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One of the greatest migration on Earth happens daily, from 250 fathoms to the surface. Every night, while we rest and our boats rock peacefully in their moorings, a war of survival, necessity, and evolution takes place in the surface layers of the ocean.
A few fly anglers on the very fringe of the sport attempt to intercept one of this migration’s participants, the broadbill swordfish. It is not a meeting that evolution would have planned for. The invention of internal combustion, petrochemicals, and hydrocarbon-plastic-based fly lines first had to happen. We would also have to solve for navigation, flotation and migration, and a myriad of other obstacles before humans could pursue these gladiators of the sea on the long rod.
The first fly angler to document capturing a swordfish on IGFA-legal tackle, Jeremy Block, just so happens to be the most recent. And on December 8, 2024, rather fittingly he became the first fly angler to boat a swordfish of over 100 pounds. If ratified, this most recent capture will replace Fouad Sahiaoui’s 89-pound catch from the IGFA record books, a catch which has stood since 1998. Below is a summary of that fateful evening in Jeremy’s words.
We left Shela, Kenya, at 12:30 PM aboard Sirai, a 38’ Viking, heading toward the North Kenya Banks. For five hours, the ocean offered little more than a single Felusi (mahi-mahi), which struck a teaser briefly before vanishing.
By 6:45 PM, we converted all our baits to the broadbill setup: one outrigger bait with a light stick ahead on the surface, and one downrigger bait with a similar light stick arrangement set at 100 feet. At 7:45 PM, the first broadbill struck. It knocked the bait from the outrigger clip, sending everyone scrambling from their seats—but then, silence. It didn’t return.
The next three hours were uneventful, other than the continued freshening of the wind. I tinkered with my tackle, tied a new tippet, and dozed off occasionally to the increased rocking of the seas.
At 11:02 PM the call came from Capt. Alex on the bridge: “FISH! FISH! JEREMY, COME!”
Sammy, stationed on the teaser rod, waited for the next strike from the fish. I grabbed my fly from the light box, which was now glowing faintly due to the florescent material in the fly.
“It’s coming, it’s coming, it’s coming!” Sammy shouted, his voice taut with urgency.
I threw the glowing fly over the side, letting some line out. “Alex, can you turn the boat so the wind doesn’t push the fly straight back at me?” I called out.
The light stick above the baited teaser became visible in the water. Sammy turned to me.
“Cast, Jeremy!” he shouted.
“OUT OF GEAR!” I shouted in reply. I launched my back-cast, then my forward cast. WHACK!
“OH F—K!” I yelled as the fly struck me just above my right ear and stuck there. Out in the dark expanse, the excited swordfish continued to strike the teaser bait.
I yanked the fly free, narrowly avoiding a second hook above my eye. Amid the chaos, the fly line had wrapped around the downrigger. By some incredible stroked of luck, I was able to quickly untangle it and tossed the fly back into the water. Another near disaster avoided.
With a roll cast, I sent the fly toward where I thought the broadbill might be. The line came tight in the current. I twitched the fly a couple of times to mimic a wounded baitfish—and then I felt it.
The fish took the fly in one gulp. It was heavy and bolted away. “Have you got it?” Alex shouted as he flipped on the lights.
The fish turned and charged toward the boat. “Have you still got it?” Alex called again.
“I… I think so,” I stammered, unsure. Then, the line snapped tight, and I knew I was hooked up for real. The line peeled away from my Mako reel.
“Where’s the line?” Alex yelled.
We all pointed. Alex reversed the boat, but the fish was stripping line too fast. Waves crashed over the stern, soaking me as the crew scrambled to strap a bucket harness to me.
The fish paused, giving me a chance to regain some line. “Alex, can we turn the boat and head toward the fish?” I asked.
“No, I can’t see the backing!” Alex replied. “We might run over it.”
We carried on in strained, painful silence for roughly 20 minutes, which seemed like an eternity. Slowly, the fish began to tire, and I regained more line than I lost. Momentum started to shift in my favor.
Finally, I saw the bright red running line.
“How much is left?” Alex asked.
“About 100 feet!” I replied.
The line came in slowly, followed by the fly line.
“Fly line on the reel!” I shouted. But my relief was short-lived. The fish bolted again. This cycle repeated several times. Patience, I reminded myself.
“You’ve got all night,” Alex called from the bridge, echoing my thoughts and reminding me to not to push it too hard.
When the fly line returned, I could see the fish but couldn’t gauge its size.
‘Should we gaff it?’ I wondered. ‘It should break the 20-pound tippet record.’
We decided to go for it.
The fish came into range. “GAFF!” Alex shouted to Sammy and Fondo. They missed the first attempt, but the fish stayed hooked. On the second try, the fixed gaffs stuck, and I eased off the drag.
Sammy and Fondo dragged the fish aboard, its size stunning us all. Alex’s excited voice broke the silence. “USE THE PRIEST!”, he shouted to the mates, who quickly grabbed the club and dispatched the fish.
Cheers erupted—high fives, handshakes, and hugs. We all knew it was a record. We each guessed the weight, settling on an average of 42 kilograms, or roughly 93 pounds.
The fight had lasted 32 minutes.
We fished the rest of the night, raising two more swordfish—one at 12:50 AM and another at 4:20 AM—but neither resulted in a hookup.
We finally limped back to port, due to a broken fan belt on the way home. A crowd had gathered for the weigh-in. It seemed Alex had been busy on social media when we got close enough to land for phone coverage. We were elated to find that our onboard estimates were several pounds light, with the fish officially tipping the scales at 45.79 kilograms, or 100 pounds, 15 ounces.
