“Knife to a Gun Fight”

In the pre-dawn blackness of an overcast morning, we ran the Manatee River towards Tampa Bay. Crossing the bay, I could see the lights of the Sunshine Skyway Bridge over my right shoulder disappear into the clouds. The bruised sky of daylight coming up at our backs, Shannon pointed the bow north-northwest and engaged the autopilot. Outward Bound once again.

The seas were calm enough for the teenagers (Shannon’s daughter, Sydney, and my son, Will) to plop down in beanbags on the bow. I didn’t even have to perform the quasi-aerobic maneuver I’d taught myself to use in rough seas so many years ago. A “lift” upon the T-Top at the crest of a wave to take the disc-compressing bang of a poorly timed or rogue four-to-five-footer.

Eighty-five miles and two and a half hours later, Shannon backed off the throttle as we neared his first spot. The twenty-six-foot Parker settled into the rolling waves, water a clear midnight blue at one hundred and ninety feet. Creeping closer to the structure, Shannon kept a close eye on the electronics on the center console, GPS on the left - sonar on the right.

“There we go …,” Shannon said. I looked at the sonar screen. Other than showing a nice patch of fish, it didn’t seem that extraordinary to me. “Look at the line at the bottom,” he added. Indeed, a thick red border was indicating hard bottom – or limestone. These fields of honeycomb-like surface amid no bottom structure exist everywhere in the Gulf of Mexico – if you know what you’re looking for, holes for big snappers and groupers.

Shannon cut the engines. “’Aight … drop ‘em.” Using heavy rods and reels with five-ounce weights and 5/0 circle hooks, Will, Sidney, and I dropped frozen baits (squid and sardines) one-hundred-and-ninety feet. As soon as they reached the bottom, we were hooked up; red grouper, gag grouper, snapper, but not the big ones yet.

While drifting around, searching for the slot-sized American Red Snapper, in my infinite wisdom, I thought, “Why not break out my heavy baitcasting rig while we’re drifting around?” Who of sound mind would be fishing for big snapper with a baitcasting reel and a stout flipping stick, one might ask? Someone from Louisiana, of course, me.

Many anglers avoid bait casters due to the difficulty of use; the backlash – the dreaded bird’s nest. But he who learneth the skill shall threadeth the needle – place a lure in a bullseye. Although offshore there isn’t much to cast to, is there? Regardless, I’ve caught plenty of cobia, permit, and oversized snook on my heavier baitcasting tackle. It’s been a source of pride over the years, a redneck purist. But when you’re talking about pig bottom dwellers – well, it’s sort of like fishing for ten-pound carp with a Mickey Mouse rig, which is another story.

In the foreground, I heard a commotion. Sydney had something big, then so did Will. Shortly after, we had our first two keeper snapper onboard. “There they are,” said Shannon as he started the engines, moved up, and engaged the windlass anchor. “Ddddddddd …,”the twenty feet of chain attached to the anchor rattled and clanged its way into the water. Shannon played out anchor rod as he reversed, taking up the slack. The anchor caught, and the boat swung into position - Easy Like Sunday Morning.

Shannon is one of a small handful of expert civilian offshore anglers I know. Another being Hill Pohlman out of Cocodrie, Louisiana. By civilian, I mean nonprofessionals or charter captains. Not only were we catching fish, but the boatmanship and setup were all-pro. I would have been circling and pulling anchor and repositioning until I was exhausted, humiliated, and dehydrated – windlass anchor system notwithstanding.

Now the best course of action would have been to be better equipped by grabbing some heavier tackle. These were BIG fish that had to come up a LONG way. Not only did I forgo the conventional wisdom, but I stood on the rear gunnel with my equivalent to a Mickey Mouse rod and reel, bending my knees, moving with the motion of the ocean. Why I was doing this, I can’t remember. I can’t remember why I do a lot of the things I do. My stepdad says I’m a hedonist. I had to look that up. Be that as it may, I was getting a bite. I lowered the rod tip closer to the water, all covertly – like the fish could see me. Then …. gone.

I’ve cast a rod and reel out of the boat before but recovered it, nearly swept away by the tide in the process. Also, I endangered a good-hearted Boat Club member when she tried to help by retrieving an adrift flip-flop I lost upon the frantic plunge. She leaned over to scoop it up and fell right out of their rented deck boat. That also is another story. On more than one occasion, I’ve had an unattended rod snatched from the bow of a bay-boat in the marshes of South Louisiana by a lazy redfish. At least once, we recovered the gear by following the popping cork that happened to be tied to it. I want to say the redfish was still on the line as well; I’ll have to ask the aforementioned Mr. Pohlman.

However, I have never had a rod and reel vanish from my hands as if summoned by a poltergeist. I looked down in disbelief. I looked to my left to find Sydney’s mouth agape and eyes wide. “Did you see that?” I asked her. To which she just busted out laughing. “Stop laughing,” I said, “Stop laughing …” Then I started laughing. By now, Will and Shannon were keyed in and were laughing as well.

I could write plain ole fishing stories, but you can read those in the fishing reports and Florida Sportsman and the like. The mishaps, brush-ins, fails, falls, and miscellaneous debauchery that follows me like a shroud of story fodder makes for exciting reading, so I’ve been told. I’d instead give you something more, such as bond-forging and memory-searing times like these, time and time again.