A sardine feeding frenzy is one of the world’s ecological wonders. It’s also one of the biggest turn-ons for obsessive anglers. “I’ve seen grown men tremble at the sight,” says Felipe Morales, my host and captain, as he guns our boat through a glassy expanse of the Pacific toward an eruption of frothy white water on the horizon.

Within minutes we’re on top of the chaos. Red- and blue-footed boobies relentlessly divebomb the surface. Spotted dolphins torpedo through the water. And hordes of massive tuna leap through the air, their hungry mouths agape. Before the boat has even slowed, my guide Jairo Zuñiga rushes toward the bow, spinning rod in hand, and catapults a popper (a topwater lure) directly into the action. The neon-pink lure barely splashes the surface before a silver flash gobbles it—yanking the line taught—and the battle begins.

It’s late March, and I’ve arrived in Bahía Solano, an under-the-radar fishing paradise on Colombia’s wild Pacific coast, just as the sardines have started to pour into the region’s warm waters on their annual spring migration south from Panama. When they cluster into a dense sphere, known as a bait ball, they become a feast for predators such as tuna, sailfish, jacks and snappers. And as those predators hit the surface to feed, they in turn become enticing targets for anglers like me. This natural phenomenon is only one reason the fishing here is so spectacular.

Another is the lack of tourists. In virtually any other fishing destination, a feeding frenzy like this would attract dozens of boats. Here, except for a local panga (a small, lightweight open boat, typically with an outboard motor), we are the sole vessel in the water. Unlike Colombia’s Caribbean coast and coffee region, the Chocó district in which Bahía Solano lies has yet to be discovered by globe-trotters. Just under a decade ago, this jungle-cloaked area was controlled by the FARC (Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia) guerrillas. Even after the 2016 peace accord between the FARC and the Colombian government, only intrepid travellers ventured here, lured by the district’s black-sand beaches and extraordinary biodiversity. (Chocó is roughly half the size of Tasmania and contains an estimated 9,000 vascular plant species, 2,250 of which are found nowhere else, as well as more palm species than any other part of the world.)

In recent years, fanatical anglers like Morales, an Argentinean who has fished around the world, started to hear whispers about Bahía Solano’s potential. With its uncharted coastline and deep canyons starting just a few kilometres off the mainland, the area offers the opportunity to cast for an incredible mix of offshore species, such as mahi-mahi and marlin, and inshore varieties like roosterfish and cubera snapper. You can fish here nearly year-round: January through March brings tuna and inshore season, April through June is ideal for sailfish and fly-fishing, and October through December is deep-sea heaven, excellent for targeting blue marlin, wahoo and large mahi-mahi. And the region’s minimal infrastructure—there are no paved roads in Bahía Solano—lack of charters and absence of large marinas have kept fishing pressure incredibly low. “It’s one of the last true frontiers in saltwater fishing,” Morales had told me on the phone ahead of my arrival at Black Sands, his new fishing lodge.

Given his résumé, I trusted his boldly confident claim. Morales, 36, grew up immersed in the industry. His father, Marcelo, is a fly-fishing legend: a fly-tying connoisseur and bamboo-rod craftsman, he helped popularise the sport in Argentina in the 1970s and played a key role in the early development of some of Patagonia’s most renowned flyfishing lodges. In the ’90s, he partnered with American Jon Fisher to open an outpost of the popular New York City fly shop Urban Angler in Buenos Aires. The latter still exists today under the name Buenos Aires Anglers.

Morales started guiding at 17. He has taken clients to waters all over the planet, from the rivers of the American West to the flats of the Bahamas to the Indian Ocean off the northern coast of Madagascar. “Felipe has attracted the love of a lot of billionaires who like to fish,” a longtime American client, Hollywood entertainment lawyer Tom Hansen, told me before my departure. And if Morales suggests they go to a particular spot, they go. While he was guiding in Venezuela, another of his wealthy clients, a hedge-fund owner from New York, suggested they open a lodge together. After searching for the perfect spot in South America for six years, they finally stumbled upon Bahía Solano and started operating here in 2018 out of a rustic five-room beachfront lodge. Clients loved the fishing but subtly hinted that they’d appreciate an upgrade in the amenities.

When the humble hotel across the bay went up for sale, the partners relocated their enterprise. Last summer, they completely rebuilt the property, transforming it into the region’s first high-end lodge. Nestled on a stretch of jungle-backed beach just under a kilometre in length, Black Sands feels like a private island. Yet it’s remarkably easy to reach. From Medellín, a city that has reinvented itself as a hub of cool after years of drug wars, it’s just a one-hour flight to Bahía Solano’s ramshackle airport. (It’s too small for jets, but Morales can charter twin props from Medellín.) When I arrive, I navigate around rogue chickens to reach my luggage. A Black Sands staff member is there to meet me and ushers me to a moto tuk tuk, which whisks us along a pockmarked dirt road for 10 minutes before depositing us at a pier where Morales is waiting aboard Volantis, his Contender 39 ST powerboat. “Welcome to tuna heaven,” he says as he greets me on the deck.

The 20-minute boat ride to Black Sands offers a glimpse of the region’s trapped-in-time beauty. Hansen, who has fished here with Morales a handful of times, told me Bahía Solano feels like Costa Rica 30 years ago, and I’d agree. Misty rainforest tumbles down to the sea at every turn, and the only boats we encounter are wooden pangas helmed by locals. “It’s rare to discover a place that still feels so young,” Hansen had shared. “And one where you can get your arm pulled off by a fish, too—well, that’s special.”

Upon my arrival, the team is abuzz with excitement, having just spotted a sloth lolling through the trees by the restaurant. A lovely staff member greets me with a cold towel then escorts me to my room. Black Sands’ 12 teak bungalows are just steps from the beach, connected by a winding wooden boardwalk. Soaring ceilings give them a luxuriously spacious feel, and each has a private deck overlooking the sea. The beds are out-of-this-world comfortable, and the huge bathrooms are decorated with native plants and stocked with artisanal toiletries from Bogotá-based skin-care line Loto del Sur. Many guests will tell you their favourite feature is the air-conditioning, an appreciated relief from the humidity.

When it comes to gear, anglers are a finicky bunch, but Black Sands’ tackle room is so well curated, most leave their rods and reels at home, happy to borrow the lodge’s top-of-the-line equipment from brands such as Sage and Scientific Anglers. During my four-day stay, I mostly stick to the lodge’s typical angling program: coffee and made-to-order breakfast at 6 am; depart on Volantis, one of the lodge’s two Contenders, around 7 am; and fish until sunset, with a short break for lunch, which is always something fresh and healthy, like a poke bowl made with tuna we’d caught the prior day.

Because the sardine run has just begun, I happen to be the sole guest, so I have the boat to myself with Morales and our two guides: Kenny Fernandez, a native of Mexico, and Jairo Zuñiga, a local whom I nickname Tom Brady for his impressive casting distance and accuracy. Each day delivers thrilling action and doubles as a marine safari, with sightings of turtles, pods of dolphins, a shiver of sharks and even a feeding whale shark. A playlist of Bob Marley, Duran Duran and The Rolling Stones sets the mood as we cruise the Pacific looking for swarms of feeding birds. We experiment with every technique—popping, jigging, trolling, fly-fishing—trying to land a variety of species, but yellowfin tuna are our prime targets, and Zuñiga seems to be able to smell them miles away.

My father was an avid fisherman. As a young girl, I spent many Saturdays by his side glueing shimmery tinsel and bright feathers to the flies he’d tie. But I never understood his fishing obsession until I was older and he’d passed away. I am far from an expert angler, but as an adult, the sport has helped me know my dad a bit better. It is a hobby that requires patience and humility, two traits he had heaps of, and it’s fuelled by a love of nature perhaps even more than by the satisfaction of capturing a fish. I’m certain he would have considered Bahía Solano to be nirvana, just as I do.

I find the drama of the catch is equal to that of the landscape here. I had said I wanted a whopper, and Morales warned, “No, you don’t.” On day three, I learn why. Up until this point, I’ve been reeling in some nice-size tuna, averaging 14 kg. Now, when my popper thrashes like an explosion in the water, Zuñiga rushes to my side to strap me into the fighting belt. “Get ready for torture,” Morales says with a laugh as he sips what is probably his 10th Coke Zero of the day. After 30 minutes of battling the mass of muscle and speed on the end of my line, I finally have to ask Zuñiga to grab the rod so I can rest. When my forearms finally stop burning, I reclaim the rod and, after another 15 minutes, haul in a glistening 32 kg tuna.

Zuñiga hasn’t even gotten the hook out of its mouth before Morales spots more action in the water and urges me to throw out another cast, but I am done for the day. “One more,” I have quickly learned, is never really one more. I collapse contentedly in a beanbag chair on the bow of the boat and let the guys catch the grouper that will be our dinner this evening.

By day’s end, I’m so tired I can barely climb the steps to reach the lodge’s Balinese-style open-air dining room. Perched high on a hill above the bungalows, it affords guests incredible sunset views and, during the summer, a perfect vantage from which to spot migrating humpback whales. Despite my aching body, I know dinner will be worth the trek. Morales is as discerning about food as he is about fishing, and he recently hired chef Dayana Jamaica, who used to work at Medellín’s lauded Test Kitchen Lab. One evening she turns our tuna into sashimi and tuna tartare served atop avocado crema. Tonight, she makes a delicate green curry with the grouper.

Over dinner, Morales shares his larger plans for the lodge. A gym and a pool are being added, and he’s waiting for the arrival of a third boat, which will be used for whale watching. Hard-core, discriminating anglers, like Hansen, form Black Sands’ client base, but Morales wants to promote Bahía Solano’s other treasures as well. He recently hired a local guide to show off the region’s unparalleled bird watching and is partnering with the nearby PADI shop to offer diving. One day I venture to the neighbouring village of El Valle, about 40 minutes away, to see a turtle conservation project and assist in the baby-turtle release.

Morales isn’t the only one who sees Bahía Solano’s potential for tourism. Last year, a Colombian outfitter, Afloat Adventures, took over Black Sands’ original lodge across the bay and began providing both fishing and nature tours. “People are always looking for the next new place,” said Hansen. “It’s only a matter of time before the secret gets out.” Hansen, a purist fly-fisherman, estimated he has fished in at least 40 places around the world but said there’s something different—a little magical—about Bahía Solano. Yes, it’s the fish, but at least for now, it’s also the luxury of having the ocean all to yourself.

From around $780 per night for double occupancy, including meals; lodge buyout, around $9,400 per night. Fishing packages start at around $6,400 per person for three days.

All photographs: Courtesy Black Sands Lodge.