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.

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.

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.

Lagoon, Mothers day 5/12/2019

The turbo impresses pretty onlookers from “Ron Jon’s” surf shop in the predawn as I make my way north on I-95 to meet my buddy at the ramp. I'm happy to have someone to fish with that also longs to be more than the causal weekend warrior. For some reason conversing over distant grand plans feeds my soul when contemplated with the like minded. My worst fear in life is to devolve into one of those “dads” who falsely assures himself, “maybe next weekend.” Meanwhile the skiff rots in the side yard and bucks prance around unseen.

I have been on a cold streak the last month or so. The beach is still a little blown out to sight fish. The last few turkey hunts have produced not even a gobble. Buddies and I had an awesome inaugural trip to the nature coast. We fished hard and started to learn the lay of the land, but with only one redfish fed to show for it.

Hopes are always high for me when the lagoon is on the agenda. A world renown redfishery, famously on the decline. I wish some of the guys up here would pole the treasure coast for a day. It makes the lagoon look like a dissected beehive full of redfish compared to the sad brown waters of the southern Indian River. Often boasting more Florida gar than gamefish.

As I graduate to the deserted Us1, the rising sun flickers through invasive foliage. The lifeless skiff straddles a gopher tortoise. I mumble a guilty prayer to catch fish. Pretending I don’t remember James 4:3.

“When you ask, you do not receive, because you ask with wrong motives, that you may spend what you get on your pleasures.”

I am Hoping catching fish counts as a necessity to my sanity rather than a pleasure. Dreading the skunk. The wife is upset. I will never understand how a marriage can be so great 6 out of 7 days a week. Working all day hours away from home results in nothing more than a kiss goodbye, but fishing a day of the weekend seems to be worse than infidelity.

I peer through the top of the windshield at the passing Sabal palms. Trying to analyze two legs of the sight fisherman's triad. Sun, wind, and water clarity. It looks do-able. A little breezy, but I am excited to have and enthused buddy on the bow. A south wind of 12-14mph is not ideal, especially for my flat bottomed girl to traverse the 3 miles of open water necessary to get to the spot.

The mood was light and we fished hard, Bringing four specimens to hand altogether. Spirits where high and beer was sipped. Afternoon thunderstorms where taunted. A fine day.

On the jagged run home a zephyr hills bottle whizzed by the gunnel. Without a second thought I eased the throttle and swung wide to complete the 180. Although the outboard had managed to avoid multiple rafts of gray beasts up until now, this straggler was not so lucky. I saw his mottled back just before the inevitable happened, all we could do was grit our teeth as the massive herbivore detonated five columns of water into the atmosphere before reaching the depths. I offered myself a consoling word, “there was no shortage of them today – he definitely lived.”

I cranked the motor back up and idled over to the piece of timeless trash. Wondering if the lagoon was any better for my skiff gracing it today. I prayed for fish, and I let them go.