Smack. Slap. That's the way my morning began at the end of a long, dark road, on an eastern edge of Tampa Bay. No-see-ums started nipping necks and legs as we loaded our gear into the boat. Looking back, that was the only negative thing that day held in store for us. It was 6:55am and the orange hue just started to bloom over the eastern horizon behind the ramp. It's always exhilarating leaving at dark-thirty o'clock, but I had no idea how sweet this day on Cockroach Bay would be. It's a unique area - a twisted series of mangroves, marl, turtle and monkey grasses, mixed with oyster and sand bars. It also holds unfounded local folklore of buried pirate treasure. Yet more believable, of smugglers retrieving airdropped contraband, evading DEA boats within its mazes and obstacles.
My wife and I normally travel each winter, but with our new baby, we made this particular day our close-to-home Christmas present for each other. We left our boat behind, and booked an airboat charter with Mark Thomas. It was comforting that this captain arrived before our "on time" appointment, and was already prepared with bait. He was about to take us to the same places I've barely been able to float our bay boat during the highest of leap tides.
As he fired up the vastly unfamiliar prop, I pushed us off and stepped onto the deck. I could feel the power of the blades pulsing against the air; the yaw of the big block's torque tipped the craft slightly starboard when he gunned it, different from any cavitation I'd felt from a boat before. The craft felt uneasy to me in the channel as we chugged off toward the shallows. This instantly changed as we accelerated and the murky bottom rose to meet the hull.
We were skating along, table-top firm, in inches of water. This was the first time I had been on an airboat; all my instincts screamed against being in such skeg-busting shallows - I don't even wade fish in puddles like this. We kept tensing when approaching any visible bottom, but soon learned to relax and enjoy the ride. I couldn't stop grinning and shaking my head in disbelief, watching exposed, limp grass blades whiz by. I was mentally "willing" the boat to venture closer toward the shin-deep potholes, but Mark continued to steer us on fa winding course over barely covered land.
The glassy surface would suddenly quiver from fleeing pinfish and finger mullet as we skimmed along on a magic carpet of fiberglass. With the droning thump of the blades still audible through our ear muffs, we continuously signaled to each other to look at telltale swirls in the water. All of the visual stimuli, I kept thinking... I can't wait till the sun rises enough to put on my polarized lenses! I'm no tree-hugging, save the whale type nature freak, but I truly enjoyed seeing spoonbills, egrets, flamingoes and raccoons foraging the water for grub.
Probably the most remarkable discovery was the fact that schools of fish couldn't perceive which direction our approach was coming from until we went overhead. Even spooky reds would swarm in circles and return to the spot we had just glided over. Mark stated this was the norm. Amazing. I've pushed away schools of reds, even with my stealthiest attempts, gently using trolling motors. I can only surmise that a prop above the surface radiates its sound waves like a rock thrown into a pond, instead of the single directional thrust of a submerged one.
We eased up to a depression measuring about 20- by 40-feet, that maxed out at about 3-feet off the southern-most point of the pass. The hull settled to a stop on the muck bottom in about 6-inches of water which surrounded this almost landlocked briny pond. It was as if someone had pulled the plug in a giant flats bathtub, and all of the fish drained to the small puddle left in the deep end. A -1.1 mean low, dropped further by the northeast wind, had the area at the lowest I had seen in many winters. Our day would also be influenced by the barometer, as a cold front was set to hit that evening.
We tailed live shrimp onto 1/4-ounce jig heads, ready to pitch into the only pod of dark water within sight. It took long overhead casts to reach the spot. The final draw of the falling tide eased our offerings down the trough. Instantly, both rods bent and a double-header of reds came to the boat with protest on their behalf. This was followed by many trout, sheepshead, and flounder. With Mark's friendly "boat-side-manner", he not only pointed out where to best place our casts, but also showed us how to tie the tightest No-name knot I've ever seen with uneven diameter braid and fluoro.
After catching about a dozen fish each in short order, we decided to scout elsewhere. It was a phenomenal sight to idle right over this cut on our exit to see all of the fish ease ahead of us into the rising dead end of the slough, then stream back past us to the only deep reprieve they had. We kept calling out names as they rocketed past, "Sheepies! Mullet! Trout! Reds!" It was proof this tiny pool held whatever fish had chosen to stay on the flat until the next tide allowed travel again.
Each of the two subsequent stops repeated the same incredible results - never before had being in the right place at the right time been so dramatically evident. We either had a hookup or stolen bait on every cast! The day culminated in discovering three snook hanging on a muddy edge of a pocket and bringing two of them to our hands. The third snook raced zigzagging back and forth across the hole. When it would run out of draft for its body, it would about-face and continue the fight. On the light tackle, I kept an eye on the spool losing, and then gaining the 10-pound braid in a tug-of-war. She made several tailwalks and headshakes showing herself off, till finally throwing the hook about 20-feet from the bow. This happened just as Mark and Amy yelled, "Yes!" But I mumbled, "No," feeling the line go slack. Although they were still out of season, I never pass up the opportunity to meet one face-to-face.
When the missus edged ahead of my hookup ratio, Mark was there with some jovial verbal ribbing about her prowess - nobody was keeping score, yet she's competitive enough already without any provocation.
Just before 10:00 am, I couldn't believe what I heard next. My wife, who loves fishing more than any woman I know, actually said, "I need a break; my arm is tired from all this catching." With both of us having accomplished our first inshore slams on the same morning, and catching seven different species within three hours, Mark obliged and took us for a joyride through the mangrove alleys. It wasn't until around 10:15 that we saw the first vessel nearing our position - a kayak that had been drug over a long shoal to get into the estuary.
I almost started to feel guilty about how easily we had gotten there, but that quickly passed as I recounted the several hour head start and dozens of fish we landed. Our day was about over, while others were waiting to begin theirs on the new incoming tide.
I was so impressed with this trip that I scheduled another for the next extreme low two-weeks later with my buddy Steve. We had practically carbon copy results, two slams within hours (as a matter of fact, when the weather slowed the bite, Capt. Mark extended the trip two more hours to assure we had our fill).
If you get an opportunity to try this type of winter fishing, even once, I highly recommend the experience. Our only disappointment was we were so captivated with all of the action, we took very few photos.
Posted
04-20-2009 1:28 PM
by
GAFF Mag Issue Mar-Apr 2009