One More
Washington angler Mike Ward surpasses Del Brown’s legendary permit mark, and his compulsion for the next one won’t let him stop.
By Trey Reid
Nothing was going right for Mike Ward. He’d had more than two dozen shots at permit but couldn’t put a fly anywhere close to one. “I don’t know if I had a different fly line or what,” Ward says, “but something was majorly off.” Time was slipping away on the third day of the 2016 March Merkin permit tournament in the Florida Keys. A few minutes before lines-out, Ward and guide Don Gable spotted a large permit tailing away from them.
His first cast fell wide. The next wasn’t much better. The third shot also missed. “I was not in a good head space,” Ward recalls. But on the next attempt, he dropped the fly in front of the fish. It ate it and sped away—around a buoy on a crab pot. The water was too shallow for the motor, so Gable had to pole the skiff over to the buoy for Ward to clear the line. Their timer buzzed to signal lines-out as the permit raced off the flat toward a channel, but tournament rules allowed fish hooked before the cutoff to be landed.
“And then this fish just starts circling,” Ward says. “Big circles.” The permit came to the surface with a big hammerhead shark in pursuit. “So we start the motor and take two big circles around him,” Ward says. “The shark leaves. The fish gets to the other side of the channel and takes this blistering run, and it’s just kicking up water. This big hammerhead goes right behind him, up onto the flat.”
They ran toward the shark again to get between it and the permit. “We basically, like, bump the shark with the boat,” Ward says. Almost all of his backing was out, under the boat, and Ward frantically stripped yards and yards of it into a pile at his feet. When the line went tight, the fish was still on. Ward cleared the backing, but as soon as the fish was on the reel, the backing wrapped around his reel handle.
It had happened before, so Ward knew just what to do. “My move is just to run off the boat toward the fish, and while I’m in the air, I take my left hand and push the line over the reel handle to get it off. It worked, and I’m super stoked. But when I saw Don, his eyes looked like dinner plates. He was screaming, What are you doing? Get in the boat!
“I’ve totally lost track that we just had a hammerhead all over us.”
Ward escaped violent death, landed the fish, and made it to check-in on time. But his hands were still shaking when he turned in his scorecard and photo for the 30-inch permit, which turned out to be the tournament’s biggest fish.
Ward’s obsession with permit is legendary. He has caught more than 500 with a fly rod and, in February, surpassed the 513 permit amassed by the late fly-fishing legend Del Brown. Although there’s no actual “record” for permit caught in the way that tippet, line-class, and length records are kept, Brown’s feat of 513 permit on fly is held in the highest regard among saltwater fly anglers. It’s generally recognized that only one other angler, Alejandro “Sandflea” Vega of Holbox, Mexico, who Ward calls a friend, has caught more permit on fly. Vega lays claim to more than 600.
Ward isn’t in a permit-catching contest with Del Brown, Sandflea, or anybody else, but he aims to catch many more. Years ago, he made up his mind that he wanted to catch 1,000. He’s done the math. It’s possible. But it will require no small amount of time, energy, money, luck, good tides and moons, family support, and more—all for a fish that’s famously uncooperative.
LONG SHOTS
The essence of fishing lies in the pursuit of the possible. Using hook and line to connect to a creature from a different realm is sometimes probable, rarely certain, but always possible. “Elusive but attainable,” as John Buchan put it. There’s probably no greater proof of this concept than fly fishing for permit.
Permit lack the size and strength of tarpon and pelagic species and don’t make the electrifying runs of bonefish. Yet, saltwater fly anglers consider them one of the sport’s greatest challenges. Most anglers passionate about permit can tell you precisely how many they’ve brought to hand—and can recite the memorable and more common defeats with even greater fervor. Reverence comes from their elusiveness.
They are circumspect, equivocal, and mostly ignore artificial flies— “like trying to bait a tiger with watermelons,” wrote Thomas McGuane. But when one of the fickle bastards finally sucks in the fake, it’s a king-hell rush of fantastic energy.
“It’s trying to pick up a girl that’s out of your league,” says Captain Brandon Cyr, a Key West guide who’s been fishing permit tournaments with Ward since 2022. “Nine times out of ten, you’re going to strike out. But that one time is one of the greatest nights of your life.”
Encounters with permit are so uncommon that they touch something intangible, transcendent, and otherworldly. They are the Holy Ghost of the Grand Slam trilogy.
“It’s the constant challenge that keeps you wanting more,” Ward says. “For somebody who loves the creative process of problem-solving, there are so many rabbit holes you can go down with permit to try and figure it out that it’s a never-ending quest.”
Ward, 43, grew up in Mount Vernon, Washington, near Seattle, and now lives in Spokane. His first permit came on his first saltwater fly-fishing trip less than 20 years ago. A Montana fly-fishing guide at the time, he traveled to Mexico and caught a permit on his second day at Ascension Bay. “I could see the tail out there,” he recalls. “It was probably 90 feet, and at the time, I did not have a 90-foot cast in my arsenal. Somehow, I get all the momentum going, and the line shoots and keeps going, and the fly lands two feet in front of the fish. And I’m like, ‘Oh, shit!’ I was amazed, just shocked.”
The guide called for pulsing strips, and the permit coursed towards the boat just below the surface. When the guide called “stop,” Ward stopped the fly. It sank, and Ward watched the permit inhale the fly. “At that moment,” he says, “I was hooked for the rest of my life.”
Ascension Bay’s permit weren’t as cooperative the rest of the trip. “I probably had 150 shots, and I couldn’t make it happen,” Ward says. “I was like, ‘Oh, okay, now I get it.’ I think that’s what made me want it more. It was like getting high and then realizing you don’t have any more weed.”
Ward’s permit quests had a relatively slow start. He took a trip a year for the first few years, catching one here or there. He estimates catching a permit every 12 to 15 days on the water. The only thing holding him back was the cost of his pursuit. Over the years, he’s had success with his business, Adipose Boatworks, and other investments. Ultimately, he admits, catching permit “just fully consumed me.”
Ward calls his pursuit a “journey,” with the spiritual connotation carrying more weight than the act of travel. Not that Ward hasn’t piled up the frequent-flier miles. He’s caught multiple permit species in 11 countries, including Australia, Seychelles, Mauritius, Oman, and the usual permit spots around the Caribbean. “I’ve gone to a lot of other places and not been successful,” he adds. But Ward’s definition of the journey centers on a different kind of quest: understanding an enigma.
“It took Jon Olch seven years to write A Passion for Permit,” Ward says. “The amount of information is just ridiculous. It’s never-ending.”
His permit fascination traces back to a general passion for fish that started in early childhood. When he tied Del Brown’s mark, his mother sent him a text message reminding him that, at three years old, the first thing he said upon waking up most mornings was, “Can we go fishing today?” And his final words before sleep most nights were, “Can we go fishing tomorrow?”
“I know I’ve always had a huge passion for fishing in all forms,” Ward says. “It’s a little surprising that it was this fish. I did a lot of bass fishing growing up, so I’d have thought it would’ve been tarpon or snook. And I had no idea about the permit, but there’s no other fish like them. They’re so their own thing.”
Ward’s fixation extends to the Florida Keys permit tournaments, where he has dominated the big events over the past three years. After teaming up with Cyr in 2022, Ward started an incredible run of seven wins in nine tournaments they fished together.
For Cyr, it all comes down to focus. “A lot of it is staying in the right mindset,” Cyr says. “Mike has a very positive mindset. I think that’s a key thing for him. He’s happy, and he truly loves it. You pretty much know that you will be accepting defeat almost every day. It takes a special kind of person to drive past that and dissect it and figure it out.” Cyr has heard it all when it comes to describing hardcore permit anglers. “But the first thing that comes to mind for Mike,” he says, “is ‘open-minded.’”
Cyr says guides frequently see two types of anglers: those who want or need to be entirely directed by the guide and those who know everything and don’t listen. While execution and delivery are essential, so is listening to the guide. Ward can drop a fly within a foot or two of a spot, without looking or knowing the fish’s location, simply from Cyr’s commands on direction and distance. “He knows exactly my three o’clock, 30 feet,” Cyr says.
He illustrates the point with a story about his favorite permit that Ward has caught in their tournaments together. Pushing across the first flat one morning, Cyr spotted a fish directly behind the boat, swimming into the sun—a worst-case scenario. He instructed Ward to cast 20 feet past the stern at three o’clock. Unable to see the fish, Ward flung the line above Cyr, who ducked down on the poling platform and then translated and directed the action. After a couple of strips and a pause, the fish went down on the fly. Ward stripped and came tight, forcing Cyr into wild contortions to avoid contact with the fly line—a disqualifying action in the tournaments—that was dancing alongside the platform. They landed the fish and went on to win the tournament.
“People don’t listen,” says Cyr, who guides 280 days a year. “People never listen when I tell them what to do. That’s just part of my occupation, and I’ve accepted that. And it’s so cool to have somebody who puts blind faith in me 100 percent, trusts me, and listens. That’s a rare thing for an angler to do with a guide.”
It’s not the only thing uncommon about Ward. He may be one of the most wildly successful permit anglers in fly-fishing history, but if you met him at a fly shop or fishing show, you’d never know it unless someone else told you. If you’re expecting an insufferable prick, you’re reading the wrong story because it’s hard not to like Mike Ward.
“LIVING OFF THE VIBES”
There’s no shortage of anglers crowing about their success on social media, but Ward’s Instagram profile isn’t a place to find shameless self-promotion. He posts as much about his wife, kids, and pets as he does his permit trips. His announcement about tying Brown’s record was humble and gracious. He called it “a special day” and thanked God, his family, the guides, the many people he’d met, and the friends he’d made along the way. He took special care to call out Brown and his pioneering contributions.
Ward also paid tribute to Brown by using a Seamaster Mark III reel for the record-tying permit. It’s the same model Brown used for his International Game Fish Association world-record 41-pound, 8-ounce permit on 8-pound tippet, still the largest permit in the IGFA’s tippet-class fly tackle records. “I give him a lot of credit,” Ward says. “The arbor on that thing is so tiny. That fish was half of what Del’s was, and my hand was cramped so bad at the end.” Ward also honored tradition and leveled the playing field by using a custom bamboo rod for the historic catch.
Ward speaks at a measured, introspective pace, easy to follow, like the long, steady strip of a fly line. He seems almost uncomfortable talking about himself, although he becomes more animated and energetic when the conversation turns to the fish. He’s a fan of Barry Sanders, the NFL Hall of Fame running back known for his humility.
“He is such a down-to-earth person,” Cyr says. “His entire motto in life is living off of good vibes and getting the bad out. I’ve been around a lot of people, and Mike is one of the most genuine, loving, good dudes that I’ve ever spent some time with.”
Although Ward had fished tournaments such as the Del Brown, March Merkin, and IGFA Invitational for a decade, it wasn’t until he connected with Cyr that he started to have consistent success. They had met years earlier at Cyr’s first tournament. The young guide was in his early 20s at the time and was nervous and anxious. Other guides had cautioned him to keep his head down and stay quiet. Cyr was sitting alone at a pre-tournament meeting and dinner when Ward walked over and introduced himself. “He was the only person who talked to me,” Cyr recalls. “And it wasn’t just small talk. He wanted to know about me, about my life.”
They crossed paths over the years but didn’t get to know each other until Ward reached out to Cyr about teaming up for tournaments in 2022. Cyr wasn’t sold on the idea. The relationship between guides and anglers is a complicated alchemy. Cyr wasn’t interested in spending time with an angler he didn’t mesh with. “I was honest,” Cyr says. “I said we need to have a tryout because we might not vibe in the boat.” Cyr’s concerns were soon quelled. “We got on the boat, and the first time out, we got a permit, and we laughed the whole day,” Cyr says. They have the same taste in music—whenever Ward hooks up with a permit, Cyr turns on reggae for a relaxing vibe during the fight. “I really respect Mike a lot in that he views it as a team,” Cyr says. “It’s not just him.”
FAMILY MATTERS
There’s another kind of teamwork critical to Ward’s success. He and his wife, Kelsey, have been married for almost 22 years. With three children, his fishing trips mean Kelsey often carries a heavier load. “My wife is an absolute rock star,” Ward says. “She picks up the slack from the things I can’t do when I’m gone. And she doesn’t complain, doesn’t hold a grudge.”
Ward says fishing is in his DNA, and Kelsey knew she was marrying a fisherman. “I didn’t have much money,” Ward says, “but I told her my prenup is the fact that I fish.” But it’s a big leap from avid fisherman to the extreme commitment of time and resources needed to catch hundreds of the planet’s most elusive fish. When Ward’s pursuit of permit became “a thing,” he says, he sat down with Kelsey and explained the situation. Fly fishing for permit is physically taxing. Boat rides aren’t easy. As anglers age, balance and eyesight erode. If Ward was going to catch an unfathomable number of permit, he needed to get busy while he could. “I had to convey how passionate I am about this,” he says. “Thankfully, she’s been super supportive.”
His brother, Andy, helped him find perspective and balance. “He told me that he didn’t want my kids to think I love fishing more than I love them,” Mike says. “I heard that. I totally agree that I need to make it apparent to my kids, not just through words but through actions, that they mean more to me than anything else.”
Cyr says that perspective is abundantly apparent in the Ward household. With a solid management team in place at Adipose, Ward can devote himself to the family when he’s at home. He coaches the teams and goes to the plays. Even when he’s traveling, he stays connected. He and Cyr will call Kelsey and the kids during fishing tournaments. “She’s our good luck charm,” Cyr says. “And his kids. We’ll call his kids on the way to school and say, ‘Hey, we’re on a flat. We haven’t seen much. We could really use some luck right now.’ And they have a little saying that they’ll say. Or he’ll catch one, and the first thing he does is like, ‘I gotta call Kelsey.’ He is such a family dude.”
Grounded by his family and their support, and with a positive outlook on both fishing and life, Ward hasn’t allowed the rarified air to fuel the fires of ego. If he needs more humility, the permit provide it.
“The fish constantly humbles you,” he says. “As soon as you think you’re amazing, they will show you you’re not.”
Permit fishing is a constantly changing puzzle. When you think you’ve figured it out, the pieces shape-shift in your hands. You find a tide and moon that produces on a certain flat—until it doesn’t anymore. The magic fly never works again. And then you start over.
“That’s what’s awesome, right?” Cyr says. “It keeps it exciting. The hunt never stops. It’s something we’ll never be able to master in our lives because the fishery is changing and the fish are changing. And it’s just spectacular. I don’t know what more you could possibly ask for in a gamefish than that.” The pieces so rarely fit together that, when they do, the resulting sensation is deep and primal.
“There is a certain feeling you get when you catch a permit, and once it passes, all I want to do is catch another one,” Ward says. “I’m not caught up in catching a thousand. But every time, I want the next one. I just want one. I just want it all the time. It never goes away.”
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