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.

DIY Everglades Fly Fishing

The starter shit the bed in the middle of our keys trip a month ago. Forcing us to chase poons armed with a wooden handle and a short piece of rope. I replaced the starter, and water pump, and have been talking real sweet to her in the weeks leading up to this trip. The plan is to push further into Florida bay than I have personally ever been before. I know that some people do it all the time, but that doesn’t quell the nervous excitement I get from no cell service, wild places, and (hopefully) unpressured fish.

The 20+ year old motor fires right up in a cloud of smoke and biting insects. She hums a perfect 4700rpm, slicing through stained glass for 13 miles to the first spot. My comrade fished here a few months ago, and did will. So I have deferred to his intel to start the trip. We pole the leeward side of the bank for a mile or so, as the sun gets higher, the wind picks up. We start to doubt. An hour with nothing but mullet and sharks, not the report from a few months ago. Everything is always changing here.

We run deeper still into Florida bay. More poling, more sharks, more mullet, and more wind.

The same story with the next few spots. The sun is forcing us to begin thinking of the long run home. We have only seen a couple redfish today. We pact to try one last spot closer to the ramp. Refusing to accept defeat. This is the last spot in the bay that either of us are familiar with.

The sun and water are low by the time we reach the final bank. We do manage to see a few wakes and tails, but our best efforts to pole and punch flies into the wind are not rewarded. We load up the boat and head for Mexican food, and to hatch plans for tomorrow.

Day 2

The last day of our quick trip, which means we have a four hour drive home after today’s fishing. Rather than go back to the same spots as yesterday, we decide to cover some new ground. Each spot is punctuated with disappointment, and mapping. We finally decide to change it up completely. We stow gear and prepare for the long run to the other side of Florida bay. Another spot neither of us have fished before.

When we arrive, hopes are low. The water is muddy and we can barley make out the grass a few inches under the surface. We only have a few more hours before we need to point the skiff back towards the ramp.

Within 10 minutes, my comrade feeds the first orange orb we spot glowing on top of the seagrass. Relief sets in. My turn on the bow. Its not long before we start switching off every two fish. Its one of those days that keeps you coming back. Fleeting and rare. Fish doing what they are supposed to be doing. The redfish were eating each and every well placed fly, and rejecting poor shots.

After we boat about a half dozen reds, the sharks come in. We work out a pretty good system. With 20lb class tippet, the angler strips in the fish as quickly as possible by hand, never letting the line clear to the reel. The guy on the platform watches for the tax man. If he shows up while the fish is being fought, he stomps on the deck and jabs with the push pole as needed, until the fish is landed and revived, never leaving the water. This system worked well for a while, but eventually one of the fish got sharked. At this point we decided to move to another spot further down the flat.

At the new spot my comrade was greeted with a small tarpon, and a decent snook. Both laying in separate sandy potholes. We found another redfish, and then the sharks found us. Our deadline for departure was approaching, so we decided to call it early before feeding any more sharks.

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.

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.

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.