Fly Fishing in Cancun: A Flats Adventure
Earlier this year, my girlfriend and I had just returned from Punta Cana, Dominican Republic, when the inevitable post-holiday blues hit. You know that feeling — the bags are barely unpacked and you’re already scrolling the internet, hunting for the next escape. We wanted something later in the year — sun, sand, and a dash of adventure. Cancun, Mexico, quickly rose to the top of the list. Before long, we had a week locked in for early October. A long way to go for seven days, sure — but when you’re chasing tropical warmth, it’s impossible to say no.
We flew out of Manchester on September 30th — a ten-hour direct flight with TUI — and checked into the Riu Cancun, an all-inclusive paradise perched on the edge of the Caribbean. The first few days were everything we hoped for: endless sunshine, great food, and cocktails that kept coming. But while I was more than happy lounging by the pool, I had another mission in mind — to sneak in a day of fly fishing on the flats.
The Plan
In the weeks leading up to the trip, I’d done my homework. I wanted a local guide who could put me onto the fish — ideally Jack Crevalle, baby Tarpon, or anything that fancied a well-presented fly. After a few late-night Instagram scrolls, I found a local guide (Find them on Inst @ Cancunflyfishing) who couldn’t have been more helpful. I booked a six-hour guided trip for Saturday, October 4th, with transport, drinks, and snacks included. Total cost: $375 — $75 to reserve, the rest on the day. Deal done.
An Early Start
The adventure began early. At 5:30 a.m., my driver Rodrigo pulled up right on time — a fisherman himself, and full of local knowledge. We chatted the whole way out of the city until we met my guide for the day. We loaded the skiff onto his pickup and drove north toward Isla Blanca — a wild strip of land with the Caribbean Sea on one side and a mangrove-lined lagoon on the other.
The drive was surreal — quiet, remote, and full of promise. By the time we reached the dock around 6:15, the first glow of dawn was breaking... and so were the mosquitoes.
Now, I’ve fished in some buggy places before, but this was next-level. Within seconds, I was under siege. So here’s Tip #1: apply your bug spray before you get to the dock. Don’t make my mistake — flailing around, slapping your face, and trying to spray repellent whilst trying to pull your Buff to cover you as much as possible. It’s not a good look.
The Setup
By 6:30, we were gliding across the lagoon. My guide checked my gear — which, admittedly, was more “predator fishing in the UK” than “Caribbean flats.” I’d rigged a 9 ft 28lb straight-through leader, which works fine for pike and musky but not ideal here.
He quickly rebuilt it: three feet of 40lb, four foot of 28lb, and a short 40lb fluorocarbon bite section — perfect for tarpon, snook, and jacks with their sandpaper mouths. A small tweak, but a huge improvement — one I’ll definitely use again.
On the Water
We ran forty minutes across the lagoon before shutting down over a shallow flat. The boat floated in four feet of water, and I was casting into one or two. Early light made sight-fishing tough, so we started blind-casting — waiting for the telltale roll of a tarpon or splash of a feeding jack.
Casting from a skiff takes some adjustment. Line management becomes everything — keeping it clear of your feet, out of the water, and definitely away from the engine well. After a few tangles, I found my rhythm: short, fast strips, eyes scanning for life.
As the sun climbed, the lagoon came alive. Stingrays drifted over the sand, and my guide reminded me to watch behind them — Jacks often tailgate rays, picking off spooked baitfish. From then on, every shadow made my heart race, waiting for that flash of silver or gold.
Tarpon, though, were the main event. Most were juvenile fish in the 8–9lb range, but my guide mentioned some 20–30lb visitors had turned up lately. Hope was high.
By mid-morning, the heat was brutal, and the coffee buzz was long gone. We’d seen a few fish roll but had no solid shots yet. My guide made the call — time to move. Fifteen minutes later, we were gliding into new water. The kind of decision that can change everything.
Hunting Rolling Tarpon
We crept quietly along the mangrove edge, eyes locked on the darker water. Then, the giveaway — two, three tarpon rolling about 60 yards ahead. Game on.
I cast too far right. No reaction.
Second cast — perfect. Five feet ahead of the pod, short strips... and then the line went tight.
A flash, a swirl, and snap! My overzealous strip set popped the 40lb bite tippet like thread. Heartbreak. Lesson learned: timing beats strength every time.
Switching Flies and Strategies
Back to the box. My guide wasn’t keen on my bright tarpon bunnies, but I had thankfully packed a selection of Pike and Sea Bass flies — I zeroed in on a gold-and-brown Pollock flatwing I’d tied earlier in the year for sea bass. Three inches in length; bucktail, saddle feathers, some gold flash and gold eyes. The guide took one look and said, “Perfect.”
We eased back down the shoreline, scanning the glassy water. Then — another pod, rolling gently in a quiet back bay. The guide lined us up.
I waited for the right moment, false cast once, twice, and dropped the fly. The stars aligned.
The Fight of a Lifetime
Strip, strip — tight! This time, I held steady. The tarpon exploded from the water, silver scales flashing in the sun.
The fight was chaos — leaps, cartwheels, screaming drag. I bowed on every jump, keeping the hook pinned. The Douglas Sky G 8-weight performed flawlessly — crisp, powerful, and forgiving when it mattered. My Shilton SL8 reel sang, its buttery-smooth drag soaking up every surge.
Ten minutes of adrenaline later, we had her. My guide lipped the fish and lifted her aboard — a stunning 20-pound tarpon, big for Isla Blanca’s juveniles. My first tarpon on the fly. Unreal.
A few photos, a quick underwater release, and she was gone — disappearing into the mangroves as my heart pounded.
What a day. What a fish.
The Rest of the Adventure
Riding high after that first successful tarpon, we worked our way along the shoreline, spotting more and more pods of rolling fish. I managed a few shots, but plenty went astray — some fell short, others too far, sending the fish darting for cover. My inexperience in this style of fishing was showing, but every missed shot was another lesson learned.
Later in the morning, we crossed to the opposite side of the lagoon, finding another shallow bay teeming with life. Just like earlier, fish were patrolling tight to the mangroves. My guide soon spotted two moving right to left. I laid out a long cast — about fifty feet — one I was honestly quite proud of. The fly landed softly, five feet ahead of the lead fish.
I let it sink, then began to strip. Strip, strip, strip… and suddenly, one of the tarpon bolted from the mangroves and inhaled the fly. Remembering what I’d learned earlier, I gave a controlled strip set. The fish cartwheeled out of the water, racing straight for the mangroves. I tried to turn her, but with one violent shake of her head, the fly came loose — and the line came flying back, wrapping around me in a spectacular tangle. Another shot gone.
So at that point, the score stood at: two lost, one landed. But with countless encounters and heart-pounding moments, I was more than satisfied. For my first time flats fishing for tarpon, this was already a massive success. And like we always say — it’s not just about the catching; it’s about the adventure.
We fished the rest of the shoreline, still spotting rays gliding across the sand, but no jacks tailing them this time. Eventually, we reached a wide inlet channel that connected to the open ocean — deep, fast, and full of tidal flow. My guide suggested I switch tactics and tie on one of my jig flies: a three-inch deceiver pattern with big lead dumbbell eyes. This was a whole new game — less about finesse, more about power casting, letting it sink deep, and stripping hard through the current.
On my fifth cast through the channel, I got hammered. Out of nowhere, a five-foot barracuda erupted from the water, thrashing violently before crashing back down with an explosion of spray. I tightened up — and within seconds, ping — my 40lb leader was bitten through clean, like cotton.
That was the end of the day. Hot, exhausted, but absolutely buzzing, I couldn’t wipe the grin off my face.
All in all, flats fishing for tarpon is an experience every fly angler should try at least once. It’s humbling, challenging, and completely different from the river or stillwater fishing most of us are used to in the UK. It’s intensely visual, brutally hot, and even the mosquitoes add to the authenticity of the adventure!
And when you watch those YouTube videos where it all looks effortless — trust me, it’s not. There’s real skill in this kind of fishing, but it’s also one of the most rewarding things you can do with a fly rod.
So if you ever find yourself in Mexico — maybe on a family holiday or a romantic getaway — be nice to your partner and negotiate a morning or half-day out on the flats. You don’t need tons of gear or a huge budget. Just bring your enthusiasm and a sense of adventure.
It could easily become the highlight of your entire trip.
Tight lines all
