Kayak Adventure at Big Pine Key and No Name Key

Patricia is patient with our fishing. I expect her to be resentful, but she never reveals any of that. Besides, I am so proud of her for choosing this vacation in 2007, when Old Wooden Bridge Cottages and Marina was Old Wooden Bridge Fish Camp. Imagine a wife who, on her own, unsolicited, does that for you. Finds a fish camp and says let's do this, even when she doesn't fish. On Ocracoke Island, she comes with us on the charter, and when we go to "the dock," she calls it, Avon Pier, she stays in the rental home and reads. She likes her quiet with Sadie the black Labrador. The last occasion  in 2012 at Old Wooden Bridge on Big Pine by the bridge over Bogie Channel to No Name Key, she spent time by and in the pool, while Matt and I boated and fished three days, although we've always taken her out on the boat for hours when we have fished inshore. She is utterly terrified at the thought of going out to sea. 

Matt and I pulled a stunt that second day out there this year, too, although I know I could have handled a little worse. 

After we finished the third day at 4 pm, we did no more fishing, but we were up for whatever Trish wanted to do Friday (Saturday we went to Key West), and discussed options, settling on kayaking. The literature about the service speaks of an eco-tour, and why is it I am uncomfortable with the description? Because it hits me as pretentious. Ecology is a science, or should be, and paddling in nature isn't an eco-tour, it is simply an exercise of the body involved in an exploration (of nature). It may also be described as an adventure, since danger is in fact involved, and this post will give you an example of suffering a very unfortunate accident. As my wife later remarked, such an accident is par for the course, when you take risks as we do.

We paddled from the Old Wooden Bridge establishment along the bridge to No Name across the channel, and then we turned under to the left, paddling along mangroves to find where the little tidal creek empties. We followed this flow, often by pulling on limbs, to a very shallow little bay, a distance of perhaps half a mile. We found mangrove snappers in the creek, some as large as eight or nine inches, and though the water was clear and I tried to photograph some, this wasn't quite successful. I got a few good shots of a black-crowned night heron that seemed quite unafraid of us, although I could have done better with my long 70-200mm lens. My 50mm prime lens was installed. I didn't bring my bag with other lenses, because attempting to reach backwards where I would have strapped the bag did not impress me as practical. My camera was secure around my neck. 

It was a nice paddle. We didn't see a whole lot of wildlife, but jellyfish and hermit crabs caught our interest in the little bay, as did some sort of land crab on limbs we grasped. 

When we got back, Matt had no trouble landing and getting out. My wife and I pointed our double kayak into shore. I noticed the water was deep where I continued sitting as Trish prepared to get out, while I ventured the thought that once she stood aside, Matt would pull the kayak forward so I could reasonably get out. 

What happened within seconds was a disaster to minor degree. Let me first insert an anecdote. In 2011, Matt and I swam in the steep surf of Point Pleasant, New Jersey, the water about 10 feet deep very few yards from shore, the two of us animated by a very good mood. We both called Trish forward. The waves were big. She doesn't even know how to swim, and we should have known better, but we had thrown care to the wind. 

What do you do when a big wave hits you? Let it take you. She resisted. Her right knee shattered. She had to be taken off the beach and to our car in an ATV, and then directly by me to Ocean County Hospital, I believe is the name of it. In Bedminster, she underwent surgery right away, but the knee has never been perfectly right since.

It buckled suddenly as she tried to stand, and she fell back on the edge of the kayak, tipping it. I went directly overboard into that deep water, my $3500.00 camera, and that 50mm lens, thoroughly submerged in salt water for about three seconds. 

I got out and went directly to our cottage to begin salvage efforts. I did find that the camera is amazingly waterproof. "For thirty-five-hundred-dollars, it should be," Trish said. Well, if only quality were just that secure. There was no water inside the lens chamber. No water in the battery chamber. But not only did some get into small portals, I put the camera in the sun, and that resulted in condensation on the LCD panel near the start button. Not a good sign at all. The memory card I knew was unaffected. All of my photos on it, all are spared. In a very real way, that is what is most important. 

Trish and I went to the Winn Dixie, and she asked for a small cardboard box, got one, and bought beef jerky with silicone packets, along with duct tape. Thus began efforts to get the water sucked out of the camera in an airtight box with silicone. I asked Matt to go on his laptop and order more silicone from Amazon Prime. When we came home, it was here for us. I put the camera in an airtight box with plenty of silicone packets for a week. The lens remains as yet in another. (That lens is sharp as can be and cost me only $80.00, an old model that used to be expensive.) 

I finally tried turning the camera on. It did not work. So I phoned Nikon USA, on Walt Whitman Road in Melville, New York. Two of the greatest literary figures in American history. I have always enjoyed dealing with Nikon service for this reason. It's costly, but what the hell. Melville was a popular adventure novelist who earned money by those books...until he wrote Moby Dick, and everyone believed he had gone mad. He finished his life as a low-wage clerk, but his was the glory. He wrote the great American novel. So what is money, anyway?

Apparently, and I do hedge, Nikon can repair my camera. The man on the phone was confident enough--maybe. This was salt water. I haven't heard back as yet. Shipping by UPS with insurance cost $71.00. I like my camera, but just between you and me, I was tempted to hope it gets lost. 

I suffer--on rare occasion--from persecution mania, which is neither paranoia nor the mania of manic-depression, but a most intensely negative state of feeling things have gone desperately wrong. It is a mania, which means the mind is agitated and unhinged, but again, it is not the ecstasy of mania in a manic state. Quite the contrary to those wonderful feelings. After the salvage effort was complete, I went into my room, shut the door, and suffered. Philosopher Bertrand Russel has written that the worst unhappiness possible to a human being is persecution mania. Why my psyche goes to the extreme is a mystery, but it does on rare occasion. 

What is money, I asked. Well, when I overheard Trish on the phone with the car rental agency, talking about instating Matt as a driver for $75.00 so they could go out, I got out of bed and called that off. I shot a look at Trish, and she seemed accepting of me. I hadn't behaved badly, but she knew I was in a bad way. Well, now I was going to be OK, if she would have it. Apparently so. Money to the rescue. Together, the three of us rode to No Name Key for a hike, which I enjoyed. We all did. Would you think after hell, an hour later this would be possible? It happened. The object of persecution had been how damn hard it was to have earned $3500.00 as a writer, but in reality, the situation was in play. 

Trish said, "You'll find a way to profit from this." After all, I certainly did profit from the submergence of my D60 and my favorite lens in the Salmon River. Not only did I place as a finalist for the Brookwood Press Writing Award by account of that loss, I was quickly prompted to buy my much better D7100. That advanced my work greatly.

I'm not saying I'll have to buy a new camera, but what was really the worst of what happened? The financial loss, or the plunge I took into my bad mental state? The latter never damaged me, but it does suck when it happens.     

Not as sharp as would be in the middle range of my 70-200mm lens. This is an image cropped out of a much larger frame. Besides, more focus is on that stick in front of the heron. I got other shots much better, which even when cropped, seem to have magazine quality. 

Key Deer of Big Pine Key

As a very young boy, aged 9, I was not only full of wonder about animals, I studied them, fully intending to become a zoologist. I collected fish, reptiles, amphibians from the wild, and kept them in aquariums and terrariums in our basement, about 20 containers in total, at a time when America was freer, and some laws against such practice weren't yet in place. I felt some qualm about my "animals in captivity," wondering if I should set them free and not do this, but I took notes on their behaviors and fully accepted the fact that elsewhere, credentialed researchers did much the same, which isn't to say I ever abused my creatures. I loved and cared well for them. At nine, I wanted to create original ethological theory, but although I had an understanding of abstraction at that young age before minds typically reach full abstract function at 14, I felt frustrated, devastated, at my failure to not only infer facts from observations I made about animal behavior in captivity, but organize them in theory.

No one consoled a mere nine-year-old in over his head. I spoke to nobody about this.

I read a great deal, and one of the animals I came upon in a book was the Key deer. Instead of remembering any facts about the species, besides a vague recollection perhaps about its diminutive size, I remember I romanticized its habitat, imagining lush wilds in the Keys tropics.

Well, here you see a little deer standing about two feet in front of me beside a picnic table. They're quite tame. It is illegal to feed or touch them. So we did neither. But obviously, plenty of people do. We encountered a six- or eight-point buck on the road, which refused to move out of the way of the car. I stopped, it came to my window, which I lowered, and as it put its head inside the car, I felt a very visceral connection to its animal presence. No matter the tameness. The creature was healthy and strong. Trish said, "Don't touch it!" I was tempted to.

They live on Big Pine and No Name Key, their habitat diminished compared to years before they were hunted when they lived on other islands, as well. Big Pine is a large island with plenty of wild, and although most of the deer seem to spend their time near residential front porches, we did take a hike on No Name back into forest and saw Key deer tracks in the sand back there, a comforting sight. 

Butterfly Jigging Florida Keys Reef Edge

The third morning, like the previous two, we were up when little light came in through windows and I did all of the loading of gear before the sun came to the horizon. I've always felt it's just as well I have never been hard on my son about helping with gear. I find it easy to do, and since some complications about this and that go along with the exercise, I might as well be in full control. There is at least some exception, when here in Bedminster he volunteers, and he's always been good with the ratchet strap when loading the squareback. When he is older and perhaps a family man like me, he will choose how seriously he fishes. I only know I got back into fishing seriously because of his desire to go all the time when he was four years old. I'm thankful.

In 2007, I was getting published about fishing again, having got published plenty during my teens, but in some respect the adventure had only begun. I rented a 19-foot boat with 90 horsepower, and Matt and I enjoyed a day's fishing mostly in the reef shallows, which to this day impresses as the best day of fishing I've ever done. Not because of what we caught--though the many snappers and such were fun, my 39-inch barracuda on light tackle was a thrill I remember like yesterday, and the big barracuda that slipped out from under the boat to grab one of Matt's snappers excited us. For many years, I felt uncertain if I would enjoy a successful adulthood: the overwhelming beauty of that calm day on the reef confirmed my having made it after all.

It's all thanks to Matt.

The high point of that day many years ago, really, was just gazing into the clarity of the water, seeing bottom 26 feet down, but I did hook something very large on my surf rod when drifting a ballyhoo, bottom 80 feet down, which ran at high speed, but down into coral, probably a large amberjack. Of the hundred yards or so the fish took in seconds, sixty feet came back to me frayed. I swore on my honor that we would be back. I committed there and then to buying the tackle we would need.

As I wrote in the previous post, on the second day, Matt broke his jigging rod, which I responded to by telling him I will buy him an even better one, since I'm better informed now, and the technology has improved. The weather forecast was true to this third day. There was a breeze, but seas were not nearly as heavy as on the previous. We came upon at least a dozen other boats out there this second day, when we saw none on the second day. People knew it wasn't safe out there. Or at least they felt it was too rough to fish comfortably.

As things turned out, I never used one of the Mustad O'Shaughnessy hooks like the one I photographed for the recent post I named "Power True to my Original Intention," about what I swore out there on the water in 2007. We did get the stand-up rods on the plane, but only Matt used one of them with such a hook.

Something big broke off on that rod he used right away, and I don't remember if it was because I tied a bad knot, but I do remember feeling humbled using 50-pound test monofilament leader, if mostly because as I age now--in 2007 I was only 46--I grow less sure of my piecemeal decisions. That's not to say I don't go right on doing the likes, but that I often feel caught in a net of complications I'm unsure about, and tying 50-pound mono just didn't feel certain. I do remember a bad knot responsible for either a lost fish, or breaking off a rig stuck on coral, but in any event, instead of getting wrapped up in regret--if it was a fish--we not only enjoyed the process in play, uncertainty and not; we were committed to coming back out yet, even better prepared. I can also say that the day proved that far and away, for the most part I got knots right. It should be completely simple to do, but I remember I was not quite right at first. How much this had to do with my cold feet before we even got on the plane, I don't know, but just the same, the issue is larger and involves my aged nerves in general. I felt unsure this trip was wise to undergo, because I am simply not solidly there for action as I was when younger, but I am not content to take it easy, either, and I have to say I'm glad we got out there that second day as well, because manning the high seas felt very invigorating, proof that I still have physical life in me. In Key West, I would contemplate photos of Ernest Hemingway at nearly my age, and feel deep pity at his wasted appearance. He died at 61.

I did notice Matt felt a little put off by that loss on his first drift, but I had prepared myself for such losses, expecting them, if I should have enjoined him in conversation about this beforehand. Soon thereafter, he struggled with a fish; as it came into view down in the clear water, we saw it was a king mackerel, and once he got it boat side, I judged it weighed about six pounds. When I parted my way to retrieve the gaff from the compartment inside the console--a bad piece of equipment with a bent point--I wished Matt would just hoist the fish over the gunwale, but I wasn't sure that was wise, when I should have been certain. The obvious thing to do: yell out for him to pull it over. I stayed mum. And when I came alongside my son, he had the fish fully under control right there boat side. I tried to slip that bent point under the gill flap, but knocked that O'Shaughnessy hook loose.

"Agh!" Matt said, "Call it a catch." And as an event later in the day would prove, it was a good thing we let that fish go without pulling it over, because when we boated a six-and-a-half-pounder of mine, it made a bloody mess on the boat, and we had to keep it, when we would have let it swim. My third king I never let get past the gunwale, pinning it there with my left hand as I removed hooks with fingers of my right. I did not let that five-and-a-half-pounder budge, and it swam off in good shape thereafter.

So Matt was rigged to do the big work. There are sailfish near the reef this time of year. They do hit ballyhoo. I told him some get caught on 12-pound test, but he said he felt more comfortable with the heavy gear. From hereon, he caught three sharks, none more than five pounds. They moved their heads about with intent as if they knew they have teeth to get your finger, if you make a false move, but we got hooks out and let the fish go safely. Long pliers, of course.

At first, I felt the jigging might not work; the boat drifted quickly, and working the jigs vertically was all but impossible, though I found that by pitching the butterfly jig up current, I got good lifts. It did take practice. Before I got it quite right, I thought the jig I used had better have hooks on the bottom loop, too. Just a hunch.. Theses jigs come with one "assist" hook up top, and guys use them this way. I took time out and rigged the hooks. On the first drop thereafter, I found my rhythm for medium speed, and said to Matt, "I'm finally getting this jigging down." A second later, I felt a firm, bouncing jolt, reared back, and as if no transition ensued between hookset and the first run, that fish took off in a straight line as 50-pound braid seemed to melt from the spool. I remember my joyous impression of the efficiency of the gear. I kept a low bend in the rod, and this fish kept on going, me feeling just a little nervous for a moment; maybe we would have to start the engine and follow the fish. I realized it sped at about the same speed and force as the fish I had hooked in 2007, though as I say, that previous fish dove into coral. I felt thrilled at how close to surface this one stayed. It stuck where bottom was about 85 feet down, about three fourths of the way to surface. When the fish stopped, I began pumping it back, never bending that delicate rod fully, gaining line, proud of how much power this rod has, despite this inherent delicacy. As an afterthought now, I see I had fulfilled my original intention, because after all, a surf rod is no use for jigging, and the spool of the reel I use on my surf rod will not hold 450 yards of 50-pound braid. Even though not nearly that amount was in play, the gear suited the match very comfortably, and I was winning the struggle with one of the best fish I have ever hooked.

Finally, in the clear water I could see I had hooked a king mackerel of about 15 to 20 pounds. I saw it was worn out enough when it lulled boat side to attempt to gaff it with that gaff that should not be on a boat. "You can grab the jig and pull the fish over," I told Matt, a little confused about what to do. That jig had hooks up and down. It was hooked by those bottom two hooks I had rigged, as my two other kings were hooked, as well. Matt managed to get the gaff point under a gill and also grab that jig, and when I saw he had a grip-- and I have to tell you, my blood pressure must have spiked, because I knew I put my son's hand on the line--I said loudly, "Hoist!"

Over the gunwale came what I later measured at 43 inches form jaw to tail of king mackerel. Matt's only injury was a puncture on his right thumb he said came from one tooth. My moment of decision had worked. Mostly, it was Matt who got it right. I knew his hand was not going to get inside those jaws with a force like a hydraulic cutter, but I did make an equation: at worst, he was going to get cut seriously by the hooks. Was this worth the attempt at boating this fish? Godamnit, yes! And as I say, when I saw the moment, I gave the command. Was I rash? I don't think so, but I can't help but sometimes feel maybe I was. I put reason ahead of feeling, though, and always manage to balance on reason's account. When I do, my feeling is in the right place. Plenty of people would believe I was rash, but the fact that we got the fish into the boat with only the slight cut on Matt's thumb will only leave them to wonder, as if to suffer a needless infinite regression on speculations about what did not, in fact, happen. Some acts need courage, and courage always needs rational perception. When the fearful process is complete, if you got it right, you have succeeded.

My only misgiving would be that I never thought so much as to tell the manager at the marina that the boat needs a new gaff. And just why it needs it, as if I would offer a vivid anecdote. It seems I would have said something in 2007, but I just don't seem to think of such things anymore.

I never weighed the fish until we had come in hours later, at over 17 pounds. Along with the other king we kept, we had a feast in the making, and indeed we ate like kings. Three days later, we still had three pounds leftover, which I gave to the marina manager, along with a nice tip. He was especially happy about the meat. It meant more than mere money. And as I say, I never thought to complain. Well, whoever rents the boat next. It's their own damn business to check the gear and they can complain if they want to.

Matt with his stand-up rod.

 Odd fish I hooked 110 feet deep that has a mark like a mangrove snapper's, but was not that species. 

Once we got inshore, Matt drove.

https://littonsfishinglines.blogspot.com/2012/07/groupers-snappers-in-bahia-honda.html

Trolling Plugs for Florida Keys Grouper

Aldous Huxley writes that the solitary figure against a wide open foreground and background signifies the value of visionary art as nothing else does. When I read these words 40 years ago, it seemed obvious to me that the idea is symbolic of the individual human being alone in a wide open world, but as I recall, I never came upon Huxley confirming the notion. Maybe he thought it was too obvious to comment on.

The single stunted tree stands about the same height on the islet in the Atlantic a few hundred yards from Bahia Honda Key, as when last we paid respects in 2012. This time, Matt and I had motored out to the reef and to the drop over 85 feet of water, the seas rough, but we got out there without much fear. Jigging didn't seem doable, because pushed by the wind and flow of the waves up top, the boat drifted a considerable distance before a heavy jig would hit bottom. But of course, on Matt's first or second drop, his jig hit bottom, and when he lifted, he found it snagged.

I prepped Matt on using the rods before we flew down. I should have flexed one of the two we owned, to ensure that his memory held in place. Hanging bottom with 50-pound test and heavy drag, he held his rod high. Jigging rods are not pool cue stand-up rods. Mine is rated for 50 to 100-pound braid, but is constructed to be an amazingly light-weight tool. You would never think it has such a high rating, unless familiar with the sort. Listening closely to videos, I learned that when held with too much bend in the rod, it is likely to explode, a point which did not surprise me.

Deep bend in his rod, Matt's broke. He called for my help, pathetically, so I immediately motioned that all was OK, took his rod in hand just before he might have lost the reel with it, aimed at the snag, thumbed the spool, let line break.

No big deal. Told him he can fish bait. I later filled him that since I am more informed on jigging rods than when we bought these in 2012, his new rod will be even better. Besides, the technology advances. We don't pay $1000.00 for a rod, because we don't jig all the time, but Shimano is a good make.

Shortly thereafter, I reeled in a small yellowtail snapper from the bottom. I don't recall if I was already sick, but I did get seasick for the first time in my life, vomiting over the side.

"Eat these chips," Matt said, "The salt will stabilize your stomach."

I worried that if the sickness persisted or got worse, I might be compromised at manning the boat. Matt had driven it over the rough inshore, but out here, the rough would be difficult for a neophyte. Possibly not doable, for all I knew. Only after arrival back here in New Jersey, it occurred to me that I should have let him try. Soon, he might have a son. I have experience at boating rough from my youth. I missed an opportunity to expose him to some while he actually stood at the wheel.

So you can guess I got better. But the seas had suddenly got higher, the space between wave crests narrower. It was not because I felt sick that I said, "We should go in." The sickness had entirely left me.

What if the seas were to get even worse?

I assume they did, because while we fished Bahia Honda, wind increased. It had taken us awhile to get in; I couldn't safely run the boat as fast as I did as we came out. I said to Matt once, "Did you feel the boat twist!?" And then I told him that if the wave was higher, the crests even steeper, the boat would have rolled.

It's not cool to roll your boat there. The water temp was 76.74. But sharks all over.

As we fished Bahia Honda, a small craft advisory had been issued.

Right off the bat, I caught a beautiful 14-plus-inch lane snapper. They're usually six or seven inches long. Went in the cooler. Shrimp bait. Soon I cut up a grunt and we tried to catch grouper, but the only grouper caught while we fished bait was my smallish red grouper on a big piece of shrimp.

Action slowed. Something prompted me to think of trolling plugs. And then I remembered Matt had caught a seven-pound Nassau grouper while trolling a plug from the sailboat while enrolled in Seabase of the Boy Scouts of America. Down here in the Keys. Would it work? Like most questions, it couldn't truly be answered without physical trial.

Took awhile, but Matt finally boated a 12-inch black grouper on a Bandit Walleye Deep, a diving minnow-shaped plug that gets way down. We marked water as deep as 24.7 feet, but this fish hit as we arrived upon shallows. I guess it was from 12 feet of water.

Matt enjoyed more action. Nothing wanted my Rapala diver. But nothing wanted my other Bandit, when I put that on instead. Matt caught all five groupers, two of them pretty nice: a black grouper of about 18 inches, a red grouper I measured at about 17.  They were in that shallower water. Before we went in, we talked about the possibility of a keeper red grouper--legal only inshore, in Gulf waters--and concluded it's probably like bass up here. Plenty of them 18 inches, but 20 inches rare. Or like fluke. How many 17 inches? How many 18?

We took a quick break at the cottage before Trish came out with us We motored under the bridge and trolled straight up Bogie Channel, something slamming Matt's Bandit within minutes. It cut the line, likely a barracuda. A minute later, Matt rigged with the other Bandit, something ploughed into my Rapala. The fight dogged, the fish felt plenty heavy on the jigging rod, so when I saw it was a nice red grouper, I said, "This one could be a keeper!"

Well, that would be too amazing, I guess. Exclamation is usually uttered by a fool. We had just a few fish for dinner. So that night, we ordered pizza, but it was delicious pizza. Gave the delivery a girl a fat tip, even before we knew how good. Trish did eat snapper again, however.

The grouper was fat enough, but measured--barely--19 inches. Twenty inches is legal size.

Matt caught a couple more small ones. So seven groupers jigged by him.

We caught fish.

Old Bahia Honda rail bridge.

Lane Snapper

Red grouper on shrimp.

Matt's first black grouper.

Triggerfish Matt caught.

Matt's Biggest black grouper. When this fish came into my view over the side of the boat in the water, I felt deeply moved by its dignity and size.

My trolled red grouper.

By the way, I can't get that silly white marking under the sentence about small craft advisory off the page.

https://littonsfishinglines.blogspot.com/2012/07/cero-mackerel-groupers-snappers-bahia.html

Jack Crevalle in the Gulf

The Seafox Commander 22.5-foot center console is a nice craft, but we judged it wasn't for the high seas whipped by winds on Tuesday the 14th. True to habit developed in 2012, when we never got out to the reef, we progressed about a half mile beyond the bridge into the ocean before we turned back, convinced that it just wasn't safe. National Ocean and Atmospheric Association concurred, having issued a small craft advisor. We rode waves as high as six to eight feet from trough to crest. Out beyond the reef over depths exceeding a hundred feet, chances of capsizing might have been pretty good. I don't know for certain. But I heeded my fears.

So we rode back to camp. Old Wooden Bridge Cottages and Marina used to be called Old Wooden Bridge Fish Camp, which I prefer. To think my wife chose the formerly named destination makes me very proud of her. We got her in the boat and headed for the far edge of the Florida Keys backcountry. There where it exceeds the land masses furthest back at the face of the open Gulf of Mexico. Back of Big Pine, which is a big one that extends back there a way.

Clouds overhead meant rain gear kept handy, and some rain at about 80 degrees felt refreshing. Water temp 77. We roared eight miles over rough at 35 mph until the last little key came into view. It has a name, but I forget it. An uninhabited little spit but to mention the birds, mostly pelicans. Matt had become thoroughly engrossed in the Navionics app. By that use, he had discovered this deep water--as deep as 20 feet, a lot for these flats--with its sharp drops that especially interested us. I paid little attention to the device, never tried to use it on my mobile, but what he showed me is very detailed information, and his role as navigator was completely needed.

I guess it took three casts to the edge between shallow and deep. Fish on! And going, going...not gone. The run felt just like a four-pound hybrid striper's on Lake Hopatcong.

Weeks before, in the middle of all of my nervous posts about the week to come, Matt discovered a dude from Key West. He kayaks, produces riveting videos, and runs a lure production and sales operation. A very interesting life, looks like to us. All About the Bait is his website, and from it I ordered loads of swimbaits that imitate pilchards. He uses them--on occasion--for blackfin tuna in lieu of the speed jigs that work deep. By our guesswork, no other swimbait imitates this forage better. Since his banana jigs are pricey, I looked on Ebay for the same, and purchased a heavy bag of one-ounce leadheads that didn't boost my suitcase over United's weight limit. (Coming and going, they searched that suitcase, and I just laugh at what they must have thought--or felt, if they reached blindly. No blood stains.) Matt and I reasoned from the evidence we found online that these same jigs would serve as the perfect lure for Jack Crevalle. He hadn't opened Navionics, not until Monday night in the cottage, but we knew the spots were inshore channel edges.

Jack crevalle. I felt certain that's what I had on. I used my 8-foot Tica spinning rod and 20-pound Power Pro, a five-foot 20-pound fluorocarbon leader tied directly to that braid. Matt used a lighter rod and 10-pound test monofilament, making me feel edgy in a way he never suffered. It is that way. Every society, no matter how small, has its designated suffering men who must do their damn best never to give in to feeling victimized by it. It's necessary. Someone has to hold down the mainstay.

Sometimes it works to their mysterious advantage. Wink, wink. He is my son, but I don't feel sorry for his catching jacks of smaller size. Well. Slightly. Suffering man. There you have it. But I liked the fish I caught. And Jimmy Cliff sums it all: "I'm a struggling man. And I've got to move on."

Once mine was boated and photographed, Matt soon brought a 16-incher to hand. Mine was somewhere around three pounds. I had to choose. Cover more of this compelling space or stick to these fish. We moved on. Sooner than later, I caught one better two or two-and-a-half before we got to the last island, where Matt caught another less than two, when my feeling for his light tackle felt confirmed. There you have it. Suitable concern, suitable fish. Not that I don't want him to catch bigger. I can't describe now how much I wanted a five-pound hybrid for him on Hopatcong before he caught it. But by everything he told me, he was happy with what he caught.

Me? Nah, I wanted bigger. And it got on my line and ran just like a five-pound hybrid. I hoisted a jack crevalle I estimated at fully four pounds, and slipped it back rather than bothered with more photography. Hope got a little out of mind there, but that was a good fish. Bigger was not to come for the camera after all, but it was bigger I missed, not the mere image of it.

Tide or whatever put the fish off, us off, or both. We stormed back to Bogie Channel near the cottage, Trish feeling deeply uncomfortable as the boat lurched repeatedly, her son illegally at the wheel. (Or so I think there's some stipulation about the renter operating it. Or was it age 25 or older. So what. Which is the crime. The doing or the don't do. Age 25? I fished bass tournaments at 16.) Humphrey Bogart is a favorite. Key Largo is to the north, but Big Pine remembers. Old Bogie haunts the salt.

I don't remember if we took a break. Now I do, vaguely. Matt took a power nap, and then we doused shrimp in Bogie Channel. My first fish was real nice 12-inch mangrove snapper, fully two inches over keeper size, me exclaiming that this would be the best of Trish's meal, feeling fully expectant about filling out meat for all with more small stuff. Trish wasn't so childish, but I still felt it for the meal ahead. And we caught and kept grunts and porgies, which couldn't have tasted as good, and judging by the evidence of Trish's enthusiasm for her fresh snapper when she ate it--did not. But they were alright.

We sacrificed a small grunt, cutting off its eager head, and used the cut bait, hoping to catch grouper. Nothing but grunts resulted. As the sun got low, we switched to pilchard jigs and Matt hooked something--momentarily--beyond the edge over deep water. "It took the jig when it hit the water," Matt said. Cut the line.

Florida Kite

https://littonsfishinglines.blogspot.com/2012/07/florida-keys-bridge-fishing.html

Got Over to Round Valley

I put a base layer on, under wool pants and a sweater, and with my son left for The Sporting Life to buy a half dozen shiners and our new fishing licenses. I had two rods still rigged from last time we fished Round Valley, and the tackle for Matt to rig another when we got there, minus any Styrofoam to float a shiner on that third line. (We've caught trout on shiners without Styrofoam before, I think.)

Then I left him alone on that big point at Lot 2. I walked a quarter mile or so to a widely exposed area of former reservoir floor. This proved to be the photo shoot I promised myself last I was there. After I had spent about a half hour shooting, I realized, once I was back with Matt and Fred and the lines out for trout, that I could have used the 70-200mm lens to get a collapsing effect of space between rocks in the foreground and the North Tower distant. Or is it the South Tower? My directions aren't sure. I got really good shots of it today, but I'm saving them, just in case I need them for any magazine use.

I stood out there shooting for at least a half hour. Maybe it was nearly an hour. I got 80 shots. The wind seemed to rip right through me, but since I worked with my hands, I never noticed the redness and never felt the pain until I was done. Standing out in the cold wind made me play those photos pretty fast and loose, while I supported the camera on a monopod, but the quality surprised me after we got home.

Matt wasn't eager to quit. He would have stood out there in that cold another hour. He wanted a laker.

It was a sad end for me. Matt might have to spend another 60 hours at it, for all I know, to ever catch one of those fish. Maybe longer than that. In other words, it's likely he'll never catch one.

We rode over to the main launch for more shots. That's when it snowed as if it is really winter, but for about three or four minutes. I'm afraid it won't be long before it never snows in New Jersey. I felt surprised to see it today.

The snow squall was enough for a dusting. The boat is involved with the work at the dam. At least, I had seen it leave that area and go around the bend, powered by much more than 10 horsepower. I don't know what the construction vehicle is for. (This shot from the main launch area.)

Power True to My Original Intention

So we got word from United Airlines that we can load 115 linear inches for the fee of a second bag. By all appearances, I can get not only the two stand-up rods in the tube, but also my son's 10-foot surf rod. My wife bought a suitcase in which my four-piece 7-weight fly rod fits. I'm all but certain the rods I want to bring will fit in the tube extended to 82 linear inches, but I haven't loaded it just yet . It's a matter of arranging butts and big guides at intervals, tying the rods together while padding them, and then placing a single unit into the tube.

In the meantime, I've read a lot of articles and watched plenty of videos. I get more from the reading. Yes, the main danger is a big amberjack or big grouper--any kind of fish that will dive for bottom, instead of run straight. In 2007, I caught an 11-pound barracuda on eight-pound test and the St. Croix five-and-a-half-foot always cropping up in photos I post with bass in them. Thirty-nine inches long, that barracuda streaked away in a straight line, until it stopped with little line left on the spool. You see a 10/0 Mustad O'Shaunessey photographed above, the likes to rig a big ballyhoo or hunk of cut bait. It symbolizes the original conviction of mine gained during the 2007 trip, which I wrote about in the previous post. Heavy 80-pound test rigs we will likely use on the pool cue rods. Not that I want to hook a 10-foot shark. Definitely not.

Maybe not so likely that we will use heavy rigs much. I've turned over a lot of options--too many--while reading and watching. But we have power true to my original inspiration.

We leave on January 12th. I will leave my laptop home and won't post about the fishing until after the 19th, the date of our return. My nerves went haywire today. I'm feeling calm at home, though, having done some prep work before writing this post. The more you know, the more complicated it all gets, and there's only so much time, beginning on the Tuesday, before we have to return the boat at 4 p.m. on the Thursday.

Would it have been better to just buy stand-up rods, the heavy reels, 80-pound test? Instead of learning anything else, to have just relaxed with bait under the boat? I can assure you, that would have been plenty less expensive, and we probably would have caught fish, too, but it's not all about relaxation or even the catch, but how the catch comes about. I enjoyed plenty of relaxation in 2012. It's possible I will never again come so close to how I felt while living at the shore for 13 years of my youth. Island Time. Those years do live on within, but instead of trying to recapture what was, this time in Florida, I'm interested in something else. And looking at all the things I have arranged to arm our approach, so long as wind doesn't hamper us getting out there, it certainly will be something else.