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.