Gone Fishin’

I sit on the porch of the beach house, elevated on stilts, first cup of black coffee in hand, looking at the surf a mere 50 yards away.  It is very early, still dark.  I smell the Gulf of Mexico, a deep rich mix of salt, watermelon, lime and dead shrimp.  This is the mulch of life.  The air is so heavy it has weight even with a breeze.  No birds yet.  No early light in the eastern sky.  I am looking due southeast and judging the prospects for the day.

Is the tide in or out or simply moving?  Is there wind and where is it from?  South west will lead to brown water and chop.  Southerly will bring in the big fish, southeasterly will clear the water and the fish will come in closer to shore.  How is the surf?  Flat which is ideal, or slow low rollers, or big rollers, or brownish chop.  Water color, a little hard to tell while still dark, but knowing the other variables I can guess.  I want flat, southeasterly winds, clear water.  I will catch as many fish in brown southwesterly chop, but it is harder to fish that water and I age.

Knowing what I know about the water, I put down my cup, pull on my dampish swimsuit from yesterday, and a clean fishing shirt.  I do not want to wear yesterday’s shirt as it smells of dead fish and dead bait and is salty, damp and stinky.  The swim suit doesn’t matter as it will soon be underwater as I wade.

Now dressed I grab billfold, keys and head down the steps to my truck.  Others are not yet up.  I pull out on Bluewater highway, cross over the Intercostal, and head to the string of bait shops, flying flags of various colors indicating the kind of bait they have available.  The first shot of adrenaline enters my system.  I feel the excitement, the anticipation.  I am looking for white flags: fresh, live shrimp, my perennial favorite bait.  (Every other bait they sell I can get in the surf with a cast net.)  I tend to go to Denver’s as I have gone there for years; they know me even though I am only here for a week once a year.  Denver’s has a white flag.  I like their shrimp.  Not too big, not too small, frisky.  The shrimp I prefer are about 2 ½ to 4 inches long.  Smaller than that is tough to hook and less likely to attract.  Bigger than that and it is likely that each retrieve will yield a half-eaten shrimp.  Denver’s has what I want.  Mosquitoes swarm as I exit the truck.  The woman at the desk looks 70 and is probably 40, thin, tough, tan beyond belief, wrinkled by sun and wind.  She does not smile as that would reveal her teeth.  But I really like her.  Her wit is acidic and appeals. She nods as she rubs her cigarette out in the overfull ashtray.  No rules about smoking here.  I head to the back, where an old man, heavy set and sweaty asks what I want and drags a net through an aerated trough to catch the bait.  I buy a quart of live shrimp; it is in my trolling bait bucket, placed in a large white plastic bucket full of salt water.  I stop at the desk and pay.  She says, “Good luck, Honey.”  I say thanks, but it will be what it will be.  She chortles and lights another cig as I lug the bucket to the back of my truck.

It is now a race to the beach.  The longer the shrimp stay in the bait bucket the higher the mortality rate.  I drive directly on to the beach and turn southeast towards the cabin.  It is almost a mile on beach sand from the access road to a spot in front of the cabin and I hurry, no one out yet, avoiding ruts and soft sand.  I can go no faster than about 30 mph, but I feel a sense of urgency. 

I arrive directly in front of the cabin.  Pull my truck in with tailgate toward the Gulf of Mexico, parked far enough away that a high tide will not touch my tires.  I hop out, drop the tailgate and grab the heavy metal spike rod holder and move very quickly into the shallow surf.  I first feel the water temperature, it feels cool, but is not, probably about 82 degrees. Waves lap at my shins as I seek a spot at just the right depth of water to both sustain the rod holder, and avoid being high and dry at low tide and swamped at high tide.  I guess. I place my foot on the spike and drive the rod holder into the soft sandy bottom.  I hurry back to the truck, grab the bait bucket and almost jog to the rod holder.  I drop the bucket in the surf, knowing that now whatever shrimp are still alive will remain so as the gulf water flows through the bucket aerating and motivating the shrimp.  The bucket is tied off on the rod holder, and I head back to the truck.

My truck is the base camp for the day at the beach.  In the bed are all the lawn chairs, coolers, toys, etc. that the 20 people staying in the cabin will want to use for the day.  It also holds all my gear and that of my family.  I pull out my rod and real.  A Shimano or Penn open faced spinning real is my choice of weapons on a 7’ Ugly Stick rod.  I will likely spend the day casting into the wind and an open faced saves a lot of time.  I check the reel for function, double check the drag and move to the terminal tackle.  I open my tackle box and tie a coastal lock barrel swivel on the end of the 12 pound test Berkley green mono filament.  I take a barrel swivel and tie about 30 inches of 30 pound test mono filament to serve as a shock leader.  I clip the barrel swivel in the coastal lock.  (Many fishermen scorn the use of coastal locks for fear a large fish will stretch the wire and a sad loss will occur.  That has never happened to me and I have caught large fish before.  I prefer the lock swivel because as the day progresses I will change terminal tackle many times and the coastal lock saves a lot of time.)  At the end of the 30 pound shock leader I tie a small circle hook.  I check all my knots with a good pull.  I clip pinch weights on the shock leader just below the coastal lock.  The number of weights is determined by the wind.  A strong inshore wind will require more weight.  No wind and I will just pinch one small weight to aid slightly in the cast.

I am almost ready.  The eastern sky is now light in anticipation of the sun rise.  I slip on my wading shoes and put on my wading belt.  I put a pair of stainless steel needle nose pliers in my upper shirt pocket and Velcro the pocket closed.  My hat goes on, strap under my chin.  My sunglasses go on and get firmly snugged by the strap attached in back of my head.  I pick up rod and reel and head to the surf. 

I place my rod in the rod holder while I clip the bait bucket to my wading belt.  I take my rod out of the holder and head into the gulf.

The waves are different each day.  The bottom is different each day.  I am looking for the little valleys on the bottom, the cuts or guts as they are called.  Waves crest on the shore side of the cuts.  I feel the change in elevation as I wade out.  I want to fish at least the second cut, maybe the third, because the game fish cruise the cuts seeking food.  I watch the water for mullet or shrimp jumping, usually in a cut.  I will find my spot just on the high side of the sand bar on the shore side of the cut.

I reach in the bait bucket and grab a shrimp.  While it frantically flicks in my hand I hook the shrimp either in the head or the tail, depending on size.  There is a special place in the head of a live shrimp where a hook can pierce the shell and the shrimp remains alive.  The sun has yet to break the horizon and it is the early dusk. I am now ready to fish.

I am free shrimping.  No cork.  No big weight on the bottom.  No fancy plastics or lures. Just a live shrimp on a hook on the end of my line.  I flick the shrimp into the cut.  If the current is running right to left I flick it to the right so it will float past me and then to my left.  Once the bait is out the thrill begins.

I am standing in the Gulf of Mexico.  A body of water full of life.  I feel life around my feet and brushing against me.  I have live bait floating in this rich water while waves roll across me.  I am attached to that bait by line, rod and reel.  Anything can happen.  These moments of anticipation after all the preparation are a source of great joy to me.  Waiting, line loose but tight enough to feel; finger on the line and I can actually feel the shrimp flicking in the water.  Waiting.  Waiting.

The strike comes without warning. One moment line loose and floating and in the next split second the line is jerked, goes taught, and the drag of my reel screams as the fish takes line.  Rod up.  Speck?  Red?  Flounder?  Shark?  Mackerel?  In that first second I am not sure.  I must see how it runs, how it fights.

It is a speckled sea trout and a good one.  She comes near the surface to try and throw the hook out of her mouth, then dives and makes another run.  I slowly bring her in.  It is a game in the waves, but for this fish I have the advantage.  She comes closer, and then makes another run taking line.  The weight of the fish, the tug on the line is thrilling.  With my rod pointed up I retrieve until she is likely within reach.  I must keep the rod up and the line tight or she will throw the hook out of her mouth.  I hold the rod in my right hand, time the waves, and bring her to me on the crest of a wave.  I reach into the water, slide my hand under her and get fingers in her gills.  Now I can lift her out of the water and actually see what I have caught.  My pole is marked to determine legal sizes, but this one does not need measuring.  She is a good 18 to 20” speck.  Rod under my right arm frees my right hand to remove the hook from the edge of her mouth while holding her in my left hand.  Once the hook is out, I pull in my floating stringer attached to my wade belt, thread the end through gills then mouth so that she will always swim away from me, and toss her into the water.  One down, many more to go.  My heart is pumping as I pull the bait bucket to me, grab another shrimp, and start over.

Before my cast I look up at the cabin.  Family are on the deck by now, watching.  I see wife and son and daughter moving quickly down the stairs and over the sand to join me.  They grab their poles from the back of my truck and gear up.  They typically prefer popping corks with dangling hooks.  Soon we are all standing in the surf throwing live shrimp at the ocean.  As they need more bait they come to my bucket.  As they catch a fish they bring it to me to string, or if it is really big they will walk it in to shore.  Debbie uses a net slung around her neck.  Lacey will go to Debbie for the net when she catches.  Bill grabs fish like I do.  It is now a family event and I take great joy in sharing these moments, watching all their lines, waiting now for any one of three hook-ups, watching the fight and retrieve. 

We miss some.  We drop some.  We are in the water amongst the fish.  We are not in a boat.  We are not on a pier.  We are not in a bay.  We are not in fresh water.  We are in oceanic salt water where anything can happen, anything can hit.  We will catch shark, we will catch reds and black drum and flounder and an occasional mackerel or lady fish or even a king fish if the water is green and the wind is from the south.  Our target fish is the speck.  Yes, there will be hardheads and croaker and whiteys, but not so much, not this early.  We never know.  And it is that anticipation, that not knowing, that being among the fish in their environment that makes this such a thrill.  

I will not be thinking about budgets, boards and buses.  I will not be thinking about all the "to do’s" on my desk awaiting my return.  I will not be thinking about petty power plays or politics or new legislation or accountability.  I will be fishing, therapy for my soul, standing in the primordial soup of life on this planet, watching the sun rise, feeling the atmosphere breath and move around me, and inhaling thick salt air.  I cast again and wait.

I leave today for a week of this. 

I am gone fishin’.