There once was a fisherman in Key West who either admitted or bragged -- not sure which one -- he had to spend $100,000 before catching his first permit on fly rod on the flats.

Upon hearing this story, I scoffed inwardly, surmising he must be a bad caster, or perhaps just hired the wrong charter guides. Catching an aggressive fish that's really just a turbo-charged jack couldn't possibly be that expensive or take that long, I thought.

Hmm. It has now been about three years since I started my campaign for the Holy Grail of saltwater fly fishing, and although I have come close, I still am -- as Carole King sang -- ``so faaaa-aar away.''

My latest humiliation at the fins of diabolical permit occurred several weeks ago on the flats of south Biscayne Bay with captain Carl Ball of Fort Lauderdale. Ball, a 10-year veteran flats guide, found me plenty of candidates. And I actually caught and released two permit -- one that weighed 24 pounds -- sight-casting with a live shrimp and a live crab. But after releasing two with bait on spinning gear, I really wanted to catch one using my 9-weight.

Ball was all for it.

``Great idea,'' he said. ``It would be one heck of a story if we got one on fly after this.''

Ball pulled out a shrimp pattern that he ties himself -- a chartreuse, tan and orange fly with lead eyes that's designed for stripping. All we needed now was a taker.

Six potential targets appeared almost on demand, cruising together across a flat on the incoming tide. My first cast was too short for the permit to see the fly, but fortunately, they didn't get spooked, and Ball was able to position his skiff for another shot.

The second cast wasn't too bad, landing several feet in front of a fish on the periphery of the group. It broke off from its friends and began tracking the fly.

``Strip, strip, strip!'' Ball hissed from the poling platform.

I yanked on the fly line as hard and as fast as I could, trying to get the fish interested enough in the fleeing target to pounce. But instead, it seemed to lose interest, fading off and rejoining its friends.

My reaction to this refusal doesn't bear repeating in a family newspaper. ``What was wrong with that?'' I demanded loudly of Ball.

``Maybe you didn't give it the proper presentation,'' he suggested gently. ``Instead of steady stripping, try starting and stopping.''

Our postmortem didn't last long because Ball spotted a group of three permit approaching from about 100 feet. Again, he used his push pole to position the boat for a cast. I couldn't complain about the conditions because the wind and sun were at my back. All I had to do was make a decent, 40-foot downwind cast.

Which I did -- or thought I did.

One of the fish followed my fly, tracking it enthusiastically. I tried mixing up the retrieve -- (strip-strip--pause--strip) -- to keep it interested, but, like the first fish, it dropped off and meandered slowly away.

``Now what?'' I fairly screamed at Ball.

He shook his head.

``I think it didn't have the right action, or something,'' he said. ``Heck, I don't know. It's hard for me to say.''

The next two permit never saw the fly when I cast it in front of them. Ball said it was because they were looking down. They kept coming straight at the boat, finally spooking when they were about 15 feet away and saw us.

``They gave us the middle fin,'' Ball said.

You would think I would have run out of permit to throw at, but they kept coming. I made a cast to one fish, putting the fly alongside it instead of in front of it. No doubt suspicious of a crab that would chase it instead of fleeing in terror, the permit swam away without a second glance.

The next permit encounter would have sent any otherwise-sane fly fisherman to the psycho ward. I am not kidding. I cast the fly a foot or so in front of the fish's nose and it darted after it. At some point between making a strip on the fly line and then making the next quick strip, Ball said the fish inhaled the fly and spat it out.

``His whole back came out of the water. I saw the fly leave his face. Oh my God,'' Ball said.

``But how could this happen?'' I said.

``They come up. They put it in their mouth. It's like a hair on their French fry and they open their mouth and they spit it instantly. It's over that quick,'' Ball said.

We encountered three more permit before we lost our visibility in low, late-afternoon clouds over Stiltsville, but they disappeared into the gloom before I could get a shot at them. Then we headed back to Crandon Marina. It had been one of the best days of permit possibility that I have ever experienced -- including trips to the vaunted flats of Belize and Key West. But still no joy.

I hereby wish to extend my apology and empathy to that long-suffering Key West fly fisherman with the $100,000 campaign expenditure. At least he finally accomplished his mission. My quest, however, continues.