Saltwater Fly Fishing from a Bellyboat: My Love Letter to Mid Norway’s Untamed Waters
Let me tell you, friends, there’s nothing—nothing—like floating in a bellyboat off Mid Norway’s coast with a fly rod in hand and the midnight sun turning the fjords into liquid gold. You’re basically a speck in this vast, wild theater where sea eagles (we call ’em "flying doors" for a reason—those wings could shade a pickup truck) judge your casting skills. And oh, the fish. The fish.

Pollack first, because honestly? They’re the reason my shoulder’s never fully recovered. Those bronze-backed demons with eyes like black marbles and a habit of diving straight to the abyss the second they feel your hook. June through September, they’re everywhere, from skinny water to depths where your DI 7 line starts whispering dark secrets. Pro tip: Lose the floating line unless you enjoy casting to ghosts. And if you think they hit hard in July, just wait ’til August when they’re fat as burglars.

Now, cod—Atlantic cod, the post-spawn gluttons—are a different kind of madness. Early June, when the pollack are still snoozing, these spotted freight trains will inhale a fly like it’s their last meal. Which, I mean, it might be if you’re quick enough. Watch ’em rise from the void, all pale belly and grumpy face, then brace for the most chaotic fight this side of a tangled leader. They’ll wrap you around kelp, headbutt your bellyboat (true story), and generally act like they’ve got a personal vendetta. Love it.

Coalfish? Shoals of ’em, like silver lightning bolts. Most days you’re pulling in foot-long juveniles that fight like they’ve got something to prove, but ask Øystein at the dock about the real monsters—the meter-plus bruisers that lurk past the islands. Rumor has it old man Hansen hooked one last year on a "Midnight Herring" fly (don’t bother Googling it, local tier pattern) and it dragged him halfway to Lofoten.

And the surprises! Mackerel so aggressive they’ll bite your stripping basket, sea trout with flanks like polished steel, and—if the gods are drunk enough—baby halibut that’ll pancake themselves on your fly just to confuse you.

Gear quirks? Oh, you’ll learn. Bellyboats love to spin in currents like drunken ballerinas, and always check your valve caps unless you enjoy sudden submarine impressions.

Final thought: There’s a superstition here that spitting on your fly brings cod. Tried it once. Caught a seagull. Fish at your own risk.