An Angler’s California Dream: Extreme Fly-Fishing for Mako Shark

Mary L. Peachin with photos by Michelle Woo Bowman

Attracted by chum, a wide-shouldered mako, its broad-tipped pectoral fin weaving, approached the boat. Closer and closer, 30-25-20 feet, its glassy eyes honed on us as it gulped bits of fresh mackerel. Flying fishing guide Conway Bowman coached, “Mary, when you think the shark is close enough for you to place that streamer in front of its nose, yell now.” The species, clocked as fast as 60 mph, require total synchronization between bait teasing and fly presentation. Steeling my knees against the gunwale, I stood ready to throw a mackerel-patterned streamer fly. Bowman casted a fresh mackerel reeling it just out of reach of the mako’s toothy mouth. When I yelled, he quickly pulled the teaser out of the water as I threw the fly.

Exploding from the ocean’s surface like a firecracker, the mako made a triple acrobatic Salchow leap before stripping 250 yards of fly line before sounding into the depths of the Pacific. “Hang on”, Bowman laughed. What a “sleigh ride!” The mako pulled the boat like we were a pair of water skiers on slaloms. Fighting this elasmobranch for forty minutes is not an exception—it’s more like the rule.

It’s difficult to imagine the thrill of visually casting to a mako shark. Unlike the greyhounding and jumps associated with hooking large saltwater species like sailfish, marlin, and tarpon, the angler must compete with the mako’s brute strength. This is more than just admiring the beauty of its sleek, compact body. Fly-fishing for mako shark is at once terrifyingly active and deeply philosophical, one of the most challenging (and some say frustrating) examples of conservation fly-fishing. Whenever hooked, the shark always wins. Its sandpaper coarse skin or tail either breaks the fly line (usually during a jumping episode), and if the shark is successfully reeled boat side, it is always released.

Once a mako is hooked, Bowman jams the boat into gear to follow the direction of the shark—otherwise the reel would be stripped. Each time I brought a mako to the boat, Bowman’s custom-made gaff, clipped to the fishing line, gently pulled the barbless fly from the shark’s mouth.

A cousin to the great white and salmon shark, short-fin mako, ranging in color from olive to cobalt, is considered a top-of-the-pyramid ocean predator. The species covers a wider geographical range that the great white. And unlike their more famous cousins, mako hunt and feed primarily on live bait rather than seal pups.

We were chumming in the middle of “mako triangle”—an area off San Diego known to most as the California Bite, the Pacific Ocean area between San Clemente, California and Tijuana, Mexico. Here, deep-water canyons have become prime habitat for mako spawning.

After a gestation period of two to three years, mako’s give live birth to as many as 15 pups. If the pups survive without being eaten by their own mother or another shark, they are ready to prey on schools of sardine, herring, and mackerel until they weigh between 400 and 500 pounds. At maturity, these sharks leave for destinations unknown—amazingly, almost nothing is known about their maturity or adult whereabouts.

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Aboard Bowman’s 24-foot Triton LTS, the 50-minute boat ride from San Diego’s Point Loma is a bone-jarring roller coaster ride, certainly not for the faint of heart or weak of stomach or backbone. Bowman likes the boat’s low profile because it doesn’t spook the sharks and allows him to be at water’s edge for an easier release.

Despite the grueling trip, on my first excursion, when Bowman and I arrived at the fishing grounds he proclaimed, “This looks like a great mako day.” The dark gray Pacific Ocean was shrouded by fog, with three-foot southerly swells colliding with a cross chop. I swallowed hard and nodded in a way that I hoped seemed enthusiastic.

A third-generation San Diegoan, the 41-year-old is a beach boy at heart. When he isn’t fishing or working his other day job, managing the Lake Hodges Reservoir in nearby Escondido, he takes the surfboard off the top of his car and heads for the waves. But fishing is his passion. He may have grown up fishing for bluegills and calico bass, but he was always fascinated by the mako. Bowman developed his own technique over time, experimenting with a variety of flies and bait. Now he’s a huge mako fan, with serious interest in conservation of the species, and he has a lot to say about anglers who catch and kill fish for food.

Bowman is a true angler, doing it simply for the joy of fishing. That doesn’t mean he’s not serious. “I know where I have hooked each mako.” He’s recorded the exact waypoint for each release. Bowman begins each trip with important information gathering. He uses his GPS to check depth (less than 100 fathoms), water temperature (70 degrees), and direction of the current drift (southerly). This information is more than statistical—Bowman knows exactly where he wants to fish and, even more important, the direction he wants the boat to drift.

Slowing the boat, Bowman lowered a chum bucket filled with mashed bonito tuna. Particles of fish began to drift out of the bucket, clouding the water with fish particles and oil. “Power chumming,” we motored until the chum line stretched almost half a mile. The location of the drift was highlighted by a flock of terns, a few shearwater, and Hermann gulls, all looking for a feast.

Waiting for sharks to pick up the scent of the chum line and arrive near the boat, Bowman tied steel leaders to homemade flies as he talked about his love for the mako, their strength and beauty. Fin sighted! The first mako approached the boat in less than an hour. Fly fishing for mako is visual, and although the same baiting and casting is routine, the response from each shark is different and unpredictable.

Whenever a mako came within sight of the boat, Bowman baited a mackerel head then tossed it with a spinning rod. He was attempting to entice the shark closer. Once the mako took notice and began to follow, he threw chunks of mackerel, trying to lure the mako within fly casting distance. If a shark is about three feet long, Bowman recommends a 12-weight rod; larger sharks require a heavy 16-weight.

When a mako approached close enough to eat the mackerel chunks, Bowman warned me to keep the fly off the water. He didn’t want to tempt them too close to the boat. If a shark leapt into the boat, Bowman emphasized, “It would be disastrous. The shark would tear this boat apart.”

One mako receded a bit and, at Bowman’s signal I tossed the fly—but to no avail. Usually, if an angler is successful here, the battle begins. Makos, however, don’t usually give an angler a second chance. This one was different. Contrary to the rule, the shark returned, majestic as ever. After another taste of mackerel, it grabbed the fly—as I hooked it with all my might.

I’m an experienced fly fisherman, and an accomplished scuba diver. In fact, I had dived with mako sharks, which, while intimidating, soon became serenely beautiful in that quiet underwater world. But neither experience helped me here—maybe they even served up a false sense of security.

All that security went out the window the moment I hooked the shark. It reared up, heading full-steam toward the boat, which offered the negligible protection of seemingly skimpy two-foot gunwales. I was all reaction and adrenaline, wrestling for control for maybe ten seconds—and then the shark stripped the line, which spun, with a high whine, from my reel. It took me a few minutes to recover, and quite a bit longer to digest the fact that my opponent was a shark half my size, a three-footer.

During two half-day trips, Bowman, and I had the opportunity to catch and release six makos, each of which reacted differently to our presence. Some did aerobatics, while others circled the boat as if we were the prey. A couple “bulldogged” (a term used by tuna fisherman for sounding or heading down).

That’s one of the reasons Bowman loves to fish for them. Not only is it a visual sport, it doesn’t require the occasionally boring aspects of trolling, and each fish has its own personality. But, all of them are aggressive and unpredictable. When a huge six-footer came lurking, as though I wanted to give Bowman an opportunity to prove his angling prowess, I nonchalantly yielded the rod. I released several other three-footers, each time reveling in the rush of the experience.

Four hours later, the chum bucket was empty, and our day of fishing was over. I endured another rough ride back to the marina, this time muscles aching from fighting sharks. Bowman was quiet, but I did catch something about “California dreaming”—a dream in which thrill and majesty almost overwhelm, and in which the shark always wins.