New Rig

Upon arrival to the pre-determined public boat ramp I immediately noticed a chip above the rub rail the size of a flattened quarter. The motor looked its 20 year old age, but still glossy and roared to life when requested. Her idle over zealous and spotty for a few moments until she relaxed down to a comfortable 800rpm, the pisser became a solid stream. The boat it self was dated but clean, her 22 year old lines resemble the brand new mavericks of today. The aluminum dry launch trailer was in similar condition.

I always knew I would upgrade my pathfinder 15T one day. I could not have asked for a better first boat to guide me through the excitement and disappointments of boat ownership. I figured out a lot about what I wanted and what I didn’t want in a skiff during my 9 years of ownership.

I had two reservations when it came to purchasing the Maverick. The first being the 10” draft, and the second being and the 22 year old motor. Trusted confidants and mechanically-inclined buddies all assured me that a 1999 Yamaha two stroke is “bullet proof.” But I have become accustomed to the luxury of a 5 year warranty and a 5” draft. My current outboard never crosses my mind until the tiller is in my hand.

My new acquaintance passed me the throttle and the skiff lurched to life in spitting wind across the large central Florida lake. I tried to hide my grin as I imagined the pathfinder bouncing across this sloppy cold front. The Maverick sliced through chop at an alarming pace.

The main reason I wanted to upgrade from the pathfinder was to gain the ability to cross bigger water and make longer runs in comfort. There was no suitable place in this lake to pole the boat, but after a firm handshake I pulled away with my “new” 1999 Maverick Mirage II.

Now to go home and give her a bath, and also sell the pathfinder before my wife murders me.

The following are some of the upgrades I made to my new steed over the past year or so, in case any other skiff nerds are interested…

First things first: I removed the broken fish finder mount and replaced it with two drop in, powder coated aluminum cup holders. After lots of youtubing and elbow grease, I determined that the foggy old compass needed to be replaced with its new counter part.

The boat came with and old ratty casting platform. i removed the 20 year old carpet from the plywood, before sanding and painting it. I also sanded down the aluminum and gave it a quick once over with black rustoleum. not the prettiest platform, but it will do.

After the sale of the pathfinder, I had a little extra money. I drug her up to the Skiff shop in Oak Hill, FL. I had them install a new Minn Kota trolling motor with quick release bracket, and replace the original rope rub rail insert with a black rubber one.

The carpet has to go.

After some paint thinner and about 6 hours of tedious scraping.

I had Castaway customs come out and laser measure the gunnels for Seadek. I saved on cost by applying it myself, it was just like a really large, very expensive decal.

Since I had to remove the old rod holders to replace the old carpet, why not make new ones from mahogany?

I applied a few strips of Velcro and a Yeti Side kick dry bag to store cell phones and other accoutrements. Then I dipped into my first born’s college fund to replace the original steering wheel with and Edson “Special Ops” wheel.

There are still a laundry list of things I want to do, but this is what I have done in the first year of ownership, not to mention working some bugs out of the old Yamaha. She has been on a fair amount of adventures with my in the first year, and has proved to be fishy. I think I’m in love.

Lead by Strangers. 8/9/2019

I fished the beach yesterday for the first time in over a week. It is typically gin clear this time of year in current conditions. The chalky swirl I witnessed was too much for my soul to bare. I thought for sure I would have at least another month of good sight fishing before seasonal winds pick up, and my son is introduced to the world.

I found myself in conversation with another fly angler while fishing the beach earlier this summer. He told me about catching tarpon on fly from the sand, how he lives for it. Big pods of swirling red sardines, ferocious poons, feet from the sand. This intrigued me. I always thought of tarpon from the beach as more of a fluke. Typically, once the surf churns up on a daily basis I no longer haunt the beaches. Blind casting has never peaked my interest much, but migratory tarpon wreaking havoc on bait pods near the ocean’s surface does.

I take the same rout as usual to my preferred stretch of coastline. At this point during the journey I am usually peering out the top of my windshield trying to get a glimpse of winds and cloud cover. This trip is different. Its 5:30am on a Friday. Most of town is still asleep, especially the tourists. I am ashamed to say I haven't been up this early in a while. Work has been slow and living has been easy this summer.

Here I am at a picture perfect beach. The only truck in the parking lot. The only person for miles. I study the water in a new but familiar way. Reading the surface, with no option to look below as I have grown accustomed to.

As sun breaches horizon, it doesn't take long to note bait pods peppering the coast. For a brief while the pelicans and I share interests. A few modest strikes here and there, but no tarpon. I came here craving just enough evidence for a new addiction to take hold. Another chunk of the year I can obsess over. Light barges underneath my hat brim. Eyes scour the ocean surface. Darting from one slight moderation of contrast to another. Then, a flash of silver- and another. Out too far.

I watch for over an hour only as they wish to show themselves, without boredom. Some roll cordially, others feed violently. Gentle swirls and flips of bait juxtapose the violence surely taking place beneath the picturesque surface. I witness the drama unfold between fish, fry and bird. The feeding becomes more frequent, but they are still out of reach. I start to ponder different tides and conditions, and when I should return. The earliest signs of giving up.

I study the untouchable dinosaurs as they frame a red cloud of bait with thrashing and holes in the water. Even my most violent double haul proves fruitless against the expanse of the Atlantic. I long to be on a suitable skiff 50 yards from my current position. Thoughts of warm coffee in the truck and the whine of a weed-eater mark the final stages of giving up, tourists come back to life. I pry my eyes from the water.

I will be back.

Black and Tan. 6/20/2020

The beach has been unseasonably blown out this spring, with exception of a few sporadic days. As someone who has tied too much of my identity to fly fishing for beach snook, The result is frustration with the universe. In my opinion, the beach is the best local sight fishing opportunity I have. The spawn just so happens to not require the use of a skiff and coincides with my seasonal work’s slow season. I view beach snook as my bread and butter. As I am able to fit in multiple sessions per week. Beach season pulls me through harvesting season when days are long and daylight is short.

I still check the surf for myself weekly, despite the forecast of revolving swells. rapping the coast like brushes in a car wash. I went twice last week, armed with my 9wt and little hope. It seemed like it was getting slightly better, as clear blue water fights off chalky opacity and rotting sargassum. I even saw a few fish, after staring longer than any reasonable angler would. Saturday's forecast looks favorable, so my buddy Cush and I plan to drive south to a stretch of sand near the St Lucie inlet. Praying that the barrier of the Bahamas will increase our chances.

I am giddy as we rig up in the parking lot. Winds are light and I can hear the Atlantic gently lapping against the coast. Surely a good sign, an hour north looked almost doable a few days ago, maybe we will have a chance.

Dreams are promptly squashed by the army core of engineers, or maybe population explosion, or maybe the sugar industry, or maybe God. We both stare at the insidious line in the ocean. Gooey discharge from the inlet rides the tide down the coast, pushing God’s blue water down the beach and away from the ant pile made in his image. Despite disappointed on lookers, we make our way down to the part of the beach yet to be infected. Visibility proves to be hopeless all the same, maybe from recent swells, or maybe from man’s tampering with natural order. I reason we should go back north, further away from the invasive waters of lake Okeechobee.

Although behind schedule, we break through the sea grapes to cleaner water kissing the coast and blue bird skies. I can’t even find it in myself to blame the endless beach goers, especially knowing the chaos that lurks to the south.

The tide is low and tourists are thick, we spread out and walk onto the modest sandbar to wait for cruisers. We give it a few minutes before deciding to make tracks, the snook will sometimes lay up in a slack tide. I study the beach to try and determine the most likely areas to find fish according to my ever-changing theories.

As we walk, the sandbar we once stood on gradually falls away from the beach, the waves dissipate and trickle over and the growing trough. I stare at two dark cylindrical shapes on the bottom. My brain tries to convince my arms that the shapes are not fish, as I begin to false cast. My favorite fly plops down in between the two shapes, bisecting Them by 2.5ft. Cush watches from sandy bleachers opposite my casting arm. The shape to the right springs to life in the form of a healthy snook and inhales the yellow eyed offering with a graceful swipe. I come tight, letting fly line out and dopamine in. I cant hold back the grin in the midst of validation. My brain switched from the universe is out to get me, to thankful I ever have the opportunity to pursue fish in this way, 30 minutes from my home.

The Keys Conclusion: Day 3. 6/7/2020

We launch the skiff from a little dirt mound off the shoulder of US1. She glides across emerald and turquoise stained glass sliced open by three blades and 50 horses. Winds are low, the sun is bright, hopes are high. We are on course to the ocean-side flat I have wanted to try the entire trip. The five or so miles of open Atlantic and high winds have made it impossible for my modest skiff the last two days. We split bridge pilings and are welcomed to the calm Atlantic expanse, showing no resemblance to the ocean of 48 hours prior.

We are the first boat to the flat. It’s more vast than anticipated. Lush sea grass mingles with sandy holes under a gin clear barrier. I hardy know where to start. I kill the motor and can’t wait to jump on the poling platform. My eyes already searching while my buddy mounts a rotomolded casting platform and strips out 11wt shooting head.

We debate and form theories about which direction to head and what the fish will be doing. It is not long before a powerful black back and an emotionless eye breach 20 yards off our starboard. We decide to find a sandy hole within the same vicinity and stake out. It is slightly too deep to pole effectively. We start getting shots at 20-30 minute intervals, the fish are swimming all from the same direction and into the tide, but at different trajectories and speeds. Some meander in and set us up for a perfect shot, others barrel towards the back of the skiff at bad angles.

The next fish comes in fast, straight at the back of the boat. It is clear that she is keen to us, as she gives the skiff a wide berth. I have called her location out regardless. We both figure the chance has passed as my buddy rolls out the obligatory black and purple offering. She shears off course by a few feet and bull rushes the fly, stopping a few inches shy of fluttering rabbit hide. Comrade and I instinctively get low as he ticks the fly in short pops. Water flows through fur and feather in a seductive dance. The fish follows the fly until the leader is in the first guide and peels away. Between shaky knees and gentle Atlantic rollers, we both can hardly stand.

As the tide drops our stake out loses depth, and fish become less frequent. Because we are only getting shots every 20-30 minutes, it takes a while to realize they are not swimming this shallow. We bump out further and deeper, desperate to stick a fish before the long drive home this afternoon and work tomorrow.

A few other skiffs come and go from the flat, along with more than a few jet propelled crotch rockets. We watch other skiffs to compare notes and methods to our own. The closest skiff, which is still more than a hundred yards away, and considerably deeper than us, is getting a lot of shots. Before long, we hear a faint “Woop” and we can see that they are on. We are both glad to see how the fighting etiquette is handled in person, and we take solace in the fact that tarpon eating a fly is not just reserved for TV shows, Instagram, and 60k dollar skiffs.

The other boat’s fish is making a B-line right for us, the guide is motoring to lessen the fight. We watch for a while as the stoked crew and resilient dinosaur get closer. we stare in awe at the amount of pressure the angler on the bow is putting on the fish. Through no fault of their own, the other skiff motors right through our line, we pull up anchor with no hard feelings. As they fight the fish, we idle out to even deeper than they where staked. Careful to keep a respectable distance from the carbon fiber place marker.

We are now in seven or more feet of water. Poling is next to impossible. We only have about an hour before we need to head to the ramp. We toss out the anchor and hope for the best, now I am on the bow. I have changed the toad from black and purple to chartreuse. No fish pass by, but 25 minutes do. Filled with jokes about sticking one in the final hour, and fighting them till dark.

“Got one coming from back here.” the seriousness of my comrade’s words slice through the otherwise jovial tone.

I lay out a good shot, but the tarpon is apparently appalled at my choice of fly. I receive the same reception from the next fish and promptly switch back to black and purple. A few more fish come through in the half hour. We are seeing a lot more than we have all day. I make some good shots and blow more than a few. We are both eyeing our watches as we push our wives collective deadline back further and further. The sun is getting lower and the glare increases.

“5 more minutes.” We pact.

At minute four the poon comes through and sees the boat before we can react. We decide to leave the rod and bucket to be stowed last. As we meekly ready the skiff for the final departure, Just as I hoist 65 quarters of slushy ice and empty beer cans-

“Here comes two.”

I lurch forward in my best effort to delicately set down the cooler and grab the rod, but as cooler hits liner the fish head for the Bahamas. Fuck. Everything else is ready to go. Only 11wt, stripping bucket, and anchor remain in use. My buddy stands on the poling platform watching, as I shimmy up the anchor, looking over my shoulder like a 7th grader on pornhub.

“Group of 3 coming right at the back of the boat.”

This time, I set the anchor down with a painstaking gentleness. I grab the rod and start false casting, I stare at the lead fish's shadow, in line with the stern. I lay fly line along side the skiff, in an effort to place the fly far enough so the fish wont see the boat, but not to line the fish.

To my horror, the fly catapults right on the lead fishes prehistoric nose. All three fish make a simultaneous and violent U-turn.

Neither of us say anything. I slide each guide into the rod tube with a painful clack. I blew it. My buddy knows I blew it. He knows he doesn't have to tell me. I should have left him on the bow. I find it hard to enjoy the beauty of blue bird skies and calm seas as we run through the perfect conditions we prayed for all weekend. back to the ramp. I have only my self to blame. I spent too much time pouring over google earth, rigging quick release anchors and greasing hubs. Not enough time casting the 11wt in the yard. I try to blame it on nerves, but no excuse will suffice. We did learn a lot, and we only had one good day of weather- But I blew the last shot.

The only thing I can offer my knotted stomach, as we sit in US1 traffic: We will be back.

The Keys: Day 2. 6/6/2020

Skiff and turbid waters meet rattling joints and pounding cartilage as we run into uncharted territory, tracing the edges of banks and cuts in an effort to avoid open water- until the last possible moment. Every mile or so, we come off plane and bob hopelessly in the open basin, to clear rouge sargassum from the prop. Tunnel hulls and floating vegetation do not get along. Before we can start fishing I am already enthralled with the backcounty. A place so vast, no amount of “google earth-ing” could have prepared me. The spot that is “just over there” on the smartphone, is eight miles through teeth of an angry basin. A place so wild even intermittent channel markers seem sacrilegious.

We decide to valiantly pole some banks known for tarpon, despite the windward orientation. The skiff barrels down the last possible channel from the leeward, no ocean rollers today, but sustained winds carry over miles of open water to terminate at the 15ft hull. We pole a bank with the wind, out of spite, where backcounty meets open gulf. It feels more like riding a longboard than poling a skiff. Hopeless.

The large bonefish spotted yesterday ease our minds into giving up on tarpon for the day. The wind is again blowing from the Atlantic, 18-20mph. We brave another turbid basin until we are leeward of an exposed bank. Miles of shallow turtle grass calms the relentless wind. Sun is high, illuminating grass and it’s grazers.

At home on the southern Indian river, if you find any turtle grass its a good day, and will often hold fish. In Florida bay, there is so much grass it becomes a desert. Plenty of rays and a few sharks. But no bonefish or promises after an hour of poling. We run deeper still into the back country, in search of diverse habitat.

We settle on a pair of islands jutting from a leeward bank, divided by a large channel and surrounded by more turtle grass. We pole to the island begging for shelter from the wind. Hoping to see a tail breach the surface or pronounced wakes of game fish.

Needle fish, lemon shark and barracuda peruse leisurely. Rotating between mangrove, grass and channel. Each juvenile shark offers a spike of hope preceding a letdown just as steep. As we near the natural channel’s edge, multiple wakes push onto the flat, right toward us. We immediately infer that they are not sharks or cudas. I am on the bow with trembling knees. Wakes form in the water and vanish just as quickly, with no clear direction or intention. School after school materialize from the channel’s depth and dissipate before casting range.

Finally a lone wake pushes towards the nose of the skiff, we assume they are bonefish for sure. Until I finally get a glimpse at one of the hollow fish-

Permit.

Each school is comprised of young permit, much more wily and unpredictable than I had imagined. Once I learn this, my knees grow unsteady and my casting gets more arrhythmic. We end up staking out. A couple hours go by, we each try our hand at plopping a fly down anywhere near school after school. Even a 12 foot lead results in blown out fish.

Eventually the frequency of the schools ceased, we have a few more spots in mind before the day’s end. The next flat yields nothing. On a whim, we run to a semi-protected bar that looks likely to hold back country tarpon. We gently pole in the direction of two large logs, suspended by water. Both of us strain eyes in disbelief, until one of the logs flicks a tail and advances a few feet. Holy shit. My buddy fires a good cast too late.

With new hope, we pole windy bars jutting into basins, but the sun is waning and glare is increasing. I would have rather caught fish today, but I am feeling ok on the long run home. We found a couple laid up poons and permit schools on our first trip to the back country. If the weatherman is right, we are going ocean side tomorrow. Winds less than eight mph they say, ill believe it when I see it.

The Keys: Day 1. 6/5/2020

To my surprise, friends, family and skiff made it to the middle keys without a hitch. From 60 feet up, bridge after bridge, my buddy and I comment that the 17mph sustained winds generated from open ocean “dont look too bad” for my 15 foot flat bottomed tunnel. We check into the room and promptly dunk the skiff. From sea level, we find the emerald surface to be more hostile than anticipated.

We viewed this afternoon as kind of a bonus round. We plan to fish the next three full days, any intel we can gather in the first afternoon’s waning hours of light may prune the learning curve for tomorrow. I have never fished the keys before, aside from wading a few flats to escape wedding-related activities. We bump a couple large bonefish poling flats near the ramp. Anticipations are high. The day ends anchored up bay side of a bridge near the ramp. The 11wt is at the ready, but we chiefly admire rollers reflecting the last minutes of golden light in the channel. Sipping beers and scheming for tomorrow, despite forecasts.

The weather the next morning was as expected. 18-20 mph winds from the Atlantic. Low and moody clouds with a hint of hopelessness. We had agreed the night before to seek shelter and look for poons bay side. But after we cross the second bridge and count the 4th skiff ocean side, plans are altered before we reach the ramp. We decide to try a premeditated ocean side flat despite Atlantic rollers and lack of sun. Anchored up wind of a sandy hole, it is clear that poling is not an option.

We hop from hole to hole to no avail, doubting our theories every half hour or so. I figure if we don’t at least try ocean side I will be wondering the remainder of today. Not being able to pole and search the flat feels sinful, staring into dreary water and sipping beer like heathens. There could be a string of fish 30 yards off the starboard and I would never be the wiser.

After wasting most of the morning we ran to a mangrove shoreline peppered with grass in Florida bay. Selected primarily for its leeward orientation so that we could gather thoughts. The sun is out now, My buddy on the bow had a few shots at small bonefish, but no takers. The skiff brushes mangrove saplings aside as we watch silver devils slither away. Our posture straightens. After being beaten down by the Atlantic for a few hours, we have seen our first game fish of the day and the sun is out. We high-tail it to the next flat and pole a few more with little to show for it.

I push into howling wind - the final spot of the day, dead low tide. An exposed flat forms the elbow in a channel. Low water and lush grass protect the hull from chop, but my comrade and I jut out from the deck like sails. A few minutes in, we are surrounded by stingrays, combing turtle grass for morsels while expelling silt from spiracles forming lingering trails, creating a network of chum lines for game fish. As we pole up to another ray I see a dark figure cross the sandy slick. My comrade starts to false cast as the figure turns silver and ravenous. Impossible to lead a fish changing directions like dice in a yahtzee cup. The fly plops down somewhere behind the ray and is immediately inhaled by an eight pound jack crevalle. A strip set leads to fly line ripping into the channel and a broken tippet.

I have never seen a jack feed off a ray before...

He did eat a crab fly...

Maybe I saw a little black on his fins…

We convince ourselves momentarily that it might have been a permit, knowing it is too good to be true. A few hundred yards later we witness the same phenomena, and conclude for certain that it was indeed a jack.

The sun is low, we pole the remainder of the flat investigating each ray. Figuring bones or permit might find the chum lines appealing as well. We bump a few bonefish before dark, existing only as wakes, completely invisible until too late.

The forecast is not good tomorrow. We arrive at the boat ramp defeated but with new hope:

The back country.

POON PREP. 5/28/2020

Close to a year ago, I brought my skiff to the nature coast and had my first taste of fly fishing for giant tarpon. No fish where landed or fed, but breath was stolen by 100+ pound scaly beasts sauntering through crystal clear water. I decided I was going to take my modest skiff the following spring to the middle keys for the fabled tarpon migration. despite weather or her seaworthiness.

As turkey season winds down, I learn the keys are closed to non- residents due to concerns about COVID-19. Before I could start to plan, Monroe county stated that the keys will remain closed “throughout may, and potentially longer given the state of the virus.” My last three fishing trips have been canceled, for one reason or another. An unprecedented global pandemic At the calyx of my most anticipated trip, seems right on cue. To add to personal insanity The beach has been unseasonably blown out for the past few weeks and no one on the treasure coast has seen the sun for the last four days.

One of my favorite (but busiest) fly fishing buddies happens to have a weekend off in early June. I eventually convince him of my gut feeling: They have to open the keys in June. beaches and restaurants are slowly reopening in our hometown a few hours north, How can a tourist based economy survive much longer with only locals?

Thankfully, Monroe county nor my buddy called my bluff. The keys are set to open Monday, June 1. Coronavirus made for a stressful couple months, but all systems are officially go. I immediately put an overpriced 11wt setup on the credit card and begin the usual prep-work.

I have grown to love the build up before a big trip. Lusty hopefulness is tempered with anxiety about weather forecasts and trailer bearings humming for hours on end. I have never had my skiff in the keys fishery before, by my own choice ultimately. Primarily due to tourists, and rumblings of flagrant jet skis and angry guides. A “big trip” for me typically means planning for long runs with no place to buy food or gas. getting as far away from parasailing and alcoholic slushies as possible. The keys are no secret, but the more research I do the more they cannot be avoided. The first journey to a new fishery is always a thrill unmatched. Running my skiff in a realm where 100+ pound dinosaurs slurp tiny flies in crystal clear waters has me manic.

This leads to anxiety and border-line psychotic prep-work. I have caught juvenile tarpon, but have only ever jumped one over 60 pounds. I have feeling I have no idea what I am in for. I want every possible advantage. I delve into fly tying. Multiple nights on end. Every trip, the same inner dialog:

What if you lose this fly? You need at least three.

What if they are only eating black and purple all weekend?

How the fuck am I going to lash a palolo worm to a 2/0??

I tend to put off all skiff maintenance until right before big trips. Maybe not the wisest method but I can never go more than a year with out a good trip, thus bearings and oil changes never go forgotten. in addition to fly tying I have added many other chores to the insanity. Finally Building a stripping bucket from the 12” pvc that has been laying in the woods for a year. Wash and wax the hull and deck. Replace spindles and hubs. Pre-rig leaders. Tie more flies. Research.

Dare I say I hope to have something to report next post. I am almost sure the baby will get sick, there will be a tornado, riots or volcanoes. At this point I will just be happy to get to go fishing

Fucking Fishing. 5/2/2020

I flip through the short rolodex of friends and acquaintances interested in fly fishing, as I do most weekends. This time I am lucky enough to find someone both willing and available. my college outdoors mentor, in many regards. He is almost emotionless, pleased by nothing, and not much for conversation. I cringe at the judgment of my “not Chris Morejon” designed skiff with every hull slap. (The new 50 tohatsu hauls ass though, there is no denying that). I don't mind brushing off these feelings, It has been a while since I have fished the lagoon. I am thankful to have a warm body on the skiff who can cast and pole.

70 degrees at sunrise. Winds are gentle and expected to pick up this afternoon. The sky is impossibly blue and makes you forget there are even such things as clouds. The sun beams so strongly it’s as if no cloud can touch it. I make the long run without a hitch, only a few close calls with the lumbering gray locals. The water is clear and low. Really low. The passing grass and protruding crab traps can make anyone's asshole pucker. Whizzing by at 28mph, attempting to shake my undying faith in the tunnel hull.

We pole into a familiar spot that is almost unrecognizable in the low water. Flats once submerged and obscured are now unveiled and exposed. Shorelines once poled are untouchable, even with the skiff’s respectably shallow draft. Big seatrout hide in plain sight in any nook or cranny deeper than a foot. Camouflaged in stillness, until pushing a ghostly wake, always a little too soon or distant for proper presentation.

Young redfish don't seem to mind the skinny water, but they grow leery of flies and leader. We frequently lead fish by more than 6ft, Bouncing an innocent crustacean perfectly into their path. To no avail.

Shorelines with proximity to deeper flats seem to be key, leading to more shots and bigger fish. My stoic partner stuck a pup mid-morning, prompting the switching of skiff ends. My fly is natural colored, matted and rusty. I am sure it will work but it doesn't feel right - Dragging the skiff 80 miles, running it another 10, poling it another 1 or 3 or 4, Just to present an old ratty has-been. The first two redfish confirm my suspicions. I can no longer resist the spankin’ new chartreuse and tan tied up the night before. A staunch deviation from the fabled black and purple.

A few shots later a middle slot redfish eats it. Engulfs it, more accurately. After fighting with fish and deeply embedded fly on the deck its clear he will not make it. I have not been keeping any redfish from mosquito lagoon or the Indian river lately, but blood red pinholes on the bright white deck convince me otherwise today, this one goes to the table.

We blow a few more shots, some are blamed on fish, others on sapiens. On the run back to haunts closer to the ramp, we glide through school after school of mullet. Bait like I have never before seen in the lagoon. We decide to pole an exposed sandbar near the nourishing waters.

We pole the 2ft doldrums. Yellow bottom bottom and whispers of sea grass. It seems hopeless. We carry on about the best value tarpon rods, and make excuses for why one would never have the reason to cast out all of their flyline at once. I am lulled into mediocrity by morning beers and a uniform bottom- Until the first two gator trout emit a suspended plume of sand and sound into the depths. Ears perk up. Where there is one there are many. We are exposed on the flat’s edge and the wind has picked up considerably. The weather man said 10mph out of the east, we both agreed it to be a “very strong” 10mph. I did manage to get the streamer in front of a couple big trout meandering from pothole to pothole. One even turned on it, I strip-set at the sight of flashing jowls in fumbling excitement, but never felt anything taught.

We finish the day with a few more shots at redfish closer to the crowded boat ramp, then a pit stop on the drive home for well-earned tacos. All is well after fish are caught. While rinsing the skiff I notice a missing bearing (and his buddy) at the hub. Surely laying somewhere on the long shoulder of I95. The skiff and trailer now sport a Jackson Polluck inspired grease painting. Horrid sounds of colliding metal fill the neighborhood as I ease her back into the garage. Thank God I made it home. Glad it happened now so I can fix them before big summer plans.

Life is good, As is tomorrow’s dinner.

Sustenance. 4/21/2020

I slip through caution tape resurrected by COVID-19 and municipalities. April is still early for prime beach fishing, yet conditions seem to be lining up this week, with the exception of the beaches being closed. 1-2 ft surf and gentle breeze under bright sun. I have snook flies tied and waiting in all desired colors. Hopes rise higher as I crest the dune to unveil emerald waters. I have often fantasized about catching a legal snook on fly from the sand before the close of season on May 1st. Not in the name legitimatized defiance or anarchy, but as a personal challenge. Mild and flaky sustenance the reward.

I reach the edge of the surf, the water is clear but still chalky due to the swelling of four foot waves the week previous. Wind breathes steady from the sea. Vision is obscured often by foam and flumes of sand. I do my best to thwart feelings of impatience with thankfulness. At least I can see something. it’s still April, after all. Patience brings about occasional windows of clarity. Balls of mullet meander gently down the coast. Venerable, awaiting sure demise.

The snook are not venturing far from the swirling orbs of morsels, their paths are more like pigtails than the typical fire iron. They are not feeding. I suppose just browsing, or keeping a hefty food supply nearby. I blind cast to the edges of mullet schools for a while, my fly only met by overly aggressive palometa.

Eventually I start to see more fish, the current is flowing heavier, mullet graduate from suspended to finicky. All senses are engaged. I flick my gaze to any piece of water that sounds or looks out of place. I cast to a small male snook in shallow water, he is quickly overcome by froth as he tries to eat the fly, I feel tautness for only a blink before he comes loose.

This is the time to be here. Fishing decent surf conditions in April feel like a high school “free extra credit” assignment. Anything scored now sends me sailing into beach season with a sense of peace and calmness. My eyes catch a green back molesting a frantic ball of mullet. I fumble to shoot line in the direction of the last known location. I strip the fly in blindly. In a window of clarity, I can see the fly, and a snook’s snapping jowls through the face of a wave. She turns away after missing my offering and her girth becomes realized. A good fish, not just a feisty male. I pick up my fly and wait. Studying the edges of mullet gatherings.

Moments later I spot the girthy back, my fly lands in her path and meets it’s demise before the third strip. We dance in the surf for a moment, before the power of the fish is transmuted to whining drag. The franticness of the fight is heightened by my thoughts: Holy shit, this may be a slot fish. Did I bring my tape? How am i going to get this back to the truck? Keep the slack out of your line.

My heart flutters with each rattling head-shake and frothing water. Beach snook can look unassuming among the turbulent waves of the Atlantic, only when they breach water is their stature truly apparent. The surf exacerbates and consequently diminishes her valiant efforts, and the unwavering 9wt brings her to sand. I remove mangled fly and put her on the tape. 27.5”. Half inch short. Fuck.

By the time I hoist her up my sulking is forgotten. I grab the hank of her powerful tail and suspend her in water. She regains bravado and swims off. Shes not going to the table, but she feeds me all the same.

Good Bight. 7/20/2019

My obsession with hunting and fishing is becoming harmful. An outing once per week is beginning to seem criminal.

In the recent year I have been the “captain” of these humble excursions more than ever. Bringing my modest skiff to water new to it as well as me. I have been the one doing the research and scouting. I am the one persuading the hen-kept to spend a day or weekend on the water. Bringing my own rig and learning new areas raises the sense of adventure. When you formulate a plan that comes together, the high seems a little sweeter. Just as the skunk is a little more sour. The fish are the driving force, they summon the adventure itself. If I was a golfer I may never find myself pushing a skiff around in a 30mph wind, in a smattering of keys somewhere in the gulf. If I was a golfer I may not know what a push pole is.

I am not as excited as I am when I run my own boat. But being on the bow of a comrade's Whipray with no duties other than poling and trying not to blow shots is a welcomed occasion.

The water is a little higher than the last time I was here. A perfect sheet of glass across the bay, reflecting the sun’s low light from behind the giant nimbus clouds to the east. As we pole through the untouched wilderness, I can hear ominous pounding surf due to the storm offshore. Juxtaposing our leeward bight. The tall clouds blot the sun for the first few hours, most days the boat would curse this. But today, the fish are skinny. I wouldn't say “crawlers,” but burgundy logs with dorsal fins. Finning occasionally, just enough to keep from rolling over.

Redfish breaching the surface unprovoked is always a welcomed sight. But this means presentation and tact are necessity. I was first to the bow, as is customary for whomever is not the skiff’s owner. My first handful of shots were relatively well placed, once my crustaceous concoction was denied a second or third time, we both figured it time for a change. To a fly of the same phylum and weight, only black and purple. The key that unlocks every jowl in the lagoon- So they say.

A few fish later and I feed one on a Hail Mary shot. Perhaps “They” are right. We soon assume the rhythmic dance of a good day. Switching platforms every fish or two, cracking beers and feeding fish like a well oiled machine. In mosquito lagoon fashion, they where still a little snooty.

It was a damn good day, and a long one at that. We left the house at 5:30am to be back by 10:00pm.

Today was the most fish I have ever caught in the lagoon, But I selfishly long for it to be completely from under my own guidance. Two years ago today would have been complete nirvana to me. I still would not trade today for the world. Yet, as I write this, I struggle to come up with content. No hiccups, mishaps-- storms or broken rods. Just shot after shot, eat after eat. I am going back next weekend, with my boat. And a few extra black and purple flies.

Prep-work. 4/1/2020

The great white butterfly is the Pavlovian signal for my mind to wander from fired up gobblers to beach snook. Although thoughts about subtropical predators never really subside. I tend to start looking for them too early each spring. My mind wanders to humid mornings, tired skin, and Modelo. To summer.

The first few trips of the season are always filled with false optimism and uncertainty, but this year, I feel especially silly. I packed up the truck with a plan to fish after work the following day. An unexpected cold front and a steady onshore Breeze of 15 mph gives me serious doubts. Surely the final breathes of Floridian winter. White caps are steady and surf is turbid. My wife and boy are home self-isolating due to the dreaded COVID-19. I can either fish the beach for a while, or go home early and help my wife with the baby. I almost call it off, but the surf is supposed to pick up into next week. I can’t resist.

The beach is awfully crowded considering the “social distancing” coronavirus guidelines. I am tempted to cough until I can clear a nice spot for myself, rather than dodging floaters and sun bathers. Nerve endings dance with tingling numbness. It’s not too cold, about 72F. The sustained winds make for a cold 72F. Boardshorts and a tee shirt where packed into my bag out of habit, never considering I would be wishing for a sweater. It doesn't feel like summer, but the blue water, bright sand and clear skies look like summer.

I swear I see a small snook as soon as I get to the water. Long, white-tan and confident. I strip out line to cast into frothy waters at imaginary routes. Time passes. Foamy shadows come and go. Fish-shaped sand plumes dematerialize. Doubt creeps in.

“It’s too early, It’s too rough.” I reckon.

With seasons of practice I have developed one morbid superpower; staring alone into the waves for hours. Waves tumble in like a rolling slot machine. Every 12 or 14 spins brings momentarily clear surf. Occasionally, during momentarily clear surf, comes a snook. Odds are low and addicting.

I give myself two hours to stare, for better or worse. If I can just see one, a confirmed glimpse, the mind starts rolling and the beloved process begins. Tapering perfect leaders, improving fly designs, daily checks of surf and wind. I wander across the dune every spring, stumbling around until I see something that signifies summer. Not by the solstice, but by acceptable sight fishing conditions. I have willingly handed a chunk of my identity to the surf. I have self-proclaimed to live for this. In my view, the last dragon worth chasing. I have a nagging feeling that in 20 years I’ll be spewing; “I remember when you could see 100 fish in a day…”

A small male snook slips off of the trough bank as quickly as he slid on. His shadow only represented for a few seconds, before a plume of aquatic sand overtakes him. A confirmed sighting. Exactly what I came for. I shoot fly line out against the oceans breath in a pathetic effort- and then once more. It feels as fruitless as it looks. My eyes catch the yellow-eyed fly dangling in a moment of clarity. My rusty left arm strip sets as the fly disappears into the small males jowls, before my brain can tell it to. testosterone driven snook pulses into waves. Holy shit, I stuck one, on April 1st. The earliest ever for me. I wonder if I am the first guy to land a sight-fished beach snook in the state? I wonder how many people would give a fuck? I feel chalky leader and crooked overhand knots. It’s time to start the prep-work.

A Lust for Tarpon. 6/29/2019

Anticipation shoots through my loins on an hourly basis. I may actually have a fighting chance to feed a 100+ pound tarpon from the bow of my modest tunnel hull. Although I have enjoyed the company of acrobatic juveniles I have never landed a migratory tarpon, nor have I had my skiff within a reasonable proximity of one. Weeks of research online has resulted in only a few cryptic lines of information on tarpon fishing the nature coast. After hours of studying the shiny lamination of the correlating “Top Spot” map and I have settled on a few flats to try first. Hopes rise and fall as I peruse social media, some folks don't mind tagging locations and some folks can’t resist the urge to vomit what their day on the water looked like.

A few buddies and I took the skiff to fish theses waters about two months ago for the first time. A good weekend exploring new water followed by drinking and eating through local cuisine. Activities Home-based from a stranger’s double wide. I like the nature coast. Calm gulf waters, diversity of habitat, cozy bars and a refreshing dose of “southerness.” We knew we where a little early for tarpon to be showing up, but we gave a noble effort to learn the lay of the land and found a few redfish along the way.

But this trip, we are in the bowls of tarpon season (the best I can tell). After settling into our air bed and breakfast, which strangely resembled a Winnebago, We washed down some local chicken wings with part of tomorrow's ration of light beer before curling up in the queen sized master bedroom. Tomorrow, I would be happy to see one, let alone jump one, or land one, for that matter.

We set out early, but late enough so that we had hope of seeing oyster bars lurk under the surface’s murky sheen. My trust in google maps was betrayed by a seemingly misplaced barge of mollusks last time around. The next vessel we came across was a Carolina skiff christened: “Bumpin’ Bottom.” Misery loves company. We made it to the edge of the gulf, gel coat mostly intact and spirits high. We poled around for some time, not knowing exactly what we were looking for. A roll, a wake, any sign of life greater than 80 pounds would suffice, but nothing.

The four-stroke hums across slick water, navigating to plan B under moody skies as the sun fights low hanging stratus clouds.

The skiff graces contours of various keys, powered by man and carbon fiber, two sets of eyes stare into the glare of the gin’s surface. My eyes catch the aftermath of a large boil that my ears heard a moment ago. The skiff pivots and we both see a deep green back breach the surface, hover in a display of defiance before slinking away. Holy shit. The nervous buddy on the bow frantically strips out line- another roll. Every strike of the plastic foot on hard bottom seems to echo throughout the gulf, surely spooking tarpon from this string to Belize, But the pack lackadaisically meanders right into range. Eight giant figures materialize from the glare. A black and purple offering flutters perfectly across a cold prehistoric face. Neither of us expected an eat at 15 feet away, That would be too easy. I don't think either of us cared as we tried to console wobbling knees.

Solar conditions were tough, a few more strings emerged from the glare, most of them to close to the boat by sight fishing standards. We found a kind of “choke point” where we could keep the skiff bobbing in place with gentle pokes at coral and grassy earth. Enthralled by the task at hand, I didn't notice the other boats until they where about 150 yards off our starboard. First two boats, then four, then eight. To my amazement the trolled right up within 60 yards and dropped anchor, equally spaced from us and each other. It felt like a dove shoot.

Although I am not accustomed to fishing within 100 yards of another skiff in which I do not know the operator, I said nothing. I have never tarpon fished here before, and they where obviously guides. I figured I might learn something. I quickly learned that doing this many days a week must render you rather unenthused. Intrigued by this foreign etiquette, I would have been happy for any of the boats to feed one of these dinosaurs, just to see how how the chaos is handled. A few hours passed along with a few mammoth sized sardines with expressionless lock jaw.

A short lived attempt to find some redfish was punctuated by a rather angry storm, we promptly sought shelter back in the truck to fuel up with cold food and warm beer once again. The final day was the same story, only less fish. The all to common mantra: “Its not all about catching” (or whatever variation one prefers), never sat quite right with me. I would never go pole a boat around for hours if there was no such thing as giant game fish. It’s not all about catching, obviously. But I sure do have a better day if I catch, or my boat catches. However, this trip did seem oddly satisfying, my first shots at 100+ pound fish and a few lessons gleaned from peering into a parallel guide’s world satisfied my appetite.

At least until the skiff was safe and clean on the other side of the state. The trance of Google maps grabbed me once again as the hunger began to return.

Case of the Mondays. 6/3/2019

During summer months I typically start the week being as productive as possible for the sake of family or career. The goal being to have the middle and end of the week free to roam beaches. In this case, I decide to let responsibilities spill over into mid week due to the surf report. I hurry through work meetings, and finish up phone calls as I make the long drive back to the beach. I should get there by 2:30 or so, dead low tide. I surprise myself with a struggle to push obligations out of my mind and focus on the upcoming task at hand. This is what you planned, Do all of the big projects during the winter months when fishing is slower and work is heavier, leaving only unavoidable tasks to do while the surf is low, mowing can wait until tomorrow.

I complete the public bathroom one footed dance into boardshorts. It’s windy, but it’s clear and there is not a cloud in the sky. I wade into mid-shin surf and stand on the edge of a shallow bar, almost immediately I am met by a pair of males, two dark shadows flirting with the edge of vastness. I present my latest concoction of glue and animal parts, intensely followed but refused with equal passion. I hear a voice behind me, muffled by hydrology. After a few minutes it becomes painfully apparent that the voice is directed at me. I turn around to see a young man wearing large white sunglasses capped by an obnoxiously flat billed hat.

“Have you seen any snook!?” he shouts through cupped hands.

“Yes.” I shrug.

“Sick man!” his voice trails off in the surf, “I caught a lot of fish this morning!”

“Good deal man.” I screech nicely, but not so nicely that he decides to hang around to talk from sand to sandbar.

I don't think much of it once his hat disappears over the dune and into the parking lot. Most fish have been coming from the north, within a few minutes a big female saunters into range and has my full attention. Until the corner of my eye glimpses a figure, flailing about. I pry my eyes from the snook’s thick presence. Its flat-bill, with a fly rod. About 50 yards north of me. Intercepting every southbound fish with reckless abandon. What the fuck is he doing? I am sandwiched by families playing in waist deep water directly to the south. Damn it. I stick it out a while longer, a few shots at skittish snook are interspersed with cussing others, work calls and texts, and changing flies. I finally decide to make tracks and get away from flat-bill and any other people for that matter. On the move my wife calls me to let me know the mower is broken. I still have to follow up on a few work calls, maybe I should just leave now and catch up on adult scutwork.

Responsibilities are staved off once again as I reach a gentle point surrounded by gin clear, wind whipped water. Ill give it a few minutes. I have been trying various stripping techniques and cadence. I have cycled through my fly box completely, now back to my confidence beach fly. The next fish, I will go with my instincts. Read the fish. The boss calls. I don't answer. I’ll call him back, I won’t be much longer. Still, looming responsibility weighs heavy on me, until a healthy male emerges from clouds of sand and foam at a steady pace. The primal brain is engaged and the existence of free market careers is momentarily forgotten.

The casts unfurls about 20 feet ahead and six feet past him. I slowly strip until I am confident he will not detect unions between line or fluorocarbon. When his under slung snout is about four feet away, I activate the fly. He darts over only to follow. Another quick short strip is met with a vigorous flick of the tail. A wave crashes and obscures fish and fly. I give two more sharp strips blindly, met with a black lateral line breaking the surface and a favorite fly in angry jowls. The biggest so far this season.

As I continue the shallow water tug of war I notice a couple watching me from the sand. I walk the fish up into a few inches to land him. The gentlemen seems just as excited as I am. I ask if he wouldn't mind taking a picture. He obliges. His wife gives away her place of origin with just a few questions as I take back my fly and revive a healthy specimen.

The post fish high sets in on my slog back to the truck. I follow up on my work calls and take a quick dip in the ocean. Now off to fix the mower. Damn good Monday. Except I don't drink beer on Mondays.

Redfish Blues. 2/22/2020

This is the weekend. My first weekend-long fishing trip since the birth of my boy. The boat has a new battery. Eyes nor mind can stop perusing satellite images of endless keys and cuts comprising the nature coast.

Unfortunately, time and age erodes all but just a few pillars of people. After sifting through family, friends and career only a few nuggets of personal freedom remain. For some folks those nuggets are gold, for some they are old iron. For me- these nuggets are most precious mettle.

Two days before departure my buddy backed out due to family health issues. I cannot blame him, I suppose. But devastation comes all the same. Before sobering up, I seriously consider going it alone. A full weekend across the state, poling and fishing my skiff alone. It just wouldn't be the same.

It used to be easier to find people to fish with. We all had multiple hobbies and ample free time. Now its like pulling teeth, although my two dentist acquaintances have not seen a skiff in years. We used to fight over who got a spot on the boat, the week before a big trip was once a time of giddy texting and fly tying. More recently, the week prior seems like a prayer that responsibilities don’t rear ugly heads like lice in a playground.

I don't think the laments will ever understand how these trips feed a soul- just like I don't understand golf. I suppose most look down upon leaving your wife and baby to go fish for a weekend. The more tied down I become the more I long for exploration. When these rare opportunities arise, wind and work are hard-pressed to stifle enthusiasm.

The wife and baby went out of town, as planned. I spent the first part of the weekend drinking and smoking pain away- another hobby that is slips away with time. For the best. I stumble into the last morning of hunting season late. I bump two deer on the walk in, exacerbating temporary depression. My head reminds me of age at the end of each moment with steady throbbing.

Sunday we cobble together enough time for a somber trip to mosquito lagoon. An occasion I am typically thrilled about, Now seems like the shadow of a weekend that could have been. A good day on the Lagoon will leave me insisting the nature coast would have been even better, A bad day on the Lagoon is a bad day all the same.

Clear skies and cool temperatures aid in fighting negative thoughts. Gin clear water and struggling sea grass have fish spooky, but movement free to be spectated by watchful eyes. We find some intermittent singles, Lethargic and weary from the crisp clean water. My buddy manages to stick one from a meandering school, Roaming doldrums aimlessly. Depression melts away, my head clears like February water.

Nothing can be done now but soak it all in. Fresh mangroves shroud weathered and dead main beams of ancestors. Silence is only broken by distant waves and the thrash of a redfish. Light dances across hard bottom into an endless masterpiece. The brilliant blue sky blinds.

There will be more trips. And much to look forward to. The sooner the better.

Long Walks on the Beach. 6/2/2019

My buddy Cush and I fall back into the same summer Sunday pattern effortlessly. Rush home from the early Methodist service to throw packs, water and rods into the truck without so much as a word. The drive south is full of 76mph banter about the latest fly creation, or staring through the top of the windshield commenting on cloud cover. Knowing full well that our predictions are futile, We pull into the park and order up two season passes. In a flurry of monofilament and sunscreen I am out of the truck and ready to fish. But waiting on Cush to rig up, impatiently. Summer is finally here. Miles of beach, untouched by by man’s groveling hand. Free to wander for a full day. No obligations. No time to be home.

The only downside- clouds. We walk for a few miles, strategically interspersing ourselves among the few other fisherman. The sun peeks out to taunt us for moments at a time, as if her sole purpose was to illuminate passing snook. During one of the sun filled jaunts I hear a whistle from the north. I pry my eyes from now-translucent water. Cush is alternating between pointing at the water in front of me and bear-hugging the air. A secret code that means; “big fish are coming to you.” I peel off some more fly line and back up onto the dune. I can tell by Cush watching me intently that it must be big. Then I see them. Two black barn doors drift 25 yards off the beach with purpose. Tarpon. Although hopeless I glide further south and put my back into the double haul. Not the prettiest shot, but its right in front of them. Stripping the fly soon becomes an afterthought. They show no interest. Excitement gives way to awe. My subconscious takes over as I strip the fly like a zombie, right across the lead tarpon’s face. I slurp back drool and stare at giant mirrored scales capped a powerful black back. To date, this is the best shot I have had at migratory tarpon.

Our patience pays off, clouds and fisherman dissipate. About three miles in, we are treated to sandy bottom and snook shadows. School after school of males meander near gray dunes and coconut palms. Cush and I split up only to report back the same story. Perfect presentations are almost always followed, then turned up noses. It goes on like this for hours. No fly change or stripping cadence could muster the required aquatic aggression. I did manage to land a small male, and we each fed a few more that came unbuttoned. But the same sequence plays out over and over:

The cast unfurls at a 45° angle across the fish’s path, long before the lead fish arrives. Slow strips until (maybe) one peels away from the group, then refusal. Followed promptly by an uncontrollable urge to try again. A second cast at a passing school is a useless, but inescapable ritual. The Gods allow Cush to catch one as we make our four mile walk back to the truck, Surely as reward for our efforts today. We arrive home a few hours later, after a quick stop to fill bellies with rice, plantains, and modelo.

No boat to wash. Summer is here.

Solo Mission. 11/25/2019

An unexpected Monday off of work. A high temperature of 70 with a gentle breeze of five knots. Friends and family are busy today, but taking the boat out can not be avoided- comrades or not. Since having my two month old son I have scrounged together a few opportunities to run the boat, but have yet to go on a dedicated fishing trip. Today, I am free. The water is high, and a few recent cool snaps have helped the clarity. Solo trips are tough, I have yet to land a fish on fly from the platform alone.

I plan to fish the banker’s hours today. I pull up to the empty ramp around 9:30am, leisurely sipping coffee. The weather begs that I put the boat in a few ramps south of the area I intend to scour. Extending the run to about 10 miles each way. Even during the first wave of the annual snowbird migration, traffic on the water is light.

I lurch onto plane and gladly watch cobwebs and mummified mosquito carcasses blow from the gunnels. Crisp air stings bare feet. The skiff slicing through glass as it graces the contours of spoil islands. Damn it feels good.

The outboard hums through this same stretch I have fished since I could drive. Escaping the cul-de-sac bass ponds of my childhood. Long before I had a boat, I waded any portion I could get to by jeep or foot. Upon the acquisition of a poling skiff some years ago, extra elevation revealed that this portion of the treasure coast is not highly conducive to sight fishing. Although it can be done, redfish and sea grass have seemingly become harder to come by. Still, every so often a wandering mind pinches and pulls google earth, scanning the same home waters. In search of any clues or patterns. Usually a fish-less trip or two is enough to stifle local intrigue temporarily.

I arrive to the first spot, a known stretch where freshwater flows freely into brackish. After poling for a few minutes the fear seems to be reality. Sometimes the flat is full of new bait and life, this time full of red muck and blue beer cans. The second spot on my list is no more enticing.

I coerce the skiff back to life and charge full speed to the last spot on the list. A previous local outing revealed a glimmer of hope here- product of the aforementioned satellite image study. The water is gin clear, by Indian river standards. More like reposado tequila, good enough for me.

Carbon fiber pushes fiberglass slowly, with the entire mangrove laden pocket to myself I take time to evaluate every shadow and aberration. No influence from the wind. Perfect conditions for one to fumble with a fly rod, 40 feet of coiled up line, and an 18 foot push pole from atop a platform. Redfish in this area can be elusive, but it seems they often show little reservation to eating a well placed fly. I can only assume due to the lack of sea grass and truly organic crustaceans.

The first few redfish immediately prove my theory wrong. Sneaking by presentations like a Mercedes by panhandlers. I change from my favorite redfish pattern to a slightly heavier fly. Figuring the high water renders the fly unseen, fluttering overhead while fish scavenge the barrens for morsels. They aren't to fond of the extra plop. I hastily switch to a baitfish pattern. Each fly change is a frantic blur of feathers, pliers and balance.

To my surprise, I am seeing lots of fish. Also to my surprise, I now have the same fly I started with tied on. Redfish are using the high water to slink in and out of mangrove shoots, trout lay stoically camouflaged on the bottom. The occasional hidden snook darts from mangrove to oblivion. I coerce a few weary reds to follow the fly, but commitment eludes them. The trout and snook don't hang around to investigate.

My mind slips from the world and into this game I play for a few hours, without a single eat to show for it. I often hear people say that it is “not about catching fish,” or “its just about being out on the water.” I always thought that was a nice way to comfort one’s self after getting skunked. While I certainly appreciate the sentiment, I typically am not so easy on myself.

Having my first child has not changed me in any remarkable way, like I thought it would. But I think I have a new understanding of what people mean when they say this. I am honestly just happy to run the boat today. Getting shots at local fish in beautiful weather was an unexpected bonus. I drink in every moment of the prolonged idle speed zones once loathed.

A Showing of Crevalle. 5/31/2019

The trite expression rings true: The weekend is here.

Summer time. Local surf is forecast to be one foot or below for the next week. Its Friday. I should be back east by 1:00 or so, to meet up with a buddy. We are planning the rendezvous at one of our local haunts just after low tide. I have a two hour drive from grove to beach. He beat me there by an hour. For 60 minutes my mind races and anxiousness bleeds into every thought. The inevitable task of changing into board shorts from jeans haunts me for the length of the drive. A text inquiring about the conditions, is met promptly with a caption-less picture of a small snook at the end of a line. Anxiousness increases.

I finally arrive, the dreaded wardrobe change takes all of 90 seconds. As always. We see some bait and a few small snook but the tide has dropped out too low. We reason that any sizable fish will be pushed out to the second bar, too far to sight fish. We hop back into our trucks and race south in search of a deeper trough. Once we reach the narrow strip of land that allows beach access to us lowly mainlanders, we snatch up rods and start down the white gravel of this magazine cover. Bobbing and weaving through sea oats we crest the dune to find an uncrowded beach with relatively calm, blue water. I can almost see them from here. The beginning of our trek is met with a few small snook, not willing to become fully involved with flies. Due, at least in part, to the amount of bait present.

As the tide floods back in, school after school is held hostage against the sand by large jacks. The action is so enthralling it takes a while to realize the snook have vacated. Bullied out by hyper-masculine crevalle. Flies are gobbled up in a powerful froth with no quarter. Stretching fly line, testing backing knots, and straitening leaders. God, I forgot how strong they are. Nine pounds of pissed off muscle with a 1/O in it’s face. Their giant Indo-Pacific brethren leave them little credit from the fly fishing community. Admittedly, they don't get enough from me either. I find it impossible to hide a smile as the full wells digs into my hip- even if I wanted to.

After a handful of extended fights, we were glad to spectate. Frantically interspersed with occasional sprints and back casts to try and stick one of the big ones. The Jurassic jacks. Every bit of 30 pounds. they ride waves, corralling bait against the shore using added momentum. The human eye cannot avoid the thick dark backs creating giant bald spots in bait schools. Unlike their proteges, they want nothing to do with the flies. No matter how much of a frenzy they are in, or how perfect the cast is. They circumnavigate a six foot proximity around the fly. I have been trying to lose fly line to one for four summers now.

A day with no snook to hand, but front row seats to rabid jetty tuna. Testing tackle and good clean fun. Sunday is the day. Light winds out of the west and flat surf are the forecast. One of our daily migrations toward south Florida is on the books.

Saint John's River Marsh 9/7/2019

I can’t convince any comrades to fish this weekend. Watching college sports takes priority for some. The Indian river and beach have recently brought on sight fishing depression. The ocean is as opaque as drywall. Remnants still from hurricane Dorian. The river resembles grenadine, ample freshwater spewing out of every gutter and spillway.

I decide going it alone is well suited for some exploratory bass fishing. I have dabbled in a few lakes here and there in the past. The freshwater flame reignited by a few related episodes of the Walkers Cay Chronicles and some new yellow foam popper heads. Not the prettiest flies in the world, but I tie up a few that eerily resemble Homer Simpson.

I decide to try the stick marsh for the first time. A 6,500 acre reservoir that lives up to its name making navigation treacherous at times. Along with a reputation for big bass. Trolling motors are not my favorite but they prove convenient for the lonely angler. mine doesn't get much use any more but it has been resurrected for such an occasion. I can never really tell what level the battery is charged to. I jiggle the alligator clips at my peril as the battery charger spits and hisses.

The 5 speed trolling motor has 3 speeds, give or take. “Turbo mode” can be achieved with the proper sequence of frantic reverse to forward motions of the throttle. Never the less- it gets the job done. I run the skiff carelessly and blindly parallel down a submerged dike, skimming over what I can only imagine was an old levy. Sabal Palms in all stages of life signify the old dike. Jutting out of the water like pungis.

Plane gives way to idle as I push my way into what I deem a suitable spot. The whole lake is sheet of glass, the skiff’s mellow wake absorbed into the cattails and guinea grass until still once again. Under the announcement of black belly whistlers, time loses its importance as I focus on picking apart this shoreline of palm pilings, cat tails and water lettuce. No nook or cranny goes unnoticed by my rude fly. After the ducks have moved through the lake is silent, only interrupted by the splash of a popper or the slurp of a blue gill.

After an hour or so with no bass, I decide to try a spot a few miles south. The perfectly straight levy has lulled me into a false sense of security. Although known to be treacherous, I assumed the perimeter of this perfectly square reservoir could be ran safely. Especially with a tunnel skiff.

Before arriving at the west boundary of the marsh, I realize that no set of gator eyes or turtle snout can go unnoticed. Chiefly because most of them are the stumps and limbs of past trees. Worn wooden nubs barely protruding from the glass- some not at all. I sat the skiff down and began to idle after realizing just how frequent and irregular they are. I lurch forward to catch myself as the skiff gently slides up and off of slick black submerged stump.

Not willing to risk damage to the boat, I opt to crack a beer for the 35 minute set back. Gently idling my way to another known channel. Chopping and sliding my way through a graveyard of gooey timber. I try a few more spots. A number of hours later I am back at the ramp. No eats apart from an early bluegill. An old-timer at the ramp tells me he caught two bass. He claims to fish here every day. Him and I comprise almost half of the people in the parking lot.

The following morning I find myself alone again at another section of the st johns. A thick and shallow little reservoir open to the public. Not known for large fish but aggressive juveniles in numbers. 15 minutes before Sunday’s first light and I am eighth in line. The bass boats in front of me waxing gel coats, eating moon pies and shit talking each other.

My foot leaves the tongue of the trailer as the skiff glides off lifelessly. A few too many cranks later and she begins to purr and scratch her chin on the grassy bank. Another gentleman at the ramp mentions that enough boats have gone by, and should have “blown it all out of there.” by “it” I assume he means water lettuce.

My hypothesis proves true as the humming four stroke winces and coughs slightly as we slide across a matted carpet of frothy vegetation. Just as the day before my yellow popper disturbs the glass. trudging through lily pads and hyrdilla.

after a few missed bass and a large brim I decide to clip off the weed guard. Relaxation sets in. I am now in somewhat of a rhythm from the day before. A fear of submerged stumps is replaced by a nagging curiosity to see how much floating fresh water vegetation I can run over until my warrantied motor gives up. Coots whine and moorhens cluck as the popper glugs through every nook and cranny. A moody green landscape accented by purple hyacinth flowers.

The relaxing nature of a glassy morning slips away. As the wind picks up, the trolling motor remains on turbo mode and the popper whizzes closer and closer to my ear. A few small bass and blue gill prove satisfactory. I tell myself I will leave in 20 minutes, so I decide to try one more spot. After a few minutes the cheap fiberglass bends for a nice size bluegill. Ink black fading to purple. Already 15 minutes late, a perfect end to the morning.

Gear is stowed and the skiff comes to life. The prop gracing shallow hydrilla once more. I race back to the ramp to please my wife and the lord.

Beach 5/22/2019

I stared into the chalky surf all last week. the waves were a moderate 1-2 foot, but strong east winds had the Atlantic churned and frothy. It was the same story yesterday. I prodded a few different spots with hope that a low tide would flatten out the break making for better visibility. But still, nothing of worth spotted.

As I head back east on State Road 60 I triple check the surf report and wind stations. I got off work a little early today. If I haul ass I can get to the sand and fish an hour or two of a slightly higher tide stage. If I haul ass I will most likely run into the same conditions I did yesterday. Against my better judgment I keep east toward the Atlantic. holding out hope that the fish where pushed out off of the second bar yesterday.

My newly single father is renting a sort of bungalow/garage apartment on the beach now. I have never fished there before, the private parking should save time and cut down on people. I whip into the gravel driveway. I rush inside to throw on my boardies and reassemble my latest warranty claim. My dad asks to come with me for five minutes. Of course I oblige.

“So you can’t eat them?”

He is picking my brain about surf fishing. The latest hobby that he has yet to start. We begin the tight walk down the winding trail through the sea grapes and over the dune.

“What else do you catch out here?”

He points out the last known location of the nomadic homeless camp. As we approach the surf, it is just as I feared. Hopeless. Too bad, I would have loved to show him a snook.

“So you Don’t cast at all until you see one?”

I never fail to feel slightly silly answering innocent questions from someone who doesn't fish much. I gave up trying to explain sight fishing for beach snook to the laments. A purely natural evolution of a fisherman not out solely for meat.

I want him to get a real hobby. To become obsessed and driven by something. His newly purchased kayaks will likely see little sunlight. Just like my wife’s paddle board. In my view, there needs to be a drive behind such tools. I am either blessed or cursed by such all-encompassing pursuits.

A few minutes later he leaves me to it. I walk south slowly. Evaluating the make up of the ever changing ocean floor. Already plotting the best future conditions for this new stretch of sand. I get the occasional window of clarity with visible bottom. The water is chaotic. Relentless waves and foam spill atop the swirling sand. Shrouding the ocean floor. Wind loud in my ears. Water pulses from ankle to thigh in no apparent pattern. Hopeless.

As with every disappointing trip to the beach, the reptilian part of my brain continues veering my eyes from wave to wave, searching for any aberration in the chaotic pattern. The mind slowly wanders.

Maybe I should jump in and cool off. At least that wouldn't make this a complete waste of time.

What time would I get home if I left now?

I wonder how the beers in my over-priced-abominable ice box are doing in the truck bed?

Finally hope was lost on the hopeful. Bits of sargassum and swirling sand has been playing tricks on my eyes for hours.

Suddenly it was all voided. What I saw stuck out like soar thumb. Swimming right at me. He is hungry. I started hauling and released just as the male snook came into range. Right on the button. Way too close on any day lacking a 15mph onshore wind. He keys in immediately. As I strip he trails the fly intently. I lose sight of him as he is consumed by foam. As I meagerly hoped, he uses the veil of oxygenated water to inhale the fly and I come tight. As I watch him thrash among waves and sargassum my heart rate returns. it sinks in. the first fish of the season. Fuck yes. I gently coerce him into an inch of water. The validation rushes over me. Glad I came today. I don't think I can bare another weekend of 2-4 foot surf without having caught one.

I watch him swim off like a proud mother in the preschool parking lot. Clouds roll in and the surf turns gray. I could care less. The first fish of the season has been to hand and swam off healthy. Pressure is lifted. Pressure invented and faced only by me. I stare into the black waves even though everything underlying is currently invisible. The kind of staring you do when you are preoccupied. Staring at nothing. Staring at the air in between you and something. When you are someplace else.

I stare a few minutes more and the sun reveals itself once again. Illuminating blue and green. The chaotic surf now seems peaceful. I blissfully scan for a while, content that I will see no more today. I got a lucky shot. A merciful blessing before surfs rise, damning me to another week of fantasizing.

I wander back toward the access. In my mind I am done fishing. But man nor God can resist staring into the surf with polarized glasses on. A shadow catches my eye. A glimpse of a slightly larger male, sauntering impossibly under the treacherous surface. I start my false casts as he fades out of existence. I drop the fly about 6 feet in front of his last known location. My eyes start searching for my fly as I blindly strip. Fur and tinsel are highlighted by a powerful black lateral line. The belly of my rod comes alive. Once inanimate, now at the mercy of a breeding age snook.

Weeks and miles on the beach validated. Two fish on the first catching day of summer. I commemorate the evening with a quick dip in the Atlantic. A long talk and a beer with my dad. I sip Busch lite with my marred thumb. At peace. For now.

Lagoon 5/18/2019

The morning is going smoothly. My coffee is done about the time my buddy Cush finishes loading his gear into the skiff. It will be nice to have a companion on the drive this week.

I strapped down the motor this time, to keep it from flopping around violently and avoiding the cringe that accompanies every pothole. I have no idea why it has taken me this many years to do this.

Upon the arrival to the ramp we initiate the tradition of loading remaining gear into the boat, unstrapping and installing plugs. All three legs of the fisherman's triad are looking good today. A rare sight. Slick calm, blue bird skies, and clear water.

We make the long run without a hitch. No wrong turns or misplaced gray locals. We arrive at the spot and begin poling. Fishing takes on a different form when it is slick calm. The intensity drops, gliding on top of the water in silence with minimal resistance. When it is your vessel winds add pressure to have alert control at all times. Especially with a tiller, even idling needs a constant hand. When the wind is absent you are free to move about the skiff, sip beer or take pictures. Both modes have there perks, but the rare relaxation of a windless day is always welcome.

We see the first redfish after poling about 100 yards, Cush makes a perfect cast and sticks him on the third strip. A healthy mid slot fish. He slides him into the cooler and we trade places with a gooey handshake.

Within 15 minutes we have had a few shots and i feed an average redfish. I quickly remove the fly and release him. In an act of valor, Cush insists that i stay on the bow.

We happen upon a school. wadded up and tailing unmolested. The copper mass is between us and another skiff. We reason that we are “slightly closer” than the other boat and push towards them.

My first cast blows them out a little but immediately feeds one on the outskirts. During the fight the school disperses and they push towards the gear fisherman, they stick one in short time. Everyone is happy- a silent truce is formed between the two petty forms of sight fishing.

We switch places again. Some how we have managed to claim the flat, as the other boats are pushing out to the running lane the reds keep trying to school up, we get shot after shot. Fish swimming in no recognizable pattern, looking for each other. They are pickier now, only a well placed shot and a convincing strip will seal the deal.

Bryan feeds one and again positions are switched. The action gradually slows to a stop. we spot a big black drum and I present the fly over and over until I am cane poling the fly into his face. He eats it. A big fucker but unenthusiastic. After a few minutes he just lets go of the fly, seemingly out of boredom.

On the run back we decide to try a new spot. Clear shallow water and wispy turtle grass. Trout are popping on the flat behind us. The calm has graduated to a gentle breeze. Also welcomed, it cools our backs as we drift. Poking the submerged earth only intermittently to keep our line. We see multiple large trout but the water was clear and skinny. And they are trout. I have still yet to catch a big sight fished lagoon gator trout. it haunts me playfully.

We make a run to a few familiar spots, punctuated with more shots but don't capitalize. We shoot the shit as we drift off the shoreline a while before the long run back to the ramp. Once everything is stowed i twist the throttle and the skiff comes back to life. I feel the earth grab the skeg momentarily before it breaks free. We get back to the ramp a little early for my usual liking. But I decide to embrace the relaxing nature of the day with some shrimp and grits on the meandering route home.

There is just something magical about pushing a skiff around in low wind and seeing fish. Its the greatest thing ever. What i dream of and long for multiple time daily while at work or wedding showers. The reason why i bought the skiff. It seems rarer now than ever.

I will still pole in a 20 mph crosswind if there are fish around. Windy days have an another appeal all there own.

My confidence is growing. Although i still love to catch fish, Being the captain is getting me more excited than ever to fish and to explore. Getting my boat to the spot adds another level of adventure. I’m getting some glass work done and a few more minor touches to the skiff this week. After that it will be exactly where i want it. For now.

The drive home does not stray from the relaxing pace the day has taken on. Cruise control set on 72, i pass a truck doing 68 in the left lane. The truck who ran up my ass pulls next to me as a merge back to the right. I oblige to his obvious gesture for me to make eye contact. I am not surprised to see his middle finger. It is met with a smile and his ford raptor speeds off. All is well when fish have been caught.