Confession, they say, is good for the soul.

After decades of fishing for everything ranging from amberjack to zebrafish (sheepshead), the law of averages dictates that even a duffer like me will eventually catch at least one of whatever he goes after.

That's true, up to a point. The "point" for me has been a sailfish.

Sound ridiculous?

You bet.

It's not like I haven't had some shots, you understand. But, when a sailfish puts in an appearance anywhere in the vicinity of my bait, something always goes wrong. The hook pulls...the fish spits the bait...a line parts...a cuda cuts me off...birds swoop down and steal whatever bait is out there.

On and on it goes and where it stops...who knows?

Let's face it, when you're snakebit, you're snakebit. And, while a sailfish is a common capture for many, I remain zapped to this day. Same for a Kawakawa, but I've got an excuse for that one since they hang out in Australia.

There. As painful as it is--I've confessed.

I'll even admit to lusting in my heart for Dolly Parton in the hope that I don't catch as much flack from my first wife (Miss Marva) as former president Jimmy Carter did from his first wife (Rosalynn) following that in-depth Playboy Magazine interview way back when.

I further confess that, for a long time, I thought that a permit would have to be added to a list of "Fish That Have My Number."

Since I was based on Florida's west coast at the Tampa Tribune for what seemed like forever, it's not surprising that I wouldn't have all that many opportunities to meet a permit...or a sailfish for that matter.

I broke the ice on a "Flying Saucer" one memorable October day in 1975 more than 20 years ago!

Previously, I had hooked two on the flats--once with Bill Barnes off Key Largo and the other in British Honduras (now Belize). Both whipped my fanny.

On the fateful October day in 1975 Capt. John Eckard in Key West semi-assured me that my luck was about to change.

"I'll put you in the right spot," he said. "However, if you screw up, that's your problem."

And, screw up I did.

Early on I lost four...count em, four...to a range marker piling. Needless to say, I was both upset and disappointed.

"Look at it this way," said fishing companion Vic Dunaway. "In just one hour you've lost twice as many permit as you've lost during all your life put together." I think he was trying to console me.

Eckard, skipper of the Jaybird, was a retired Navy man and one of south Florida's most knowledgeable backcountry and wreck fishing guides.

"Darn," said the guide (he really didn't say "darn), if I had a fisherman aboard we'd have gotten one of those permit."

"If I had a skipper who knew how to run a boat and get between a structure and a fish, I'd be four for four right now," I countered.

"We'd better give this spot a rest and go after bonefish and tarpon," Dunaway suggested. "If I watch much more of this I'm liable to start crying."

Reluctantly we set off for greener pastures after agreeing to return later in the day for a rematch, time permitting (no pun intended). Throughout the day, as we boated and released several bonefish and tarpon, I tried to remember everything I had read and heard about the permit in anticipation that such knowledge would give me a slight edge should we be lucky enough that day to hook a fifth.

Normally, the permit is sought on grass flats during an outgoing tide. While unrelated to the bonefish, it possesses practically the same feeding habits. One of the largest members of the pompano or jack family, the permit is a powerhouse that seems to possess diabolical cunning, extraordinary caution, incredible speed, super strength, and fantastic agility.

In a flats situation it's not at all unusual for a permit to strip off 200 yards of line from an angler's reel in the blinking of an eye. When located in deep water, the fish tends to zero in on the closest underwater obstruction to wrap you up and cut you off. There's not much that a boat operator can do in such a situation.

A rodman's best chance in deep water comes when he can cast to a permit that has ranged away from a structure and the boat can quickly be positioned between the fish and the obstruction. While a permit doesn't fight a spectacular surface battle, it is one of salt water's toughest subsurface trophies. A 20-pounder hooked on 12-pound test line will require some time to subdue.

Patience, persistence, and endurance are prerequisites for those seeking this slab-sided dandy so it shouldn't come as a surprise that following our bonefish and tarpon skirmishes we would return one final time to our original combat zone in anticipation that the permit...like our flag...would still be there.

Sure enough, those telltale silver flashes seen below the water's clear surface indicated their presence. Eckard gauged the current correctly and began drifting down on at least 25 or 30 huge permit centered in an area of about 50 yards in circumference.

"Better make this good," he advised. "This is the last crab in the bait well."

Vic's sharp eye spotted a permit swimming well away from the marker and pointed to the exact spot he wanted me to cast. We knew the fish was on by the way the rod bent double and from the sound of an anguished reel as line peeled off at a frightening clip. No sooner had the fish smashed into the bait offering than Eckard had his engine running and his boat moving toward the structure.

At least and at last we were in time and able to position the vessel between the range marker and a miffed fish.

"Looks like we have a chance this time, even with the angler we're stuck with," Dunaway said to the skipper.

After a 20-minute battle that seemed closer to an hour, I was able to lead a weary quarry alongside the Jaybird where it was swooped up in a landing net. On Eckard's hand-held portable scales, the needle stopped at 32 pounds. Not too shabby considering that the all-tackle world record for permit is 51 pounds. It even qualified for a citation in the Metropolitan South Florida Fishing Tournament (MET) that year. Following a picture or two, it was released none the worse for wear to frustrate some future Waltonian.

"Easy come, easy go," I said as it darted away.

At least this mountain had, at last, been successfully scaled. Now, the only thing left is that elusive sailfish. We'll forget about the Kawakawa.

For now, at least.