Chapter 1: Origins
Edward W McGill didn’t come from the world he chose. Both his parents were doctors. His mother, a pediatric cardiologist, and his father, an orthopedic surgeon. They expected him to become the third. But it wasn’t all private school and golf lessons. His dad, Walt McGill, was also a dedicated angler, both fly and offshore. Alongside the scrubs came rod tubes and plane tickets.
Walt and Eddie traveled extensively. Not just to the Florida Keys for tarpon, but far beyond. They fished the Himalayas for mahseer. Patagonia for sea-run browns. The Seychelles for GTs. Arnhem Land for barramundi. Brazil for peacocks and golden dorado, all before he graduated from high school. Eddie learned to double haul before he could drive, and he was tying saltwater flies while his classmates were still slicing seven-irons into the water hazard.
A good student, he made it as far as the University of Florida, where he studied pre-med and played along for almost four years. He’d grown up on Jupiter Island, attended The Benjamin School, and wore a blazer, along with knowing how to tie a proper Bimini Twist. When they weren’t traveling to fly fishing destinations, they were chasing mahi and billfish aboard Slipstream, the McGills’ 70-foot Buddy Davis, with Eddie taking on the role of first mate.
They also kept a 16-foot Hells Bay – Whipray skiff on a lift behind the house, which Eddie ran from an early age. He poled his dad around the Indian River mostly for snook and reds, and constantly scouted his local waters on solo missions when he was still a teenager. And once he got his driver’s license, he started trailering the skiff, giving him a greater range and a lot more freedom of where he fished.
His mother, Claire, and older sister, Caroline, always joined them on the offshore trips. They weren’t diehard anglers, but they knew their way around a boat. Claire was a master at the helm and could read the water like a chart, while Caroline ran the galley with quiet authority, snacks, sandwiches, and drinks all dialed in. Neither of them needed praise. They just did the work. When the lines went off and the chaos hit, they didn’t flinch. They moved fast, stayed focused, and held their own.
It was a family operation. Walt ran the show, but Eddie, Claire, and Caroline kept it from spinning off the rails. And at the end of the day, when the adrenaline had faded, everyone chipped in. They washed down the entire boat, rinsed the rods, stowed the tackle, cleaned the fish if they kept any, and dried everything that needed drying. And on a 70′ Buddy Davis, that’s not a small task. It wasn’t that Walt and Claire couldn’t afford to hire a private captain and mate. They enjoyed the ritual and wanted it done properly. There was pride in doing it right, together.
During his senior year of pre-med, and after several days of guided fishing on a spring break trip to Islamorada, something shifted. The routine he had been following suddenly felt like someone else’s plan. He skipped his medical school interviews and, that summer, went back to Islamorada. He hired backcountry guides five days a week, soaking up everything they were willing to teach and everything they weren’t. He brought his own fly rods, flies, learned fast, and tipped well. And by fall, while his classmates were starting med school, Eddie had drifted from the herd. He had jeopardized his future, alienated his longtime girlfriend, and quietly set fire to the career everyone else had tailored for him.
Caroline, attending law school at UVA, had always been the steady one. They were different, but close, and she never judged him for the path he chose, at least not out loud. His parents, for all their expectations, still loved him. The McGills were not the type to shout or slam doors; they talked things through, even when the subject was uncomfortable. Church wasn’t for the McGills. Sunday mornings meant fishing, and that was their religion. Family dinners were generally warm, if a little reserved, unless someone brought up fishing, the Gators or Wahoos, football, and hoops.
Eddie had grown up fishing, and not just anywhere, but in some of the premier destinations on the planet. It was in his DNA. And despite the fallout with his family, he still had enough backing to stay afloat. A comfortable trust from his grandfather, who made his fortune owning a chain of supermarkets and burger joints throughout the Southeast. The trust covered his expenses and gave him enough room to figure things out on his own.
Eddie didn’t take it for granted. He knew he was lucky, luckier than most, and he carried that knowledge like extra weight. It didn’t make him lazy. If anything, it made him work harder to prove he hadn’t wasted the chance. That was when the idea of becoming a flats guide started to take shape. Not as a fantasy, but as an actual plan, one that might just work if he committed to it fully.
Walt McGill never said it, but he probably knew, deep down, that Eddie’s passion for fishing was at least partially his fault. He may have prescribed the path to med school, but he also handed Eddie the fly rod.
When Eddie finally decided to give guiding a real shot, he packed up his gear and headed to Key West. Not because it would be easier, but because it felt more legit. He’d spent plenty of time fishing with the Islamorada guides like Matt, Al, and a few others who’d become friends enough to learn their routines, their water, even some of their so-called secret spots. He wasn’t about to turn around and poach someone else’s hard-earned ground. They probably suspected he’d end up guiding. He wasn’t the first, and he wouldn’t be the last. But that mattered to him. It was just the right way to do it.
Key West gave him space. Room to figure it out without stepping on anyone’s toes. He knew it would take time to earn trust, to find productive fishing spots, to make a name for himself in a town that had seen it all, and much more. But he was fine with that. He kept his head down and spent every day on the water. And over time, he made a few friends, mostly other guides who appreciated that he wasn’t trying to be anything but a fishing guide willing to put in the hours.
He didn’t spend money carelessly, and during college, he had saved a considerable sum from his trust. Eddie was lucky in that regard. Not everyone gets a cushion to chase a calling. It wasn’t enough to coast, but it was enough to buy a new skiff and the gear he needed to start guiding the right way. No shortcuts, just solid gear and time on the water.
Caroline understood. She didn’t pretend to get the fishing guide part, but she understood the need to choose your own path. She was the only one in the family who didn’t try to talk him out of it. When he told her he was moving to Key West, she just said, “Perfect. Now I’ve got a place to stay and a tour guide when I visit with my girlfriends.”
Chapter 2: Legend in the Making
Eddie McGill arrived in Key West in the fall of 2019, just months before the world flipped upside down. Like most everyone else, he had no idea what was coming. And there were stories from that time, especially in Key West, strange ones, empty streets, bricks of cocaine washing up on the shoreline, a guy who tried to paddleboard to Cuba. But those belong elsewhere.
What mattered for Eddie was what it all cleared out. In March 2020, as the COVID-19 pandemic began to take hold, Monroe County, under the authorization of Governor Ron DeSantis, closed the Florida Keys to all visitors. It was an unprecedented move. State and county police checkpoints were set up on the only two roads into the Keys, US1 at The Stretch near County Line Marina, and Card Sound Road. Only residents and essential workers were allowed through. Multiple forms of identification were required, and cars without them were turned around.
For nearly three months, the islands were sealed off. Charter traffic vanished. The cruise ships, marinas, streets, hotels, and restaurants all emptied. And businesses suffered badly. But for the first time in decades, the flats were quiet. And in that quiet, Eddie found time. The time to fish without pressure, to explore new areas, to watch and learn. For a new career still finding its legs, it was about as productive as it got.
By the time this story really begins, three busy years had passed. Eddie had built a reputation, started seeing Lila, and carved out a place in a town that didn’t hand out respect easily. Eddie wasn’t what you’d call a legend, not yet anyway. But he was admired, mostly for his work ethic. He kept his skiff clean, his gear dialed in, showed up early, and showed respect to his fellow guides. Though he often thought not all of them deserved it. And he never acted like he had anything to prove.
When he wasn’t guiding a client, he was fishing, always scouting, learning, tracking tides, wind, and weather. He wasn’t after recognition. He was after knowledge of his fishery. And he knew recognition would come later if he put in the time. In his gear bag, tucked between fly boxes and leader spools, was a dog-eared copy of Ninety-Two in the Shade. It had been there since the beginning.
His girlfriend, Lila, worked behind the bar at the Hogfish Bar & Grill. Single mom, sharp tongue, zero patience for bullshit. She was a local through and through, born and raised on Stock Island, grew up fast, lived hard, and didn’t need a résumé to read people.
She lived with her parents, who helped watch her three-year-old daughter, Maggie, on the days and nights she worked. Her father, Billy, a retired commercial fisherman and, depending on who you asked, a former smuggler with a pretty solid retirement plan, mostly kept to himself. Her mother, Helen, worked at the Keys Credit Union as a loan officer and ran the household with quiet authority.
Lila liked Eddie. Maybe because he was nice to Maggie. Maybe because he didn’t try too hard, was easy going, and had a good sense of humor. He listened. He didn’t interrupt. And he showed up when it counted. Whatever it was, it worked. They kept it simple, no drama, no big declarations, just two people who understood each other without needing to explain much.
If there were a flats guide rating system, and Eddie suspected the veteran captains at the dock talked about these things, he figured he’d land somewhere in the middle. A solid B-minus or C-plus captain with a good attitude and just enough fishing sense and polish to keep clients coming back.
He thought the reason he wasn’t considered top tier had less to do with how he fished and more to do with who he was, or more accurately, who he wasn’t. He wasn’t a Conch. He hadn’t grown up on the docks, didn’t have a family name stenciled into some old transom, and he hadn’t clawed his way into guiding the hard way.
And worst of all, he didn’t need the work to make ends meet. He’d heard the term “P.H.D., Papa Has Dough” muttered behind his back more than once. Never to his face, of course. But he knew how that kind of label stuck. You could outwork the next guy, outfish him, even outlast him, and still be written off as a rich kid pretending to be a flats guide.
Chapter 3: Fast Eddie
Eddie knew the whispers about his trust fund status would likely never fade, but he was at least grateful that the old guard rarely brought up the infamous morning that had defined his early career. Nobody had forgotten; some stories just stuck around, and this was a good one.
The nickname Fast Eddie had come early, and not for reasons he would’ve preferred.
He usually splashed his skiff at Garrison Bight Marina before dawn, especially during tarpon season. But that morning, after launching, he idled a few hundred feet off the dock to take care of business. After several minutes, he remembered one minor detail: the plug.
By the time he pulled his shorts back up, nearly a foot and a half of water was sloshing almost to his knees. Without thinking, Eddie jammed the throttle forward and tore back toward the ramp, trailing a huge rooster tail. His boat, low in the water, and his push pole fell off somewhere along the way.
With his motor trimmed way out to avoid damaging the lower unit, he beached the skiff squarely on the concrete ramp and jumped out to start bailing. He spent the next hour with a five-gallon bucket from Home Depot, while his clients stood on the dock snapping photos and texting their wives. He eventually retrieved his push pole. And the skiff didn’t sink, but any dignity he’d launched with that morning did.
The nickname Fast Eddie stuck. And while some guides might’ve tried to run from it, he owned it. Laughed about it. Used it. It made him human. And in a line of work full of egos, that counted for something.
Chapter 4: The Birth of the Permit King
The story started, as these things often do, in a local bar. Sloppy Joe’s. Eddie, well-traveled, could recount fishing stories from five continents, and most of them were true. He enjoyed telling them. Not to impress, but to connect. He enjoyed having a beer or two after work, meeting people, mostly tourists, and swapping a few tales if the mood was right. The regulars knew him, the bartenders liked him, and more than a few visitors went home thinking they’d just talked to someone famous.
That night, Eddie was a few beers in, holding court over a couple of wide-eyed adventure travel influencers, here to fly fish for permit. Patagonia backpacks slung at their feet, cameras and GoPros parked on the bar like props. He didn’t know them, but he knew the type. And he couldn’t resist.
He overheard them talking about their day of permit fishing with a local guide, who, as it happened, was his best friend, Capt. Nico Reyes. Seizing the chance to mess with his pal, whom they were set to fish with again the next day, Eddie leaned in with a grin, already halfway through his next beer.
“I caught a world-record permit last week,” he said. “On fly. The Marquesas. Solo. On a crab that I tied myself. I call it The Crown Jewel.”
He then went into detail about the great fish and the ensuing two-hour fight, and delivered it flatly, like he was bored with his own greatness. This one wasn’t true, of course. Not even close. But watching their faces light up was too good to pass up.
“Do you have any proof?” the young woman asked, phone already in hand, ready to capture the next viral soundbite.
Eddie raised an eyebrow. “Proof? You think I’d grease a fish like that for an IGFA record? Some things are too sacred to hang on a scale or post online.”
He said it with just enough reverence to sound believable, then let the silence do the rest, trying to keep a straight face. Half joke, half setup, knowing it would reach Nico and, more than likely, make him laugh, which wasn’t easy to do.
But the couple he was talking to, a young husband-and-wife team, had a strong following. Mostly the wife, if we’re being honest. By the next morning, her blonde, bikini-clad, sun-kissed, slow-motion retelling of The Permit King was racking up views faster than a tarpon at a palolo worm hatch.
Chapter 5: The Crown Jewel
Eddie could’ve shut it down, but he didn’t. He let it breathe. At first, it was just a running joke, something he and a few friends, especially Nico, laughed about over beers. But the video kept spreading. A few reposts turned into hundreds. Mentions started showing up on fishing forums. Then a local writer for a weekly fishing publication called him “a soft-spoken Key West fishing guide with a mystical connection to permit.” Eddie nearly choked on his beer.
One of his strong suits was his lightheartedness and sense of humor. Over the next few weeks, strangers started recognizing him at the marina. Not many, but enough to notice. A few even booked charters, hoping to fish the exact flat from the story. Eddie didn’t have the heart to tell them there wasn’t one. He played it cool, said it casually like it was no big deal, but as a joke, he changed his voicemail to “You’ve reached the Permit King,” and started tying a line of permit crabs, flies he called the Crown Jewel.
The Crown Jewel looked a little flashier than most permit crab patterns, more impressionistic than realistic, but the fly held up in the water. The proportions were right, the color and the weight were dialed, and the movement was realistic. To his credit, Eddie had always understood what made a crab fly tick. The guys at The Angling Company gave him a hard time, but after a trial run and more than a few sales, they cleared a permanent bin for it in the permit fly section. By the end of the month, the flies were moving.
The name stuck, and so did the myth. It was too late to back out of the story now, so Eddie figured he might as well make the best of it. What started as a line in a bar had turned into a brand. He never expected to be semi-famous. And certainly not for something he made up on a barstool.
Chapter 6: The Challenge
Weeks later, Capt. Rider Monroe rolled into town like a hurricane with sponsors. Camera crew in tow. Matching wraps full of logos with ‘The Monroe Method‘ on the trucks, on his flats skiff that looked fast just sitting on the trailer, even the camera boat. And his Instagram following that could fill the amphitheater at Bayfront Park.
Born and raised in Florida City, Rider was short, tan, loud, and irritatingly good at fishing, though it was often unclear how much of it was skill and how much was creative editing. He was the kind of guy who wore a buff in his profile picture, called sunscreen ‘product,’ and said things like “We should film this,” and always with a trace of sarcasm.
Rider’s father had been a guide and fishing personality before the word influencer became a thing. One of those small-statured, big-truck, big-attitude types who somehow landed a local fishing show that got just enough syndication to go to his head. He walked the dock like it owed him money, and treated every flat like deeded property. The show had its moments, but it was mostly an ego trip with a push-pole.
Rider was a reboot nobody asked for, worse theme music, more merch, and ten times the self-promotion. He didn’t just fish, he branded. Born into it, raised in marinas and camera crews, he carried himself like a man continuing a legacy rather than earning one. There was an entitlement to it, a sense that the spotlight was his by birthright.
Rider had heard the rumors, seen the buzz, and smelled blood in the water. To him, Eddie wasn’t a legitimate guide, he was content. And Rider couldn’t resist the hype.
Eddie, like most working guides, had little patience for fishing shows. The whole concept rubbed him the wrong way. Too staged, and too far removed from reality. Most of them took three or four days of filming to capture twenty minutes of usable footage.
Most guides rarely watch fishing shows. Their life is a fishing show. And if they aren’t guiding, they’re fishing, or tying flies, checking the weather, getting their gear ready, or getting some well-needed rest, for the next six days in a row.
There was one exception for Eddie – Tarpon, the 1973 cult classic shot in and around Key West. He’d watched it more times than he could count. It followed a young Tom McGuane, Jim Harrison, and Richard Brautigan through conversations about fishing and life, all set to a young Jimmy Buffett soundtrack. The footage was grainy, honest, and beautiful, with great scenes of tarpon on fly. No scripts, no sponsors. Just fish, old skiffs, a few guides and writers, and something that was actually genuine.
Back at the Hogfish, promising Lila a good tip, Rider politely asked her to ring the bell over the cash register to get everyone’s attention. Leaning over the rail, he shouted, “Permit shootout.” At the same time, one of his camera crew filmed him sipping a cocktail he’d ordered that looked more like a protein shake. “You and me. Between here and the Marquesas. One day. One fish. One crown, Permit King.”
Eddie, sitting at a nearby table with Nico, froze. It was supposed to be a joke. A one-off bar tale that floated off with the current, like most fishing lies do. But now it was public. Filmed. Hashtagged. He was officially a prisoner, trapped in his own fish story. If there were a Fishing Guides Wall of Shame, he was about to be center frame, with the caption: Permit King Gets Dethroned.
Lila just shook her head. “Hope you tied more than one of those Crown Jewels, Kingie.”
Eddie didn’t respond. He was already checking NOAA, Weather Underground, checking the tides, and thinking about the upcoming new moon. That part was good. The forecast was the wildcard. A late-season hurricane that had taken a sudden turn in the Gulf. NOAA showed it skirting the Lower Keys within the next few days, with tropical storm force winds, storm surge, and localized flooding. The storm, given the name Ian, had shifted west, but the outer bands were still in range.
This wasn’t going to be just another day on the water, and he’d better be ready.
Chapter 7: The Plan
Eddie woke up the morning after the bar challenge with a headache and two missed calls from clients he hadn’t fished in over a year. The word was out.
At the marina, Lila handed him coffee and a look that said she was rethinking most of her life choices. “He’s got drones, a camera boat and crew, a logo. and a fishing show. You’ve got a fly.”
Eddie grunted. “I’ve also got hustle. And I don’t need all that crap.”
He spent the day at the marina, trying to drum up support. A few guides offered polite nods. Most just laughed. But a couple, old-school guys who’d been around long enough to resent the selfie-stick and hashtag era said they might come lend a hand.
That night, Eddie sat in his skiff on the trailer in Lilas’ driveway with his laptop, sketching out a plan. If Rider wanted a spectacle, fine. But Eddie wasn’t going to walk into a trap with no rules. He’d turn this thing into an event. A real shootout. Rules. Structure. Maybe even a prize. Something official enough to draw the right kind of attention and just public enough to force Rider to take it seriously.
He gave it a name:
‘The Two-Angler Key West Permit Shootout’
Two skiffs. One day. Heaviest weight permit wins. IGFA rules. Catch and release, photo, witness. Ten days out felt right. Enough time for the remnants of Ian to clear out, and time to organize the event, but not enough for Rider to turn it into a Netflix pilot. The Permit King was back in the game. Eddie hadn’t asked for any of it, but now he had to show up.
Chapter 8: Rules
Lila said it best: “You want to make this real, it has to feel real.”
So Eddie did what any semi-delusional, well-educated, tech-savvy fishing guide would do. He mocked up a flyer in Canva, spun up a landing page on his long-neglected Squarespace site, and booked the back room at Turtle Kraals. He dubbed it the official rules meeting of the inaugural (and final) Two Angler Key West Permit Shootout.
Five days before the so-called championship shootout, Hurricane Ian brushed past Key West, close enough to flood streets and send loose shutters, tree limbs, and garbage cans banging across sidewalks and driveways. Ian’s outer bands brought tropical storm-force winds, storm surge, and localized flooding. But there was plenty of time for the water to clear up and the wind to lay down, at least in theory.
The weather finally broke, but the island was rattled. Charred from a fire in places, soggy in others, and nowhere near ready for a fly fishing tournament. But the dates were set.
Like most fishing competitions, it was part tournament, ego contest, and part slow-motion trainwreck. Eddie recruited his buddy AJ from the dockmaster’s office to serve as tournament director, a clipboard, a lanyard that looked vaguely official, and just enough structure to keep people from laughing him off the dock. At least not to his face.
He had tapped two people he trusted to ride along: his best friends, Capt. Nico Reyes and Capt. Cal Bennett. Nico, a third-generation Conch and one of the best guides on the island, would be on the platform. Cal, a semi-retired guide and photographer with the driest wit in the Lower Keys and a reputation for keeping things above board, would serve as official witness. Eddie figured if he was going to hook the fish of a lifetime, he wanted someone great on the platform and someone honest behind the lens.
The meeting had conch fritters, free beer, and laminated rule sheets. The keg of beer and conch fritters were on Eddie. The 80-inch TV, looping episodes of The Monroe Method, was, of course, courtesy of Rider. His over-produced fishing show had it all: theme music, merch, and just enough actual fishing to keep it from sliding into pure theater. Every segment ended with a fist pump and a perfectly timed drone shot.
The tagline was Real Tactics On Real Water, but most guides figured the only real thing about it was the show’s budget. Rider narrated every episode like a sunburned, raccoon-eyed motivational speaker, tossing around phrases like “line management, mastery, dominion, laser focus” and “apex pursuit mindset.”
Eddie just rolled his eyes and circled something on the rule sheet.
Someone had duct-taped a cardboard sign reading “Welcome Anglers!” above the beer keg, which also served as the podium. The drink specials included a $30 Permit Punch made with four shots of Tito’s blended with a full can of frozen Celsius, most everyone stuck with the free beer.
There would be a shotgun start at sunrise from Garrison Bight. Lines in at 6 AM. Lines out at 4 PM. Catch and release only. Fly only. Photos required. Measurements required. IGFA rules apply, and 16lb test class tippet only. One guide, one angler, one witness per skiff. No drones.
Rider Monroe was wearing a Stetson straw hat, a pastel sport coat, a bolo, and cowboy boots, filming his entrance for an Instagram reel while his camera guy backed into a folding chair. He sat in the back like a man who’d done it all and hoped no one would ask him to prove it.
Eddie stood at the front of the room in shorts, flip-flops, and a t-shirt, looking like he’d wandered in from a boatyard and decided to host a rules meeting.
“Let’s keep this clean,” he said. “No drones over the flats. No other skiffs holding spots, or helping over the VHF or cell phone. And let’s try to avoid fistfights at the ramp.”
The room chuckled, some genuinely, some from all the free beer.
But beneath the laughter, things were tightening up. This wasn’t just about a fish anymore. It was about saving face, and maybe, just maybe, proving that the Permit King wasn’t just some barstool myth, but a guide who still had something to prove.
Chapter 9: Tournament Day
They ran nearly thirty minutes, across the Ship Channel, past Ballast and Man Keys, until the water flattened out into that familiar pale blue that looked like the color of possibility. They ended up choosing a favorite flat on the Gulf side, near Cottrell Key, one of many spots Nico had scouted the previous week before Ian and had seen some decent activity.
Nico slipped off his flip-flops, climbed onto the platform without a word, and started poling. Smooth and steady. No wasted movement, no need to talk. He wasn’t trying to impress anyone; he just knew what he was doing, and it showed. Eddie stripped line off his 9-weight, at the ready, and watching the water.
After the underwhelming two-boat shotgun start and all the fanfare, Riders’ skiff vanished somewhere to the west. It was the last they saw of him that morning.
An hour passed. Then another.
The only things tailing were the wingtips breaking the surface from a pair of spotted eagle rays patrolling along the edge of the flat like the FWC. It was almost noon, and the wind died completely. The heat set in.
Eddie glanced at Nico, who hadn’t said a word since the start.
“You think he’s even fishing?” Eddie asked.
Nico didn’t look down. “He’s probably filming a needlefish in slow motion.”
Eddie smiled, but just barely. He adjusted his cap, shades, pulled his buff up higher, and checked his fly and leader for the twentieth time.
Eventually, he checked his phone.
Rider had already posted three Stories, one Reel, and a cinematic hero shot of himself false-casting into the sunrise with the caption: “Locked In. #PermitPursuit #Marquesas #KeyWest #SkiffLife #FlyLife #SunriseSession #NoFilter #ChasingTails #MonroeMethod #EarnYourShots #PermitVibes #SaltStrong,” and on, and on, until it looked more like an Excel spreadsheet than a fishing update.
Eddie saw it on his phone, shook his head, and muttered something like tool or fool under his breath. The cast was staged, and the caption made it sound like Rider was storming the beaches at Normandy. He wasn’t. He was staked up in two feet of water, drinking a green smoothie with collagen powder.
Chapter 10: The Permit
By noon, the heat was punishing. The breeze had vanished entirely, like it knew better than to stick around for this circus. The water lay flat and glassy, every movement magnified, every mistake waiting to echo across the flat like a slammed Yeti cooler lid.
Eddie was on his second energy bar, a second can of Red Bull, and had started talking to his fly rod like it was an old friend.
Cal Bennett was camped out on the cooler seat behind him, cool, silent, and borderline motionless. An old-school guide who’d seen more tailing permit than Instagram reels, Cal filming the day with two voice-controlled GoPros mounted on the poling platform and console. He hadn’t said much since they left the dock, but he never did unless it meant something.
Nico, always confident, deliberate, kept poling with quiet focus. After the wind died down, he and Eddie had reworked the plan. Forget about tailers, singles, floaters, and cruisers. Not on a day like this. Way too slick. Permit didn’t just get spooky in conditions like these, they developed supernatural powers like ESP.
“They know,” Nico had said, nodding toward the motionless water. “They see the fly. They see the leader. They see your rod. They see the boat. They even see you thinking about casting.”
“So,” Eddie asked, “what’s left, rays?”
“Yep, rays,” Nico said. “If we find some mudding rays, we might find one permit dumb enough to fool.”
That was the strategy now: look for mudding rays in areas where they were more likely to be. Southern stingrays, big ones, the kind that kicked up a real cloud. Permit trailed them for the crustaceans they stirred up, slipping in and out of the silt like ghosts. The trick was catching them in that window, when they were distracted, moving in and out of the mud, and not analyzing every shadow. Permit on rays didn’t get much time to think. And that was the only edge they had left.
Nico pushed quietly, now low tide and scanning the deeper edge of the flats, looking for mud trails and fast-moving shadows.
Then it happened.
Nico broke the silence. “Ray, eleven o’clock, 200 feet. Something hanging back.”
Eddie froze. He followed Nico’s line of sight and spotted it, a wide, hazy plume of mud streaking behind a Southern ray the size of a hula hoop along the edge of the flat in two and a half feet of water.
Trailing behind it, low in the water, moving erratically, was a shape, and then the tip of a tail breaking the surface.
Permit.
Nico carefully closed in within 100 feet, then he quietly crept in and stuck the skiff at 70 feet, as Eddie’s rod simultaneously lifted almost on its own. The cast unfolded. Clean. Quiet. On target.
The Crown Jewel landed softly just inside the muddy edge, enough to be seen, not enough to be too obvious.
The fish turned.
Eddie didn’t breathe.
The fish accelerated and then suddenly tailed up.
The permit had pinned the Crown Jewel to the bottom and sucked it in.
Eddie made one long, deliberate strip, and the line came tight.
Eddie strip-set, firm, short, precise. Not a yank, not a panic move that would snap the 16lb class tippet. Just a clean, practiced pull with the rod slightly to the side to cushion the impact of the set, born of hard-won experience.
The fly held.
The fish surged.
The reel sang.
And Eddie let out a wild, startled laugh. Half hysteria, half miracle, all disbelief. He stepped down from the casting platform, mouth open, laughing like someone who just realized he might’ve actually pulled off the impossible.
Cal didn’t flinch. Just ran the cams like he was filming a coronation.
The fight took thirty minutes, maybe more. As the fly line, then backing began to scream off the reel, Nico jumped down from the platform, lowered the engine, and motored after the fish, careful not to overtake it. He held back just enough to let the fish feel the weight of the skiff. As Eddie shifted with the pressure, Nico expertly worked the wheel, gently turning the skiff to keep the line angle clean and the fish in front.
Every correction gave Eddie better leverage, never too much, never too fast, just enough to stay in the fight. His throttle hand was steady, his eyes locked on the wake ahead. Cal cracked a water bottle, made a note of the time, and kept the cameras rolling.
When Eddie finally worked the permit back to the boat, Nico netted the fish to comply with IGFA and tournament regs. He couldn’t believe it.
True to form, the fish had run fast and hard at first, straight down the edge of the flat. Then it peeled more backing off, straight out into deeper water.
Then it circled the skiff like in orbit. And as Eddie was gaining ground and back on the fly line, it circled in the opposite direction, as if it was looking to keep Eddie off balance and looking for the lower unit or trim tabs to break off on.
It forced Eddie to switch hands, dunk the rod tip, keep his balance, and walk around the entire skiff.
Every time it seemed to tire, it surged again, drawing out the fight and testing the tippet. But Eddie and Nico stayed with it, calm and patient.
And now here it was. Shining like silver under the sun. Big. Clean. Honest. Not a world record, not even close, but a fish that took effort and earned respect. A permit that makes a lifelong impression, not just in photos, but in memories.
Both teams had been issued calibrated scales, donated by one of the few sponsors, The Angling Company. The rules were clear: if a fish exceeded the scale’s 30-pound limit, final judgment would default to a standard length-and-girth formula.
They measured it. When they tried to weigh it, the needle on Cal’s scale hit thirty pounds and didn’t budge. Officially, it would have to go down by measurement. If Rider managed to land one as heavy, the contest would be decided the same way.
Photographing it now from every angle with his cell phone. Cal handled the proof like he was a DA going into a courtroom.
Then Eddie removed the fly and slipped the fish back into the water. It kicked once, then glided off into the glare like it had someplace better to be.
Nico nodded. “That’ll do.”
They pushed off the edge of the flat in silence, not celebrating, not high-fiving. Just three men and a skiff motoring back from the edge of the world, content to let the moment settle where it landed.
Rider Monroe didn’t weigh a permit that day. He caught a decent-sized jack on the back of a ray before lunch, filmed it, and posted it anyway. But there’s no shame in getting skunked when you’re fly fishing for permit. Most days, that’s just how it goes.
And just like that, the Permit King had earned his crown.
Chapter 11: The Permit King
To Eddie’s surprise at the awards gathering, if you could call it that, Caroline showed up. She hadn’t said she was coming. Neither had his parents. But there they were, standing off to the side, looking a little out of place but proud.
There wasn’t a big official reconciliation. No speeches, no tears. Just smiles, laughter, and hugs. And that was enough.
Eddie took first place. Officially.
Rider didn’t take second or anything at all. He didn’t catch a permit, so there was nothing to weigh or measure. Skunked, if not for the jack. It happens.
Ironically, the only prize was donated by none other than Rider’s dad, Capt. Rich Monroe was a free guided trip with him. Eddie accepted it, said thanks, and never mentioned it again. The certificate disappeared during cleanup. No one asked about it. No one used it or missed it.
Rider couldn’t leave town fast enough. A new campaign was already spinning up, a bonefish challenge in the Bahamas, complete with teasers and a branded line of SPF hoodies called Monroes – Bones of Glory. Eddie watched the trailer once, said nothing, and closed the tab.
Chapter 12: The Aftermath
Later that evening, after his mom, dad, and sister went back to their suite at the Pier House, Eddie met up with Nico and Cal for a celebratory drink at the Hogfish. And, even though this had been Eddie’s first fishing tournament, he swore it would be his last.
He had never liked the idea of fishing as competition. The rules, the time limits, the chest-thumping egos, it all felt backwards to him. Fishing, in his mind, was supposed to be the antidote to that kind of noise, not a stage for it.
He didn’t like what it did to guides and anglers. He’d seen it at the boat ramp. How grown men could act like children over a fish, or how a missed cast suddenly carried the heavy weight of failure, or loss. And accusations of cheating. It was just fishing. A pursuit built on excitement, joy, patience, skill, instinct, and luck. And yet here they were, treating it like an MMA match.
Nico and Cal felt the same way. Both had seen what pressure and posturing could do to the fishing and the people. “It’s biting the hand that feeds you, and it’s out of control,” Cal muttered, arms crossed, gaze fixed on the horizon. “Turning something sacred into something stupid.” Nico didn’t say much, but gave a single nod, and that was enough. They all understood what this was and why they wouldn’t be doing it again.
Eddie believed in working hard, taking care of his clients, respecting the water, and never pretending the fish owed you anything. That was the code he tried to live by.
This whole circus? It just reminded him why.
Lila, as usual, just rolled her eyes and poured another round of drafts.
Chapter 13: Just Another Day on the Water
They met at Garrison Bight Marina just after sunrise. The sky was still the color of slate, with a streak of orange to the east. Walt was already there, leaning against a piling with a to-go cup of gas station coffee in his hand. He didn’t wave. Didn’t call out. Just nodded and smiled as Eddie pulled up to the boat ramp.
Eddie splashed his skiff as Walt snapped a few photos with his phone and glanced toward the basin. He knew better than to offer help, he would just be in the way.
“Supposed to be light wind,” he said.
Eddie nodded. “We’ll see.”
That was it. They hadn’t seen each other since last Christmas, and they hadn’t fished together in over two years. But it didn’t feel like a reunion. It felt like they were stepping back into something they’d never left.
Walt hopped aboard, agile, catlike. He hadn’t lost a step. He sat on the cooler in front of the console and sipped his coffee as Eddie untied the line. The skiff idled off the dock and into the basin, and the water was slick.
They didn’t say much on the run out across the Ship Channel. They didn’t need to. Eddie was at the wheel, Walt sat on the padded Yeti cooler in front of the console, watching the early morning light unfold over Lakes Passage. It felt almost routine, like something they’d done a hundred times before, only in a different place and time. Everything else could wait, and there would be plenty of time to talk later.
And somewhere west of Key West, another story was developing.
Chapter 14: Tied and True
Back at the dock, people still called Fast Eddie the Permit King, half joke, half recognition. A few meant it. And every now and then, someone would lean over the rail and ask what fly he used.
Eddie would smile.
“Crown Jewel. Version one point oh,” he’d say. “Tied it myself.”
And Hurricane Ian? After brushing past Key West, it turned north and slammed into Florida’s Gulf Coast as a Category 4. Fort Myers Beach, Sanibel, and Cape Coral were devastated. When it was over, Ian had left more than $112 billion in damage behind, making it the costliest hurricane in Florida’s history, and the third costliest in U.S. history, behind only Katrina and Harvey.
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.