Well, Do You Feel Lucky?

Drifting across a sandy shoal pocketed with coral and seagrass off Turtle Key, water a pale turquoise, neither clear nor muddy, I thought, “this is the day I wash the redfish skunk off me". With a character on board named “Lucky,” how could I spend another day on the water without catching one? The law of averages? Something must give.

Trout, snook, snapper, pompano, tripletail, tarpon sometimes – I did alright. Catching speckled trout has inadvertently become my “thing,” per se. Not as sexy to some, but there’s a player for every position. Not everyone can be quarterback, but it’s better to be the punter than not make the team. In the spirit of such, I embraced the snaggle-toothed bait thumpers. But the fact that I had not been able to catch a redfish in months had become a problem.

Being a student of the game, striking out on reds time and time again was a source of anxiety and personal dissatisfaction. Also, I was tired of avoiding the topic of conversation with one of my compadres, an offshore guide and a trusted proofreader, Drake. He’d commented, something to the effect that I should get a redfish tattooed somewhere where I could at least see one when I used the bathroom. This must stop.

My enthusiasm remained steadfast even after Will, my son, politely informed Lucky that the spinning reel he was holding was upside down. A common mistake among those unfamiliar with certain types of fishing tackle. Lucky grew up in Iowa, known more for wrestlers than anglers. When he moved to Florida, he told me he had to choose between an airplane or a boat. The plane was cheaper. The faux pas was understandable, and we didn’t tease him too much.

Lucky is my friend and landlord. I responded to an ad for a condo on Marco in which Lucky (I think that might be his name. I haven’t asked) quickly and exuberantly replied. A few minutes later, it felt like we were old friends. This ability being a common trait among successful salesmen, it came as no surprise to learn he is one of the top realtors on an island of hundreds. The proof is in the unobstructed view clear to the Yucatan from his condo high above Caxambas Pass.

Loyalty to my friends sometimes comes at a price. Yet, in my experience, the price is always worth it. For instance, do I want to complain to my Amigo that hot air is funneling through the old glazing and shutter system? Or that birds have taken residence in the ceiling? I did complain about that one, and he put in a work order. In the meantime, I came to realize there were no birds but a squeaky ceiling fan. I’ve been too embarrassed to disclose the revelation. I can hear his charismatic, bellowing laugh as he reads this. Surprise!

“What’s that?” asked Lucky in response to the information Will had given him regarding the upside-down reel. Before anyone could respond, a crafty ladyfish or a sprinting jack took a swipe at the live shrimp on the end of his line, flipping the reel over. “Oh …,” replied Lucky, “Ha! How about that!”

“Leave it there for a minute. If your shrimp isn’t gone, something might come back and get it,” I said, whipping a jig side-armed with both hands as far as I could to reach the cut on the edge of the shoal. Suddenly, Lucky’s popping cork disappeared, and his line began moving sideways at a rapid rate of speed. Although, he’d yet to feel the pull on the end of the line. “Uh …,” Will said, “I think you’ve got one.”

Lucky reeled in the slack, the rod bowed, and the drag started peeling off the reel. “Oh boy, do I ever!”

“Yes, you do,” I replied, laying my rod down, scrambling for the Boga Grip, getting ready to land the fish should the fight go Lucky’s way. I didn’t say anything, but the way the fish fought, pulling steady amidst blistering runs, led me to believe that he had a nice red. “Yes! I knew it", I thought, still keeping the idea to myself. My behavior was indicative of the silly superstitions in which anglers are sometimes governed. Although, it wouldn’t have mattered because the bruiser ended up being a colossal jack crevalle.

We moved around the outer islands, catching a little bit of everything; small snook, mangrove snapper, and slot size trout were the A-Listers of the day. Trash fish bit and pulled on our lines, providing much entertainment, but they don’t count.

Following the incoming tide into the backwater, trolling from point to point, fishing the deeper holes that hold gator trout in the cooler months, we picked up one here, two there as we went.

The tide was rushing over a massive oyster ridge towards the back of a bay that I’m choosing to remain nameless. I cast to the edge where my jig became snagged. I popped the line a couple of times using what I call the Ole Banjo Trick. With slack line, I pulled out an arms-length and snapped it several times. Not unlike a fast version of drawing a compound bow and slinging an arrow. The vibration ran down the line to the lure, pushing it off its snag.

That one always garnishes looks of surprise for those who’ve never seen it. This time was no different. Lucky looked at me wild-eyed. “Old Louisiana bass fishing technique,” I said. I barely got the comment out when something peeled off the oyster bar and took off with my jig. I set the hook and tried to turn the fish away from the oyster bar, but “Pop!” the line broke. “Well,” I said, “That was my redfish. Or a tripletail.” Oddly, I’ve caught several of the crab-pot loiterers in this particular backwater bay.

Although the redfish continued to elude me, we had a spectacular day. A box full of trout and a few keeper snapper. Memories made, a bond strengthened, and a friendship solidified was lucky enough for me. As we rounded the corner at Tripod Key, the sun was low on the horizon in line with Caxambas Pass, an orange orb hovering directly above Lucky’s place.