Spring Tide Rock Pile

Since the late 2000s, post-financial challenges when I afforded an offshore worthy vessel, I find myself reminiscing about my beloved Rock Pile every summer spring tide. I visualize being at the helm of my 26-foot Edgewater, eating up the seas, slicing and deflecting any spray that may have otherwise sandblasted the facial region. Legs bending with the rhythm of the waves, feeling the water beneath me, timing them, it was an exercise in serenity.

Many times – offshore in general - the peace and serenity are replaced by fear and anxiety, for Florida Bay can become treacherous without any warning. Any of my saltwater brethren who have become intimate with lightning know what I mean. One must pay attention, watch for the omens, and be prepared to call the dogs and pee on the fire.

Ignorance and a lack of respect for Mother Nature is an excellent way to find yourself searching for floating flotsam and praying the Coast Guard beats hypothermia. Having confidence in yourself as a captain and in your vessel is imperative; water coordination – sea legs – mandatory.

The Rock Pile, a site unknown to other saltwater anglers, is sacred to me and a select few trusted fishing compadres. The GPS numbers - I'll suffer torturous acts and not divulge - reeds under the fingernails, public floggings with ten-foot bamboo shafts – none the matter.

The coordinates were shared in confidence by an accomplished offshore guide and dear friend, Captain Glenn Andrews. Glenn was a champion, and the world is a little bit dimmer without him in it, like a fluorescent bulb that doesn't entirely burn as bright as it once did. Rest in peace, my friend. 

My crew and I (they will remain nameless) would arrive at the Rock Pile a few hours before dusk, giving us just enough time to get set up before a time I call "Magic Hour." The residents of this South Florida luxury water condominium consist mainly of the upper class. During the summer months, the most prominent being clan snook. Some other high-society types being snapper, grouper, cobia, and permit.

During the summer months, many of the big Labradors (snook – look at them between the eyes, and you'll see it) have either moved offshore to spawn or have spawned. The fertile Rock Pile is like a giant maternity ward for big sow snook and the smaller yet strapping males circling, protecting the hatch.

Of course, this time of year is catch and release and release only. Anyone kind enough to follow the Saltwater Cowboy knows my propensity for opposing authority. It must be the 80's skateboarder in me. Rule-bending ways aside, I am a sportsman. Thus, by default, a conservationist.

Blessed be the anonymous and remarkable individual, or individuals, who created the reef. I would like to clarify that the individual was not myself. A permit is required from the state and approved by the USCG for artificial reefs.

The Rock Pile does have a dark side, having been taken over in a hostile manner by the greedy and gluttonous Goliath Grouper. They are the big kid that smacks you in the back of the head and takes your lunch money. As anglers, they aggravate us due to their larcenous ways and cheap shots. They are grossly unsportsmanlike; they wait and take advantage by rushing out from their rocky lair and eating the disabled captive, sometimes leaving the head as some kind of sick joke. Occasionally they will let go. I've seen snook brought in deader than a doornail, mangled and slimy from being crushed by those massive jowls.

At one time, an endangered species, a moratorium was placed on them, making it illegal to take one of any size. The Goliath made for an easy target due to their size and lackadaisical attitude. A spearfisherman could swim right up to one, and "Bang!" Although, this is usually not a good idea considering some of them are the size of Volkswagens and could take a diver on a tremendous ride. However, in my opinion, recreational fishing and spearfishing took a small percentage of the blame for their decline. Some say they have made a complete recovery as they are plentiful in this region of the Gulf. 

A jig fisherman, me, would bounce a heavy two-to-three-ounce jig head with a soft plastic around the edges of the pile. That's where the big snook liked to loiter. The trick is to bounce the line but time the retrieve evenly, as not to get any slack. Bounce... bounce … bounce …

The curiousness of a cobia is their Achilles heel, cruising along, eager to accept a flipped pinfish or other lively bait. A notorious screamer of reel drags, permit would make frequent appearances and are addicted to small blue crabs. Of course, many were lost to the Goliath. Once the sun dipped, the snapper bite would turn on. 

After the bait was gone and the crew tired from wrangling, we secured the gear and ensured the catch was iced. Lastly, I engaged the electric windlass, pulled the anchor from the Rock Pile, pointed the bow due north, and navigated home in the dark – my beloved Rock Pile in the rearview – its anonymity preserved.