drone to film Lee fishing — and, of course, that’s when a lone tarpon rolled right in front of me. I quickly switched the controller to autopilot, stripped line like a maniac, and missed completely. Frank and Anthony lost interest and wandered off, but Lee kept at it, heading even farther out like he knew something we didn’t. Turns out, he did — it paid off big time.
I had set a goal to film myself jumping a tarpon from above with the drone, so we hit the flats and river mouths instead. This is usually unsuccesfull since I have a bad case of Battery anxiety and don’t perform well under pressure. But on our first attempt with only ten minutes left on my drone battery, I set the drone to auto-follow, hooked and landed a tarpon—Alecio cracking up the whole time as I rejoiced in my good luck—only to realize I’d forgotten to press record. Genius. One battery left; tried again, hooked another fish with the red light blinking. Success!
We’d burned the morning travelling far out, so we fished only 7–10 a.m. but still landed seven tarpon for tghe day.
Meanwhile, Lee had made the right choice to stick it out and found fish soon after we had left. Ron, who’s fighting late-stage Parkinson’s, landed his personal-best 40-pounder—maybe his last big tarpon—and Lee stuck a 60-pounder out near the ocean. They even saw a manatee. Ron’s catch was truely heroic. He only had one good shot at his casting distance and nailed it. Plus he fought the beast into submission in 20 minutes despite his disabilities. That night we celebrated with banana-split sundaes. Ron, a retired UPS driver who also worked as a dental-lab tech and is married to a hygienist, smiled ear to ear. I used the free afternoon and evening to clean my lines and swapped out sone different lines to try, thankful for good friends, good fish, and second chances on the record button.
Day 5 – Hooking Crocs, Chasing a Slam, and the Quest for the Dumbest Permit
Finally got to fish with Kress, the head guide—Lee calls him the “Tarpon Yoda.” The morning was dead calm and gray, the kind of perfect light that makes every ripple look like a promise.
We started on the flats. No rollers. Kress blamed the full moon and low tide—fish were blasting through instead of hanging around. I didn’t care; my casting was dialed with the clean lines and lined up rigs. I fish with 4 rods in the boat with different setups tuned for distance, presentation, size and species. The beauty of fishing solo is having multiple rods with lines out ready cast. Plus changing flies after a good look from a Tarpon increases your odds on the next cast by multiples. The down side is after five days solo, I could double-haul in my sleep. Sixty hours of casting is basically golf’s driving range for masochists.
Kress watched my casting and suggested, “Smooth, not fast.” I rolled my eyes, but sure enough — the line started flying like magic. Probably the best advice I’ve gotten since “don’t touch that, it’s hot.” My stubby slow action 8-foot 10-weight Bad Ass Glass was launching line just as far as my fancy fast action graphite 9-footer, but at half the speed and twice the style. Meanwhile, the Hardy Duchess was purring like a happy cat every time I stripped line — until a tarpon hit. Then it screamed like a banshee on a roller coaster. Click-pawl drags might be charming, but not when a 4 0-pound tarpon decides to test your retirement reflexes. When that fish runs, the rod is straight on the strip set, the line stretches like a bungee cord, and the second you let go for the first jump, the line slingshot out of the reel . It’s pure chaos — like hitting nitrous on a hot rod with no seatbelt. You dont have time or enough leather on the glove to palm that action.
Fishing a Mangrove River Inlet, shallow and choked with debris, I spotted a Crock sitting in the weeds horizontal to me with fish rolling on the other side. Meauring the odds of a success casting across its back and landing a fish, I made the bold decision to go for it and deal with the aftermath. The fly landed on target and the line gently settled over the crocks back. The fish nailed the floating Shrimp and exploded into the air shaking the fly. Right on cue, a large crocodile moved in for the assist. I could see that Kress was amused by my predicament. I had to strip the weedless fly over the crocks face. Kress pantomimed “roll cast it off.” Roll casting a weight forward 28 ft head with only the running line is way above my skill set but I tried to anyways. The fly tried to get airborn and snagged the crock in the snout. Kress laughed, I cried until I realized that here was an opportunity to see what kind of bend a gator puts on a S-Glass fly rod. For one glorious second I thought, “World-record crocodile on fly rod!” Film was rolling so I strip set the fly in . If there is one thing in Mexico thats harder to push a hook into than Tarpon Cartilidge, its Crocadile leather. The point dug in and I pulled hard. The crock didn’t budge an inch. I added some right left pulls to knock the crock off its balance for dramatic effect. The crock fell asleep from the rocking. Eventually the fly popped free—another lost world record.
Later we spotted what looked like a school of permit. I nervously stripped out my permit rod with a sexy crab on it. As they approached, I made my cast and it launched perfectly at the head fish until it hit my foot stepping on the line and dropped 5 ft short. The unspooked school approached within viewing distance and I signed with relief . Not permit—jacks. They laughed at me and swam off. Another school appeared—bigger fish. I swithed to Lee’s shrimp pattern which he uses for permit and cast to the lead fish hoping these were indeed permit.. Two strips and the school ran for the fly and the lead fish ate. After a screaming run, I could tell it wasnt a permit. Another bigger jack perhaps. Not a jack—a 24-inch bonefish! Two-thirds of a Grand Slam! This afternoon was my chance at the elusive Slam.
The afternoons goal was to find the stupidest permit in Mexico. Lee told me at lunch if anyone could do it . it would be Kress. He knew the spots for Permit. We took a long ride out and spent two hours in “Permit City.” Nothing. Apparently, all the dumb ones graduated. Ended the day picking off four tarpon near an inlet while other boats got skunked. No slam for me—but plenty of laughs, sore arms, and one insulted crocodile.
Day 6 – Graduation Day
My last day in Los Lagartos was all about volume. I told Kress, “Let’s just catch everything with gills.” This was graduation day: cast perfect, set sharp, Lee-approved flies, and weather finally behaving.
We stayed close to the lodge near San Felipe—blue skies, calm seas, and tarpon stacked like cordwood. Every cast felt like batting practice, and I was on fire. Morning tally: five tarpon. Afternoon tide came in, deeper water, even better bite—six more tarpon, for a total of eleven in one day.
Kress and I bonded over baseball, comparing casting to pitching. One stubborn fish took three fly changes, two bad casts, and finally ate on a full count. Tarpon – strike three.
That evening the chef rolled out lobsters and six kinds of seafood for our farewell feast. Lee called it “one of the least productive trips ever,” which, given my numbers, probably means everyone else had a blast watching me miss.
Still, it was the perfect close to an incredible week: great friends, baby tarpon that hit like freight trains, and enough stories to last until next season.
Kress says the baby-tarpon fishing’s good year-round, though the weather’s a wildcard. Planning around moon phases or migration ups your odds for bigger fish. Tarpon Cay Lodge is ideal for newcomers—or anyone who likes mosquitoes, crocs, and high-five-worthy chaos.
Next year, Lee Haskins is organizing another trip August 9–14, 2026.
If you’re brave (or just tarpon-obsessed), contact him at lee@gurglersonline.com or book through Fly Water Travel.
Final Stats
🎣 Total tarpon landed: 78
🐊 Crocodiles hooked: 1 (snouted, not landed)
🦐 Flies sacrificed: unknown / many
📸 Drone flights: 3 recorded, 1 forgotten
🍦 Banana-split sundaes: 1 heroic serving
🔥 Memories: countless
The Fish
The Logistics
The Food
Incredible videos, and report, Meng! Thank you for joining our group!
It was great to be able to discuss all things “fly fishing” and even tie flies together.
Cheers,
Lee