OldTroubador's blog post - Beats a Good Day Working

Friday afternoon, I loaded my van with everything I would need for a short weekend away and headed for one of the Texas state parks along the coast. I arrived in the early evening and prepared my campsite and made a simple meal for supper. I grabbed my cast net and waded into the water to put some bait, large mullet, into the cooler for the next day. I also caught a few shrimp for use that evening. I baited a hook with a large live shrimp below a clacking float and cast it out. The tide at the time was running out, so the fish were not around, but no matter. It was peaceful watching the sun set to the west. As it sank below the horizon, I half expected the water to sizzle and steam. The lights of the near-shore drill rigs came on, testimony to the work going on a few miles out. But the sun going down and the lights coming on brought a pestilence upon the land – mosquitoes. As I faced the water, the winged leeches clustered on my back; when I face the dunes, on my chest and belly. After half an hour of turning back and forth to try to keep them at bay, I finally gave into the inevitable and retreated to my van for a night’s sleep.
I was wakened after a few hours by a strange sound. I shone my flashlight at a window and saw that it, and all the windows, was covered with mosquitoes, trying to find a way inside. They knew, somehow, that an easy meal was trapped in there. The noise of the buzzing of thousands of tiny vampires is what caused me to wake up. That minor annoyance settled, I turned over and went back to sleep, secure inside Detroit iron.
I rolled out of bed the next morning before the sun. I checked the windows to see if it was safe to go outside, looking for mosquitoes and possibly an alligator. Seeing that it was safe, I fired up the stove to make some coffee for myself. As the pot began to burble happily over the gas fire, I headed down to my fishing gear. As the first rays of the new day arched across the sky, I threaded a piece of cut mullet on a hook and waded out to the first sandbar, where I flung the bait and weight as far as I could. I walked back, put the rod in the holder, tightened the line and eased off on the drag. I headed back to the stove and poured a cup of coffee. As I held it and waited for it to cool, I noticed that the rod I had just left was sitting at a funny angle; I headed back down to investigate. In the short time it took to walk and pour a cup of coffee, something had grabbed my bait and run all the line off the spool, breaking the line just above the steel leader. I reeled in all the line and put the pole to the side for the time being, content to watch the world wake up. And what a treat. A flight of skimmers flew by in an echelon right formation. Skimmers are the only bird with their lower beak longer than their upper. The lower beak skims the surface of the water, snapping shut as it finds a shrimp or small fish. I witnessed the small Vee-shaped wakes left by the bills in the water, interrupted only when the birds closed their beaks to feed. As I watched them go by, something to my left caught my eye. Two large sharks had floated over the first sandbar and were cruising back and forth in the gut next to the beach, feeding on the fish they found there. Their patrol pattern never brought them close to me and I wondered why. I soon found the answer as a much larger shark drifted past the spot I was sitting. It looked to be about 12-14 feet long and was probably a bull shark, but could have been a hammerhead. I grabbed a stout rod with heavy reel and excitedly jammed a piece of mullet on the hook. I waited until the shark was headed my direction and flipped the bait toward my target. I knew that my rig would not stand up to the fight that was coming, but that it was going to be a fun few minutes. In my excitement though, I miscalculated the cast and hit the shark in the head instead of laying the bait a few yards in front. This scared the shark and I watched in awe as the shark turned south, its huge tail cutting a swath through the water as it propelled the shark 150 yards over the third sandbar before diving. And I will swear to my dying day that that shark left a hole in the water, parted the sea as it were, as it raced for the southern horizon. I sat back down in my chair, marveling at the sheer power I witnessed as the Gulf waters calmed from the thrashing they had just received.
After collecting my wits, I reeled in my line and prepped a second stout pole. I walked each of these to the second sand bar to cast the bait and weight out past the third bar. As I cast the second one, I failed to thumb the spool properly and put a rat’s nest in the reel. As I stood there picking out the knots, I was looking around and noticed that a single fin was surfing over the third sandbar and some hundred yards to the right. If you want to know the meaning of fear, stand on the second sandbar with half a bleeding fish at your feet and a shark cruising the area. I quickly unknotted the line, reeled in the slack and cast as hard and as far as I could in the direction of the shark. I watched as the fin turned toward the sound of the splash; as soon as I saw that, I started to walk back to the beach. I plugged the rod into its holder, tightened the lines and checked the drags on both reels, and settled back with a cup of coffee to enjoy the morning.
I leaned back, coffee mug resting on my belly, soaking in the warmth of the morning sun. Even though I was totally at ease, I was ready to move as soon as line started peeling from either one of the reels. Through half opened eyes, I watched as seagulls floated on the air currents, watching for bait fish or shrimp on the surface. Phalanxes of pelicans, both white and brown, flew past, looking prehistoric in demeanor, their wings beating in sequence – the first, then the second, and so on down the line. From the salt marsh behind the dunes to my back, dozens of sandhill cranes took off, wheeling in the air without the regimentation of geese or even pelicans. I chuckled as tiny shore birds, little gray puffballs with stick legs, were chased up the sand by the gentle lapping waves, only to turn and chase the water back into the Gulf. Sand crabs scuttled along the beach, ready to jump back into their holes at, in their paranoia, the slightest hint of danger.
One of my reels started talking as the line started walking off. I set down my coffee, pulled the rod from its holder, tighten up the drag some and set the hook hard, three times. This only served to upset whatever was swimming away and the fight was on. I walked up and down the beach, gaining line, losing line, gaining again. The feeling that I had hooked a bulldozer came over me as my arms started to burn. Soon though, I sensed the fish starting to tire and applied more pressure. The fish regained some strength and fought hard as I brought it over the second sandbar. Over the first bar it came and I saw the flash of a spotted tail, slightly blue in color. I had caught a bull red fish, or red drum. Its scales glowed bronze in the bright morning sun and I quickly took it to hand. Wielding a pair of pliers, I removed the hook . The fish measured approximately forty inches and I walked it back out into the Gulf. I spent the next fifteen minutes holding it and moving it back and forth through the water; I could feel it regaining its strength. Finally, it was strong enough to swim on its own, and I released it. I re-baited the line and cast it out again.
Soon after this, I noticed a minivan cruising toward me along the beach. It parked about 150 yards from me and I cussed my luck. The beach was empty for about a mile, yet this family chose to intrude on my space. The kids piled out, chasing seagulls, running for the water, their parents shouting for them to wait as they set up their day camp. Fortunately, I did hear the father admonish the young ones not to bother the fisherman down the way. I decided to pay attention to my coffee instead and settled back to watch my lines.
As the tide was still moving in, I expected some more action shortly and I was not disappointed. I soon heard that familiar sound as my Penn 309 announced line getting peeled off at a high rate of speed. Once again, I set the hook hard. This was a harder fight, the fish stronger and larger than the bull red I had caught. I had a feeling I knew what it was. The kids down the way saw me fighting a fish and called to their dad; he brought them near by but not too close. I fought the fish up and down the beach then felt it beginning to tire. Once I got it over the second sandbar, the fight lasted only a few more minutes. I surfed it onto the beach, placed the rod in its holder, and grabbed a pair of heavy leather gloves. I wrapped the steel leader around one hand and took a hold of the tail with my other and lifted out of the water a five and a half foot long blacktip shark. Before I could drop the shark on the sand to start cleaning it for the cooler, the mother, who had eased over toward us, screamed and started shoving her children back toward the minivan. She tossed them in and began throwing all their beach gear in after them, yelling at her husband the whole time. I really think he wanted to stay and watch me clean the shark, but went back to the van and they all drove away in a cloud of dust, mother screeching the whole way. I laughed for a while, then settled down to work. As I was cleaning out the belly cavity, a park ranger rolled up. I knew the man from being there so much; he asked what I did to scare the tourists. I told him that all I did was catch a shark. He said, “They pulled up to the gate, the wife demanding a refund because no one warned them that there were sharks in the water.” I guess it was all he could do to keep a straight face while talking with her. We shared some coffee and swapped a few lies about fishing, then he went his way and I went back to work.
The water was a beautiful shade of light green, stretching out to the southern horizon. I decided, for the time being, to forgo the heavy surf rods and try my luck with lighter gear for spotted sea trout. As I gathered my wading gear, I chuckled, remembering a story from a couple of years previous. I had complained to a work colleague that I was having little success catching any trout even after throwing my whole tackle box at them. Carl, my colleague, replied that I would have better luck if I just tied on one lure and cast that at the fish instead of tossing away a whole tackle box. I then thanked him for his advice and stole his cup of coffee. As I was getting ready to wade, I looked out across the calm Gulf waters and saw seagulls by the dozen swoop down and pick baitfish and shrimp off the surface. I watched as one would fly away with its prize, only to be harassed by others trying to steal the meal from the successful hunter. Sometimes, one bird would escape with its bounty, others were xxxxxx to drop theirs. This would begin a wheeling cacophony of gulls chasing the fish back to the surface of the water. Sometimes, the by now dead fish would be scooped up by another gull, other times it would be eaten from below by a larger fish.
I walked out to the first sandbar and began casting toward the second, allowing the gold spoon to sink a few feet before reeling it back in. I had a few hits and managed to bring a couple of trout to hand. There was no need to measure them as they were clearly longer than the minimum. I slipped them onto the stringer attached to my belt and kept casting. After a while, I had the feeling that someone was watching me. I looked up and down the beach, but there was no one there. The feeling of being watched was still with me though; I kept scanning until I found the source. A green sea turtle had poked its immense head out of the water to keep an eye on the strange two legged creature standing on the first bar. I laughed, waved, and said hello to my visitor.
The day continued much like this, alternating between wade fishing for trout and surf casting for larger species. Often, I would just sit, sip my coffee, maybe eat a sandwich, and watch as Nature went about her business. Gulls and pelicans continued fishing, schools of bait would swim by, sometimes stopped in their journey by hungry fish exploding through them. A family of porpoises played a couple hundred yards off-shore before moving along. By late afternoon, the tide had slackened and the fishing slowed down. I needed to pack up my van and head back to the house; there was still much to be done on this fine day. I tossed any live bait left back into the Gulf and sent the dead bait over the dunes for the crabs to feast on. A couple more bull reds had been caught and released and in my coolers, I had three sharks and half a dozen trout to be cleaned. Waving at the gate attendants, I rolled my van onto the road and headed back to the Piney Woods of Texas. After an hour and a half drive, it was time to wash down my gear with fresh water and re-oil the reels. I carried the coolers to the cleaning table and steaked the sharks and fileted the trout. By the time I hit the shower to wash the salt and fish scales off of me, I was tired. As I stood under the cool spray, I smiled, enjoying in my memory a glorious day.