DIY Keys Bonefish

A wad of tee shirt is ripped from foggy eyes as a zombie hand fumbles for any snooze button on the bellowing smart device. I crack the trucks frigid atmosphere, the cab inhales humid dawn. The horizon begs to give way to orange. No-see-ums and the tiny kind of mosquitoes dive bomb barren ankles as the obligatory bug dance is displayed while teeth are brushed with a gallon jug and fishing shirts are fitted. We are both surprised to see only one other truck at the ramp.

We hit a few spots we deem as “close to the ramp.” our ultimate goal is to take this marred piece of fiberglass as far as she will take us into the back county, especially if predictions of low wind hold true. The tide is rising all morning. The first spot is too deep. Almost impossible to sight fish in the low morning light. Choice number two is more of the same. We drift off the second flat hunched over cached satellite images. With an abrupt decision, the skiff lurches to life in gin clear drink.

I am on the pole first, as is customary for the boat’s owner. Water this pure my skiff has never seen. We glide effortlessly, even with 15lbs of ice and 22 beers. Skates glide from wood to grass, invertebrates grovel in white sand. Bonnet head and lemon sharks patrol mangroves, tickling deeply ingrained senses. The serenity is intoxicating. Any second now, chaos shall be unleashed by rafts of bonefish or 20lb permit, I figure.

In truth our expectations were moderated between caffeine doses during the six hour drive South the night prior. Both of us have caught DIY bonefish before, but only abroad. We have no expectations that the bonefish will be as wonderfully dumb or aggressive as they are in the Caribbean islands we have visited.

My flat bottomed skiff really has no business crossing giant basins or fighting Atlantic currents. Perversely, this adds to the excitement of bringing a bonefish, or dare I say- Permit, to hand. My buddy may be wondering why he agreed to this trip after mile two in a steady chop. With only a 65 quart stool for comfort. We agree to be content with any size bonefish or permit. A proper mess of young tarpon would also be acceptable. A brand new area, no guides, and a hull shape better suited for aluminum than fiberglass. The odds are stacked against us.

I snap out of my tropic induced coma as a school of three bonefish intercept us on the mangrove line head on. We both do that “instinctive crouch” you do when you are already too close for a cast. My comrade manages to get a fly in front of the trio. The lead fish peels off and the second shows no interest. The third fish gives a halfhearted snap of the jowl. It is hard to tell if friend or foe missed the strike.

New flat and new guy on the bow. My favorite bonefish fly rolls between finger tips. The tropical fever strikes again. Everything is pristine, everything is full of life, everything is beautiful. Everything looks like a bonefish. Three fish come in and break the fever, just as before. The second fish inhales the sloppy plop of my crab fly before it was ever stripped. After successfully clearing line, I turn around to mirror excitement and a thumbs up.

Our first American bonefish.

The first of the big three on my skiff.

Somewhere in the tangle of walking trees and frothing red water. A lump forms in my throat. It was a jack, not a bonefish. Well, half of a jack.

The sun and moral dip low as we make the long run back to the motel/baitshop/marina. But first a stop for the obligatory fried sandwiches and mediocre musical guests. Friendly service and quick beers left the night easy, and the snapper was good.

Day 2:

We run to the last spits of land extending into the gulf and pole all day. Don’t see shit. We fish channel edges, grass flats, mangroves. Don’t see shit. We make a harrowing run for my meager skiff and pop out somewhere in the Atlantic. Poled a couple miles of beach. It sucked. Mapped out a spot nearer an inlet. Staked out. Got a little buzzed, Saw a tail and sobered up. Got a few short lived shots at bonefish in low light, maybe a permit too. Made the orange run home a little more peaceful, with hope for the last day.

Or maybe it was the beers.

Day 3:

Spirits are low. We know its over. Miracles have happened before, but the last morning usually sucks. We see a guide and his sport at the ramp. typically not my favorite sign, but after two days of empty ramps and conspiring how everyone knew something we didn't, it was oddly comforting.

He runs gulf side, as we do. (We left the ramp first which means he followed us). We try a flat surrounding a small helping of mangroves in the middle of a wide channel. More serine landscape, more sharks, no bones. We take yesterdays advice and run toward the Atlantic. After snagging an unmarked crab trap with the skeg, and a few choice words, we are poling once again. Thoughts of family obligations and chores are starting to creep in.

“If we left now I could get some extra stuff done … I would have less making up to do with the ol’ lady.”

I take the leeward line down an ocean side cut. I See wakes to the left and bolt across a small natural channel. My comrade on the bow is numb from hours of shark fins and mullet wakes. We pole into the glare silently. Out of nowhere, he crouches down like hidden dragon and flops out a gotcha after 1.5 false casts. The glare is blinding, all I can do is get low and pray. Somehow he comes tight, line leaps of the deck until the drag is screaming. He turns around to reveal a shit eating grin. Bonefish.

We get a few pictures and exchange high fives of relief. The trip is saved. One of the big three on my modest skiff. I feel content going home now, but I cant help but notice how fleeting the high is.

Guess I will have to get another fix soon.

A Game of Numbers. 6/20/2020

We continue down the beach, Cush now in the prime position the for the first shot. I have caught my first fish in a month, despite weekly efforts. I my nagging spirit finally leaves me free to enjoy the day. We reach a stretch of sand where the followed trough dumps into a shallow point, extending out from the beach. Given the direction the snook have been swimming, they should have to cross some skinny sand to get back out to a comfortable depth. Cush occupies the ideal spot at the mouth of the trough. I walk down a little ways and set up deeper, hoping for big female cruisers who may bypass the trough altogether.

When Cush and I fish the beach together, we rarely communicate verbally more the 10 feet away. So if one of hears a yip, the other knows it is something worthy. I hear the aforementioned yip after only scanning for a few minutes, before I can even look back at him, I see it. A migratory tarpon cruising the edge of the makeshift flat, the black torpedo is certainly out of comfort range, but doable.

I strip out more line and wade into the water like a soldier in the mikong delta. Meanwhile the tarpon meanders along his predictable edge. After a few unruly false casts, I manage to lay the fly line in front of her. Short strips flutter raccoon fibers inches from her prehistoric face. She never looked at the fly, and I felt strongly that she had seen my entire torso down to my ankles. The whole experience feels like a dream, a dream where you end up naked in front of the class. This is the first tarpon I have been able to give a good presentation to from the sand.

Before I can gather my thoughts and fouled fly, another yip. I rush back to my original post as quickly as abdomen-deep water will allow. Cush signals: “large fish,” And then: “rollers.” Signs that neither of us had spoken of before. A large string of 20-30 migratory tarpon, using the same bank as a guide, zigzag from shelf to sea. They flirt with the line between casting range, and untouchable.

I wade out even deeper, more nervous than the first time. I feel my backpack floating. The thought of my waterlogged DSLR tries to enter the back of my brain, but is blotted out by an unknown evolutionary adrenal response to large fish. I start to false cast, loop and fly smack chest high water behind me, sapping line speed. The string make the predicted angle towards the beach and slide onto the shelf. I lay the fly line out 6 feet in front of the lead fish. She pays no mind. Pruned fingers and nervous hands strip in the fly. I make the same presentation to the 6th or 7th fish as well as the 20th or 21st. The same response down the line. Likely due to my inadequate fly slapping the water as I flailed like a toddler seized by the armpits.

In time the tarpon sightings subside inversely with small schools of healthy male snook. Cush feeds a healthy specimen. We admire tenacity and attitude, and get a few photos before a healthy release. I have never been a big numbers guy, but I can’t seem to enjoy the day to the fullest until the first fish is caught. The pressure is off of both of us. We fill the walk with bullshit and a few more shots a feisty fish. We finish the walk with a beer back at the tailgate.

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.

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.

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.

Beach 5/15/2019

I check all manner of human knowledge on my pocket sized human-knowledge-apparatus. It looks like beach season is officially here. The powers that be are calling for 1-2 foot surf all week. slightly cloudy but the Atlantic should be glass with this light west wind. Driving straight from work I pull into the park and can hardly wait to unlace my boots and initiate the frantic ritual I do as often as possible on week days during summer months. Although it takes 5 minutes tops, it seems like an eternity as I shimmy off my jeans in the drivers seat and lace up my boardies. I step out to assemble my 9 weight and feel a few rain drops on my back. Doubt creeps in. Afraid to look up and risk losing hope, I conclude the ritual by filling up my water bottle. In typical Florida fashion I feel the sun wash over my shoulders as I lock up my trusty steed.

I look up to the sky thankful to see what might be a decent day. I briskly walk down the trail and through the sea grapes. My heart warmed by the glassy blue-green water for the first time since last season. I reach the foot of the surf and look south, slightly disappointed by the by the smattering of condo dwellers uniformly dispersed down the beautiful shoreline. I don't like to fish near people, but I will certainly dodge a few yankees on inner tubes if there are fish around.

Before I can even get past the first couple walking towards me, a male snook shows up inches from the dry sand, swimming parallel to me. I act casual, as an out-of-towner walking with no fly rod. Unable to resist, I lay the fly in front of the fish, a little too close for comfort for the approaching couple. Half-expecting a comment or protest, it never comes. But the snook does come. Flashing his jowls on the second strip, I feel him momentarily before the line goes limp.

I move past the couple. Moments later another male appears as a tern sails over my head. the snook and I are both alerted by the bird’s shadow and trajectory. Fish and fowl both crash a single sardine in a foot of water. The tern arises with the bait fish as the snook swims back towards the break empty handed. I strategically place my fly on the other side of the break, where I anticipate the male to appear. As the foam clears my eyes pick out my fly, brushing the snooks back. He reacts by tying himself in knot and snapping at the intruder.

I figure the fish are feeding up shallow and mostly swimming north. I plan to stay high on the dune and cover ground. I get a few more shots but no feeds before I lose sun. I turn around to discover a large storm cell moving offshore between me and the parking lot. The squatters have all ran for cover and abandoned their rainbow colored shanties. I decide to wait it out. The cell is all but offshore already.

As I wait for the sun to re-emerge, I cant help but miss it. It flirts with the cloud cover, momentarily converting the Atlantic from grey to emerald. As the condos engorge with people, I have the beach to myself.

Surely God made the sun to illuminate big, broad shouldered predators, cruising in search of morsels in clean shallow water. And surely he made this handful of parks sprawling publicly along the Atlantic just for me.

God’s great sun came out again and I was met promptly by a cruising school of three males. They seemed to all see the fly at once. They fought each other until the victor had my fly in his jowls. I come tight, again momentarily. The snook headed for Cuba and my line went limp. Reminding me to keep fly line taught in the rolling surf.

My heart is pounding in my throat. I thought myself to be above getting riled up by small male snook, but he would have been the first of the season. I look down at my trembling knees slightly embarrassed. I have never given much thought to the phrase “the tug is the drug.” especially when adorned by bumper stickers or t shirts. But damn it, that's a true statement.

How else do you explain staring into the surf for hours, hoping to only glimpse a fish? Let alone feed one. Further still to land one. Just to let it go? All is right with the world after fish have been caught. Big or small. Although the euphoria is less fleeting if the fish are big.

The clouds are back. And I haven't seen a fish in a while. I keep scanning until the wind switches from the west to the north. Howling cold in my face and peeling foam from the cresting waves. Drifting across a landscape of white caps. As if to agree with my watch, that the fishing is done for today. As I find shelter back in the sea grapes, I am already giddy about tomorrow. Summer is here.

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.