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.