Motor Trouble

2/26/2022

This is the first fishing trip since the second child has come into my life. The amount of pieces that must now fall into place in order for a 3/4 day on the water has created endless angst since D-day 5 weeks ago.

Never the less, the good lord has seemingly noticed my my patience. The in-laws are coming into town to help with the offspring, the wife is in a good mood (despite appalling sleep deficits for the past 5 weeks), my good buddy is free to fish, and the forecast shows clear skies and gentle breezes from the West.

Our deadline to be home is 3:00 pm. Right as the toddler awakens from his daily slumber. We decided to put a few extra miles on the boat instead of the trailer this time. Launching at a ramp closer to home in hopes to relieve the stress cracks that have been slowly infecting both aluminum I beams. I have little faith in my fix that involved 8 minutes and 4 U-bolts.

There is another skiff poling the first spot of our usual milk run for this body of water. So we press on, extending our run to about 13 miles from the ramp. We pole the first flat for a while before we spot a small school of juvenile tarpon breaching the surface, rolling lazily in a foot of water. The beautiful slick calm conditions have them on edge. No amount of quiet nudging with carbon fiber can get us into range. A balance between speed and stealth. The sun is still low and we bump a few more large wakes before deciding to make a move.

The skiff from earlier is now gone, so we do our best to find a line that has not yet been desecrated. After a long and lackadaisical pole we have seen nothing with exception of one bull redfish. The next two spots yield even less in the way of worthy fly fishing targets.

Spirits are still high, we had a run in with some fun size tarpon this morning, and I am thankful to have a day to pursue this ridiculous passion. And to have a wife who puts up with the all-encompassing, childish addiction.

There is time for one last spot before my appointed deadline. Within the first 50 yards we bump a handful of invisible sea trout ranging for 20 inches, to gators. Hope is creeping in. If we can get even one fish to the boat the high should last me at least until turkey season. Better for bride and groom alike.

A string of redfish slide along a shoreline of mangroves and rubble, my comrade drops his fly right next to the mangroves, well in front of the lead fish. By far our best shot all day. As they approach, he gives the crustaceous looking offering a sharp twitch. The lead fish flares off in a golden flash, the second takes a momentary glance before doing the same. The third fish devours it.

A solid slot fish runs to the reel as we bask in the success of the day. one fist bump and a picture later, he swims off. I crack a beer and smile- I could go home a happy man right now, but I’m on the bow and we have 30 minutes left.

I dare not wish for a fish of my own, but in the last 50 yard stretch of shoreline two big redfish materialize, and one decides to make quick work of my black and purple slider. I tighten up the drag and wrangle him away from barnacle covered shoots with a grin. Surely a reward for the last five weekends of dad duty.

Getting home a minute early seems like a good excuse to pin the 30 year old throttle and fiddle with trim and tabs until we reach a delightful 40mph. I ease the throttle back down to cruising speed as we approach a line of pleasure boaters, but RPMs keep plummeting until the motor shuts off. We are left gliding and dumbfounded. A quick inspection for obvious causes turns up nothing, so we crank her back up. She sputters onto plane only to cough her way back to a halt a quarter mile later.

We apply a little extra sunscreen and crack a beer for the seven mile idle home at 1300 RPM. A phone call to my slightly perturbed wife and some serious motor work still doesn’t negate the high brought on by a couple feisty redfish and time spent on the water.

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.

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.