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Date: 2008-09 Winter Fishing
Date: 15 Dec 2008
Time: 18:26:10 -0500
An Excellent Time to Find Numerous cold fronts had passed through since late November pushing the near shore water temperature down below 58 F. The hard bottom areas within sight of the tree line were crawling with sea bass. But on this ‘blue bird’ day, two days after the last cold front, we were after winter grouper and the grouper bite was best well offshore where the water temperature hovered around 63 F. As predicted, the seas were oily one foot rollers, the wind puffed from there to here then changed best described as “light and variable”, overhead the sky was an abyss light Carolina blue. It was brisk on the ride out. The morning low was in the low 40’s; the afternoon high was expected near 70 F. The most important factor was the water temperature; the warmer water was the on switch. Me being ever fuel conscious, our cruise out took about an hour and a half. That gave plenty of time for coffee, breakfast treats, a lot of conversation and one pee break. I figured once we were there, we were there. The game plan was to knock around some known spots to put a few ‘comfort’ grouper in the box, and then strike out trolling to find new territory. During the wintertime, the pelagic bait runs south drawing the pelagic fish behind them. In the winter, you could count the migration of kingfish, cobia and such as a loss but I think of it as an opportunity. Without the clutter of bait, their influence on fish patterns and the absence of most other offshore fishes except grouper, it is easier to find true grouper grounds. A close watch of the sonar or the mistake of a hungry grouper can reveal a chunk of valuable bottom you could fish for a lifetime or until the next hurricane covers it up with sand. The ride took an hour and a half but time went by rather quickly with the conversation; however, I was asked, on several occasions, if the boat would go a little faster. I idled around looking for a small blip on the sonar that was a baby ledge most would overlook. I would have overlooked myself but I happened to troll overtop of it a few years back and the grouper that lived there showed me their home. “Throw the jug”, I yelled out when I saw the blip on the screen. On this spot anchoring accuracy is important and the marker jug is most helpful. Rigged and ready, all we had to do was pin a threadfin on the hook and send it down. It took a minute before the first bite kicked the door down and the rally started. When the eighth keeper grouper went in the fish box, I asked the other three guys to reel up. Their facial expression spoke in all known and unknown languages. They had the look of concern for my mental health and the dumb look you get when you didn’t get the joke. “I don’t want to wear the hole out”, I said rather whimsically. Followed by “we’ll catch more fish elsewhere”. That didn’t go over well but everyone complied. We had an action packed ten to fifteen minutes and satisfied our ‘comfort’ grouper quota. From where we were at, I had no spots west-southwest for at least four miles. That troll would take approximately fifty minutes if nothing happen, which I hoped wouldn’t be the case. If the next fifty minutes was a blank, I’d dart back to a known spot and do some more bottom fishing to avoid a mutiny (always watch your back). We set back four Mann’s Stretch 30’s plugs. Two were light colored (flaming pink and chartreuse with a blue back). Two were dark colored (dark purple and dark green tiger striped). Someone started the conversation with “I can’t believe we just left that spot with all those grouper”. It was going to be a long troll for me if the fish didn’t cooperate. The two miles were over sand but a lizardfish hit the pink lure and found itself in the bait box. I was happy the lizardfish broke the monotony. After a hot bite then twenty-five minutes of nothing, the guys were getting a little bit shifty. I could feel the weight of their eyes on the back of my head. After thirty-five long minutes I could feel the back of my head warming up. It was then a bump arose from the flat sand bottom. I punched ‘mark’ on the GPS just in case… There was fuzzy stuff on the screen meaning the bottom had live growth. I started the count down to when the plugs would run over that piece of bottom. Five, four, three and the pole with the pink plugs went flat. The fish rocket shot-off before I could finish my count down. Jake Earl picked up an extra grouper as he was reeling in his plug; the chartreuse colored one. Two good grouper went in the box on the troll. I needed to double dip verify the spot so we put the trolling rods up high on the T-top and baited up the bottom poles. The seas were so fine anchoring wasn’t necessary. I eased the boat overtop of the new spot and four threadfin bombs landed within seconds. We brought up two keeper grouper and three shorts before we drifted off the spot. I put my bottom pole in the rocket launcher behind the captains’ bench and reached for the trolling rods. “We’re not going to drift back over that?” was the question directed at me. “Well, today we’re here to find fish”, I replied. There was a moment of silence. “But Brian we found them, now we want to kill them”, was the next blurb. “We got to find more”, I said with a laugh. That scenario repeated over three more hot spots I located trolling then double dipped verified. We ended up with a limit of fish. That was great for one day. But I walked away with four ‘new to me’ grouper holes I’ll take advantage of for a long time. Thanks for taking your time to read. Take care of yourself and the tackle. Capt B Anyone who stops learning is old, whether at twenty or eighty. Henry Ford
Date: It Is HOT! Dog days of August
Date: 14 Aug 2008
Time: 21:22:50 -0400
Blink The clear blue skies of the afternoon were slowly getting painted, pastel oranges, reds, pinks, purple haze and other colors guys don’t know the names of, as the sun closed on the horizon. The characters of the invisible particulates, suspended in the atmosphere, are glorified only when the sunbeams are low in the sky. Their glory doesn’t last long. One has to make time to admire the event because it doesn’t wait for any man. The sky blooms as the sun dips below the horizon like some brilliant celestial tea bag in a vast pot of hot water. I got a cold drink, sat on the fish-box and watched the show. I got up afterwards feeling rather small, that the important events or troubles in my life were relatively insignificant considering the big picture. It was time well spent. It was humbling. I came away with a sense of reverence to a Power far greater than anything on this earth. The morning was spent semi-circling around storm cells – powerful individual pop-up systems that develop, or better said, come to life before your eyes. They are awe inspiring like a sunset, but I’m not one to sit and watch one overtake me. The recoil of thunder after the lightening is a great voice telling me to run away in fear, trying not to make the annual Coast Guard boating accident report. We didn’t get much fishing in until after two o’clock when the skies cleared, the wind stopped, the broiler turned on above our heads and the humidity got so thick the air was thin water. Sweat rained from the top of my head, rolled down the crease in my back, trickled through the crack of my butt, flowed the length of both legs, ran out the holes in my Croc boat shoes, then streamed sternward, out the scuppers. It was a strangling mix of heat and humidity. Apparently, the fish were feeling the same way; the bite was nonexistent. We continued working our way to the southwest from one good piece of bottom to the next, parking on top (no anchor necessary), only leaving a few minutes before the heat monkey made us dizzy. Grouper fishing was a waste of time in the dead calm heat. The sun was squeezing the juice of life from us. Time was killing us as it literally dripped on and on. We were waiting on the near full moon night bite or at least the reprieve of the night coolness. The night pardon was five long hours away. I suggested a change of target species. There was no point in arguing against the suggestion. The forty minute run to the Air Force micro-wave tower gave us all a well needed breeze. The sea had turned flat. My 32 foot Twin Vee ran like it was on rails; holding onto the wheel was optional. Every now and then a covey of flying fish would blast out of the water on one side or the other or a lone-horse ballyhoo would squirt from the surface at missile speed and angle away from the boat as if it where some deformed billfish. Once a pod of speckled dolphins leapt their way towards the boat. I slowed down so they could enjoy playing in the wake and to prolong our enjoyment of the mechanical breeze. There is something calming when dolphins escort the boat; they are like a detachment of marine bodyguards. At nine miles away the structure of the microwave tower would fade in and out of the layer of wet air. The air was a sticky, salty, opaque water blanket on the hot, mirrored surface. The closer we got, the more massive the tower appeared. The GPS let me know we were ten minutes from being underneath the neck of the high-tech steel dinosaur. From times past, underneath the tower would be shoals of various bait fish, log-sized barracuda, more than likely a horde of amberjack, maybe one or a small assembly of cobia, possibly a permit and mangrove snapper grooming the substructure. If a couple of guys wanted, they could drop down a 5 to 10 pound snack to Goliaths large enough to support the base of the tower. The point was to get any of that action. It sure beat sweating out the grouper bite. If we got real lucky, we’d get tied off on the shady side of the tower. “Let’s start off with a bang!” I said. For half the guys, this was the most distant they’d ever been offshore. They repeatedly ask how far out we were as if each mile was a milestone. Anything suggested was exciting and taken with a sense of Disney wonderment. A special feeling most adults need a little more of in their lives. A quarter mile off the tower, while the guys were admiring how tall structure actually was and getting a minute-by-minute realization of how loud the warning horn was, I clipped on two handmade tube lures to a pair of TLD 15 trolling outfits. After clicking the boat in gear, the mate and I set the lures back about 125 feet. We could just see the tubes wiggling behind the boat. Seeing them is an important aspect of the expected excitement. “Ya’ll watch those yellow tubes, we’re about to have some fun,” I told them. One hundred and fifty feet from the tower base the pure blue water glittered with vast swarms of bait. “Keep your eyes on the tubes,” I mentioned when noticing most were looking ahead at the bait and tower. One fellow returned to the cockpit just as boil erupted behind the port tube lure. “What was that!!!,” he yelled. The others turned in time to witness a large barracuda blast the starboard bait. The prick of the hook in its mouth ignited the first of many launches. The first flight shot the fish over six foot above the surface in a buck-wild twisted voyage. The fellow grabbed the pole from the rod holder and started his bull ride. Past boredom and inexperience made the short-lived ride comical. From my perspective, it looked like the man was beating himself with a fishing rod. He felt a sense of loss and relief when the ’cuda finally released itself. “What was that?,” he asked out of breath. “An aluminum tower guard” I smiled. We all took time to examine the lure. It was cut up fairly bad, but still usable. Surgical tubing is tough stuff. We got things back together and set the twins back out. For almost an hour we had a ball with the ’cudas managing to catch, photo and release three sizable fish before turning our attention toward something else. After tying off on the leeward side of the tower bulkhead, just inside the shadow, we could watch mangrove snapper pruning the huge brace-work of the tower base. Schools of amberjack ran just below the cloud of baitfish. The mate chopped up a couple of handfuls of Spanish sardines and tossed them into the struts. The pieces drifted down slowly. Most of the chunks drifted away, but a few drew the attention of the mango’s. The fish would nosed up to a piece of meat, wait a bit then sucked it in. I rigged up two medium spinning rods with a single bronzed #1 hook with a sardine head and free lined it under the structure. It took several attempts before a finicky mango inhaled the bait. The fish was good-sized but not overly large. The light line was necessary to get the fish to take the bait, but was too light to rub the barnacle-encrusted steel. It didn’t take too long to figure the futility of trying catch them not just hook them. The amberjack action was fair, not as robust as I’ve seen in times past. White buck-tail jigs would draw a crowd of AJ’s close to the boat and at times an excited jack would take the free-lined pinfish we’d have waiting like a ‘Wal-Mart greeter’. Unfortunately, only one fish made the minimum grade to go in the fish box. However, the diversion was all that was necessary in the first place. Catching a rambunctious amberjack is great fun on medium light spin tackle. The action took our minds off the heat that was relinquishing as the afternoon turned to evening. “Let’s go get anchored up for the night,” I suggested. We had burned over three hours toying around the tower; long enough so that the sound of the warning horn had become nothing but background noise. There was an old wreck nearby. I figured it would hold enough red and mango snapper and a few grouper to keep us busy until fatigue took over after midnight. We pitched a marker jug on the wreck to verify my anchor job was in the ballpark. The boat came to rest so that the mate could make a short cast and retrieve the jug. There is a simple satisfaction in anchoring well. Of course in those easy conditions anchoring wasn’t exactly ‘rocket science’. The first order of business was to send down three blobs of sinking chum followed by filling and deploying chum bags from both the left and right mid-ship cleats. That flipped on the ‘open’ sign we were in business. Our gear could best be described as light grouper tackle. A sinker sufficient to just hold bottom yet not make a dent on impact, and a thirty pound test leader to 5/0 short shank bait hook sturdy enough not to bend on anything more than what we intended to tangle with. The bait was either halved Spanish sardines or live pinfish. Two medium spinning outfits were ‘dead man’ rods from the stern pole holders baited with smaller pinfish with a pinch of lead two foot above the hook. A few red snapper went in the box, a couple mango snapper made the grade and three break-offs occurred before I sat for my silent sunset sermon. Mangrove snapper rose in the chum line prior to complete darkness. Some were rather large. The big ones showed a lot of apprehension. The wreck wasn’t a 007 secret and the mango’s displayed the learning curve from previous fishing visitors. But I was hoping nightfall would release some inhibitions. We kept the chum going both top and bottom. When the major natural light bulb went all the way out, the mate and I hung a battery powered Coleman lantern from each outrigger and swung them away from the boat. The conditions were favorable for such action. The light from the lamps kept the open sign on after dark bringing in the customers. From nine through one o’clock the bite was steady enough to make up for the slackness of the days grouper bite. Actually, four fine grouper punctuated the snapper bite but the explanation point was a thirty some pound kingfish that snatched a small pinfish from the port stern pole and after a touch and go battle it was gaffed aboard. Without a wire leader or stinger hook, the catch was a blend of luck, skill and teamwork, the proportions of which varied by the moment. Anyway, it looked well in the fish box and made everybody some excellent fresh steaks for the grill. A couple of guys fished through the night with liquid help. The rest flopped on cushions, beanbags or wads of extra cloths for the night. Without the sun, the air temperature dropped twenty degrees. A light breeze picked up that was best felt on the bow. On my bean bag up on the bow the cool breeze with the rock of the boat sent me to pure rest. I slept on the flow between the big picture above me and the one below me. Thirty minutes before sunrise I got up with intention. The fish bite can be hot as mid-day heat at that special time. I got a medium/heavy spinning combo and put a fresh rig on it out of habit. For bait I clipped the tail from a smaller Spanish sardine and hooked it through the eyes. Looking at the two men sprawled out on the stern seats, I figured the fish hadn’t seen a bait in at least two hours. A quick glance at the GPS told me the boat was near the wreck, within 60 feet. That was important information for me. A glance at the fish box let me know the boys had put a few fish in box while we slept. That was good news. My rig touched the bottom and I tightened up the line to the reel. Within a minute I felt a touch. I set the hook. The give and take throb let me know the fish was more than likely a red snapper. The hard tug told me the fish was sizable. When the fish was at the surface, I raised the rod high swinging the fish over the gunnel. It was a snapper off a magazine cover. I got it quietly in the cooler and dropped back down. Ditto! Not knowing what was exactly in the cooler, I stopped because my meal ticket was more than full. On the second fish, one of the guys crashed on the stern seat raised his head, but went back to the never world of his mind. I quietly put the fish and rod away not to disturb anyone. The curtain of night was peacefully giving way to the rising sun. The sky was about to bloom. I sat on the same cooler waiting. Fishing, for most folk, is merely the flailing act of attempting to gather fish, but for others, addicted, it is just an excuse to get on the big canvas. I waited for His eyes to blink open and start painting again. Thanks for taking your time to read this. Take care of yourself and the tackle. Capt. B Fishing is the chance to wash one’s soul with pure air, with the rush of a brook or with the shimmer of the sun on blue water. HEBERT HOOVER
Date: Chevy Fishing Report 4/28/08
Date: 30 Apr 2008
Time: 11:53:41 -0400
Chevy Fishing Report April 28, 2008 Capt. Brian Smith Big Bend Charters Sea Hag Marina Steinhatchee, Fl Kingfish: Not surprise catches anymore. Trolled grouper plugs and free-lined baits off stern while bottom fishing. Grouper: Trolling in fifty-two feet is productive. Bottom fishing 45-75 feet using frozen or live bait. The bite is good enough on frozen or fresh cut bait that either buying or negating live bait all together may pay off in terms of saving time. Cobia: Fish are being caught on the markers, inshore sloughs, large rock piles and wrecks using live bait floated under corks or sinkered to the bottom. Best bait-patience. Grunts and Sea bass: A chunk of squid dropped on hard bottom 40-45 feet will result in a stupendous fish fry. The ‘Florida snapper’ are running large; two pounds! Amberjack: Offshore wrecks free lining hand-sized live baits or bigger, white buck-tails, shallow running darting plugs and large top water lures will wear out the most zealous fishermen even if most of the fish are short of the 28 inch minimum.`
Date: Seth's Secret to Big Florida Snapper
Date: 21 Apr 2008
Time: 12:12:54 -0400
Me Lucky Charm: Pink Marshmallows “Daddy, when we going to fish?” Seth asked his dad Kip. “Son, I don’t know” Kip whispered back. I had to over hear them because Seth was sitting to my right on the captains’ bench and Kip was standing to my left riding along. “All water is not created equal; we have to ride the boat to where the fish are. You should have read that in the e-mail I sent you, first a boat ride, then we fish” I said that as animated as a Shakespearean actor on stage complete with arm movements punctuated with a stern face at the end. Seth looked back at me, saying nothing verbally, but his face clearly stated “You’re nuts and you didn’t answer my question Mr. Boat-Driver” Honesty oozes out of most children; verbally, by expression or action, they can’t hide it. They don’t know why to hide it; they live in the right now. This moment is life and they are doing it or, at least, putting up with what is happening around them until they can resume life in their moment. Seth is seven and a half ‘going on eight’ and loves to fish. I mean he doesn’t just like it, he loves it. And boat riding isn’t fishing. “Thirty minutes longer” I said. I might as well said after Christmas because thirty minutes of not doing what you really want to do is a very, very, very long time for a boy. Sea conditions were rough, to the point we might need to jump and fish the grass flats if things got worse. But for the moment, we were bow-dipping, the sides were tipping and we were washing around on the anchor rope trying to pick-off some sheepshead on a small rock pile. However, the wind and tide were both strong and somewhat conflicting to one another. The forces at odds made anchoring difficult and staying put impossible. When the boat swung near the rocks, Seth picked up a sheepshead. “Got one!” I’d hear. I’d turn to see him reeling up a sheepy. Someone would be there with a net and dip the fish aboard. Seth, and nobody else, managed to pick up three fish and several juvenile gags before re-anchoring became a frustrating chore. Charles Lowe, their uncle, was working the boat with me. Once he loaded the anchor back aboard after it gave away, again, I said we need to do something different. He didn’t mind wrestling that anchor umpteen times, but he needed some relief. He said “it seems to be laying down a bit.” I looked around and it was calming. The air temperature was warming up and the shore breeze was backing off. The wind is blowing in the direction of some good hard bottom, meaning the ride would be comfortable. “We could run for twenty-five minutes, and then troll some plugs back for another twenty minutes while waiting for the bating. The point was to bring Seth to a Florida snapper (pink mouth grunt) festival where the action would be constant; the plan was to allow time for the sea conditions to improve before getting started. Time was the issue. It doesn’t take much time for the Gulf to smooth out. But time is measured differently in the mind of a boy. There is now and forever from now. Forty five minutes was asking a lot, but I figured on catching a fish trolling which might shrink time in a boys mind. “Daddy, when we going to fish?” Seth asked his dad Kip. “We’re venturing forth to a spot in the Gulf I found while plundering where the fish are plentiful; arrrgh Matey” I said pirate style. Then added, “we’ll start in fifteen minutes.” He looked at me as if I’d said “life plus ten years.” “How do you know fifteen minutes, Capt B?” Seth asked. I pointed out on the GPS where that information was found. From that moment on Seth was armed with information; there was no tricking the boy from then on. “How much longer Seth?” I’d ask. “Seven minutes” he said. “Thank you, Navigator” I responded. “The machine says zero and were still going” Seth brought to my attention. “Well, the last part of the journey the machine gets a little confused, it goes haywire. I don’t know why we need the confounded thing in the first place. Let’s turn it off” I spouted in hidden jest. “No, I like looking at it” Seth told me. “OK, if you say so, Navigator” I sounded like a salty sea captain. Keeping things simple, Charles and Kip set back two trolling plugs. We were twenty minutes from where I wanted to ‘party with the pink mouths’. In the back of my mind I was hoping a grouper or two would ambush the offerings just to break up our journey. “Daddy, why aren’t we fishing?” Seth asked. Kip said “we are fishing.” I jumped into the conversation trying to explain the art of grouper trolling or trolling in general, but that facet of fishing hadn’t been upgraded into Seth’s fishing program. For Seth, trolling was a synonym for boat riding and we took the entire twenty minute drag before a sparkle of fish showed up on the Nickelodeon screen (sonar) and seconds later both poles bent over. Oh happy day! I wished it had happened many questions ago, but I was glad it happened at all. One grouper passed the bar and the other was tossed back. I made a couple more passes over my new waypoint “Seth1” picking up some more fish, though be it no more keepers. The sea had calmed down well by then. Seth was in prime mode to drop shrimp bits to whatever would eat them. I was ready to play fish toss and find out what was on our new number. The anchoring wasn’t perfect, but was close enough. I didn’t dare waste one moment doing the re-anchor gig. We fished where the anchor directed us. Every piece of shrimp put down on Seth’s hook resulted in a dandy Florida snapper or a hump-head sea bass. Kip eventually took up a snapper pole and started to add to the fish box. Charles was off on the other side chicken rigging with jig and an extra hook, popping doubles. Nonetheless, Seth was easing into ‘hambone’ class reeling up fish after fish. The fish box was filling up quickly with hump head sea bass and pinks pushing two pounds or better. Seth declared shrimp the ultimate pink bait; until we ran out of shrimp and I substituted squid strips. Then Seth declared he could catch fish on anything which leads back to the title of this story. Seth’s mom had packed him and dad Kip a goody bag for a lunch. Carmel popcorn with peanuts, candies, sandwiches, drinks of various flavors, other surprises and mini-marshmallows the colors of a psychedelic rainbow. Recently, we had been popping mini-marshmallows in our mouths. The opened bag was on the captains’ bench. “Captain, why don’t we use marshmallows?” Seth asked. At that moment, the box was padded well, and I was floating around on the euphoric cloud of a child. “Why not” I answered. I shook a small handful of puffs into my hand and pinned one marshmallow on his hook and we sent it to the bottom. The outcome was unknown for three seconds! “Got one” Seth declared. His pole double over and in time a big Florida snapper splashed on the surface. I unhooked it, tossed it in the box with many of its’ relatives, slipped on another marshmallow and sent it down. Was this a fluke? In the fish frenzy below, did this fish take whatever was available? Apparently not, for fish after fish made passage into the fish box through the marshmallow key. Florida snapper eat mini-marshmallows with gusto! The sweet treat is enjoyed by us and the pink mouth grunt. However, I’m not sure we could serve it up with hot chocolate when the waters are chilly. It reminded me of catching a red grouper on a chunk of baked potato. You never know when you add saltwater. Marshmallows are a lot cheaper than shrimp or squid and never rot. Think about it. Also, think this, the information was gathered from a child who knew no different and colored outside the box. I also did some after fishing thinking, too. I’ve experienced fishing, read about fishing, heard more about fishing and listened to countless stories/lies than I can recall over the pasted four decades. I know I don’t know everything but I’m well versed in fishing and a multitude of techniques for a vast variety of fish, fresh and salt; yet in one simple moment I listened to a boy with nothing to lose and learned something new. That is why fishing is great. It is enjoyed by boys and girls of all ages. It can be taken as serious as you chose. It is budgeted by you. Information is available in all media, but always best first hand than second. It is forever dynamic and the game waits for when you make time to do it. You never know because the thrill is in the journey, for if no fish are caught, quality time has been spent well; even if time is spent alone. Take a kid and a bag of marshmallows fishing next time with a thermos of hot chocolate as back up. Thanks for taking your time to read this. Take care of yourself and the tackle. Capt B A man should never stop learning, even on his last day. Maimondes
Date: Spring 2008
Date: 31 Mar 2008
Time: 22:31:10 -0500
Steinhatchee Offshore Fishing Report 03/30/08 Capt. Brian Smith Big Bend Charters Spring has sprung up offshore of Steinhatchee. Good numbers of Spanish mackerel are surprising trout fishermen on the outside sandbars indicating winter is over. The Spanish are taking whatever is being offered; mostly jigs and shrimp. Savy anglers, when swarmed by the Spanish Inquisition, should twist on a short piece of #1 wire leader with a snap swivel and toss or troll silver spoons or flashy plugs, such as a chrome Bomber. Spanish are fun for fisher-people of all ages. Who doesn’t like the sound of squealing drag on light spinning tackle? Their larger cousins, the king mackerel, have shown in sporadic appearances in ‘snake’ size. Those trolling for grouper have gotten a few surprises. The king mackerel run is expected to intensify through the spring. Any day someone will show up at the dock with a true smoker-king. Kings are usually picked up by grouper-trollers on deep diving plugs like Mann’s Stretch 30’s or flipping out a flat line off the stern while bottom fishing. To target kings, incorporate a shallower diving plug (CD 18 & 22 Rapala’s ) or duster/cigar minnow rig into your trolling spread. Trick: bait pods are on the surface early and late in the day within ten miles of the coast, plan your day to work around them. Grouper fishing is fine and dandy in the 60-70 foot range. Frozen bait will fill the ticket for those not wanting to spend the time or money on live bait. At times, the frozen or fresh cut baits are out fishing the live offerings. I tend to deliver a complete menu to satisfy whatever craving those crazy grouper have a hankering for. The price of delivery (gas) is too high, not to have what they really really want. Trolling for grouper has been successful this week. Chartreuse was the favored color working in 58-65 feet. A couple of the plugs were buried at sea when 65 pound braid or 100 pound swivels gave way. The buck down at the hit and subsequent recoil after the break-away of a trolling rod leaves one wondering what came knocking? It is worth the twenty buck plug investment. It also gives a strong clue as to where to start bottom fishing, if you pay attention to such matters. Seven and a half, “going on eight”, year old Seth Gaston gave me a lesson on ‘Florida snapper’ (pink mouth grunt) fishing. Yo-yo fishing with shrimp bits and squid pieces keeping me busy putting the next fish in the box and re-baiting; he said “why don’t we feed them marshmallows?” His mom had packed a bag of mini party marshmallows for him and his dad, Kip. Thinking “this move should slow things down for me” I agreed and slipped a mini marshmallow on his hook, sent it down to the bottom and handed him the pole. I turned to re-set a grouper pole when he shouted “Yea, got another one.” The grunts ate the mini marshmallows up! He humbly proclaimed himself “the best fishermen of the world.” I bowed to the King of Fishdom. The Florida snapper were running large, many weighed in at three pounds! Now that is a grunt on light tackle. As spring continues to develop warmer and more stable weather, the fishing will get better and better, if history proves itself over. Enjoy a day on the water; life is short. Capt. B
Date: Good Golly Miss Molly, Grouper are EVERYWHERE
Date: 26 Nov 2007
Time: 11:44:30 -0500
Fishing Report December I don’t see how grouper fishing could get any better unless they’re actually throwing themselves in your boat. Hard bottom around the fifty foot depth have produced some grouper bites like it used to be. Keep moving until you find the fish or…Isn’t that what trolling is? The grouper are hitting the plastic. As a matter of fact, the red grouper debacle of a limit of one because the population is so low, we can’t keep them off our hooks, it is forcing me to troll. How’s that you say? Getting the limit of red grouper happens rather quickly; too quickly. Gag grouper are more prone to hit the plastic than the red grouper. Furthermore, picking up a gag on the troll not only puts one more fish in the box, but more importantly lets you know where more gag grouper are hanging out. You can backtrack and do so bottom fishing. Kingfish are a pleasant surprise during trolling as well. A fresh king steak, marinated in a equal parts of soy sauce and melted butter, tossed on the grill is hard to beat. Amberjack are hit or miss. If you find yourself around a structure which is known to hold AJ’s on occasion, then be sure and drop some live bait or jigs. If they are there, then enjoy, but don’t camp in hopes of a bite. Florida snapper have been running large if you can talk someone out of using a grouper rod for a half hour to pound some pinks. One five gallon bucket is approximately thirty pounds of Florida snapper and plenty for a good fish fry. In general, the fishing is great when the wind ain’t blowing the seas over five foot. Always exercise caution, sometimes it is better to go another day than play in rough waters. Capt B
Date: test
Date: 21 Nov 2007
Time: 12:49:09 -0500
test
Date:
Date: 12 Nov 2007
Time: 01:50:05 -0500
All about MP3 2007-11-12
Date: A Salty Mixed Drink
Date: 22 Apr 2007
Time: 00:37:55 -0400
Sheepshead with a Grouper Twist A salty mixed drink The anchor line came taught above the pile of stuff that had somehow fallen to the bottom some time ago. Semi-large dark marks blotted the white sand twenty feet below. While peering over board we noticed thin black lines milling about the dark patches. There were a lot of black lines attracted to the littered bottom. “Do you see them?” I asked. Steve Hart, our mate for the day, said “Brian there is a load of fish down there; are you picking them up on the sonar?” The bottom machine was sprinkled with fish hovering ten feet above and all the way down. John stood his son up on the gunnel so he could better see the fish below. Claude said excitedly “I can see them now daddy.” Apparently, Claude was really excited because he took that opportunity to unzip and fire off a long strafing round on them. I noticed the distance and told John “the boys’ got good pressure.” John laughed but Brenda, the mother, made a statement of embarrassment. “Don’t worry about it Brenda, the fish will appreciate the warm water” I said to lighten the moment. Steve was busy chopping up two one pound size bags of frozen shrimp into half inch pieces making sheepshead ‘chow’. He put the diced shrimp in a plastic bowl. He and I knew once the bite was on there would be little time to cut bait. Sheepshead fishing can be so fast that the slowest link in the catching chain is taking the fish off the hook and/or re-baiting. While he was doing that and the Tirey family was watching the fishing program below, I collected the six trout poles we going to use to catch the sheepshead. You can use heavier offshore rods and reels for sheepshead fishing but in doing so you lose the sensitivity needed to feel the bite before it happens and, most importantly, the light weight poles really do put the fun in the sheepshead fishing. The fun is in the fight of the fish. A hyper sheepshead on a trout rod is a worthy adversary to even a well salted angler. The trout poles Steve rigged up were spooled with ten pound test main line joined to an eighteen inch section of thirty pound test leader using a double uni-knot. The uni-knot is simple to tie and saves you a few cents on a swivel. Remember, the function of a swivel is to prevent line twist not an excuse to not learn the proper knot. To the end of the leader Steve tied on an eighth ounce jig head. The color of the jig head isn’t that important; whatever makes you happy. However, the weight of the jig head is important when sheepshead fishing in shallow water with a sluggish current. The more time your bait spends in the water column with the fish the more likely it is going to get noticed. And getting your bait noticed by fish is one of the main reasons you went fishing. Using a heavy weight or jig head takes your bait through the fish like a stone. Eventually, a fish may root around on the bottom and find your bait but it is far better if the fish follow your bait. Furthermore, the bottom is where the snags are and sheepshead love to love dance around hang-ups. In many places, if you spend most of the time on the bottom you will find yourself wasting a lot of time in the bottom as well. You have to make an educated guess to use the least amount of weight necessary to keep the bait where the fish are hanging out. For example, if the current is fairly strong, an up current cast with a quarter ounce jig head is necessary to present your bait where the fish are. If the current is slack, simply pin the shrimp bit on a 1/0 hook and let it drift naturally down in the water. Watch where the line enters the water and when you notice a twitch set the hook quickly! In our case scenario, Steve picked the eighth ounce jig head as a middle of the road choice and also as a casting aid. In our area, Steinhatchee, the eighth ounce jig weight is most likely the best choice but a variety of jig and weight sizes are wise to bring along. As Steve about finished up the bait chopping detail, I grabbed up a couple of handfuls of shrimp chow and tossed them off the bow. The current was weak. The bits of shrimp rained down while being carried back in the slight current. Brenda asked “what are you doing?” I replied “at my restaurant I give away complimentary appetizers.” I smiled and told her it gets the bite going quicker like smelling coffee and bacon in the morning. She smiled back with new understanding. “Claude, you better get ready” she said. “Mommy the fish eating the shrimp captain Brian threw away.” “Big little man are you ready to catch one of those sheepshead?” Steve courted Claude. “You bet Mr. Steve” was Claude’s excited replied; but he didn’t pee this time. “Now watch the pretty pink jig head” Steve coached Claude. With that Steve tossed the bait slightly forward and everybody watched as the small jig parachuted down. When the bait was just astern, about twelve feet below, a buck sheepshead darted over, looked at it, then pecked it. Steve set the hook. The pole arched over. The fish flashed around recklessly. “Here you go Claude, here you go” Steve spoke to Claude while handing him the pole. Steve handed Claude the pole but maintained a grip about mid-way up the rod. Claude knew the function of the reel handle. That is the part of the reel you turn round and round to bring the fish in. Steve had to talk the youngster down so he’d gather some understanding of the reel drag. “When I raise the pole up you don’t reel. When I lower the pole down, reel. OK Claude?” Steve quickly stated. Claude agreed with everything Steve said and reeled continuously. It took more help from Steve, me, his father and mother and three fish later before it began to click in Claude’s head that the fishing line is collected on the down stroke. The first three fish were thoroughly digitally documented by Brenda. Claude was the star of the show for the first twenty minutes. “Steve and Claude are working well together, are ya’ll ready to join in?” I asked the parents. John was more than ready. Brenda was hesitantly willing to give it a try. “Is this my pole” John asked pointing to one of the trout rods in the rocket launchers behind the captain’s bench. “Sure, go for it” I replied. John pinned on a chunk of shrimp and was off to the races. I took a pole and baited it for Brenda. The ‘boys’ where fishing on the port side so Brenda and I took to the starboard. I took a minute to show her how to cast. She was a natural. She would intently watch the bait and set the hook at the perfect moment. She hooted and laughed like she just hit the lotto with every fish. On the other hand, or I should say on the other side, John was becoming frustrated at missing the fish that were taking his bait. His bait to hook up ratio was expensive. “John, you have to set the hook just before you feel the bite” Steve told him. John responded with a crazy look on his face. Brenda responded by saying “it is easy Honey, just set the hook when you see the fish eat the shrimp.” That was insult to injury for John. Steve and Claude tag teamed up a big female sheepshead. I went and got the net for her arrival on deck. The fish was a bit over ten pounds and so pregnant the struggle had caused eggs to ooze from her anal vent. It was time for a biology lesson since I had Claude’s full attention. “Claude this big sheepshead is the mommy of a million babies. She is releasing some of her babies now” I pointed out the eggs dripping from her. “We have to make a very important choice in the next minute. We can put her in the fish box and so you can have a diner. Or we can put her back in the ocean so she can make more sheepshead to catch next year. What would you like to do?” I asked. It was obvious I had posed a great moral dilemma on a young boy. Do I kill the young by keeping the mother for myself? Or do I deny myself and give them all away? After a hard moment of contemplation “Captain Brian that is the biggest fish I’ve ever caught in my life. But my mommy has a picture of it and I want this mommy to go home” Claude said in the purity of a child unbiased by the greed of the world. We released her. “Captain I named that mommy fish Molly after my cat” Claude announced unexpectedly. “Why did you name the fish after your cat? I asked. “Because she had a lot of babies before Mommy and Daddy had the doctor put her in ‘neutral’? That statement made the day. After that it didn’t take long before fifteen medium sized sheepshead were in the fish box. There was a lot of catch and release of the extra small and extra large during that time. Even John managed to figure out how to put three fish in the cooler. Five fish per angler is the boat limit; a third of the legal limit. When any fish is spawning it makes common sense to apply logic not necessary the law to what you take because you are taking from the future. Children need to have the opportunity to experience to the fun we are having in the here and now. By the time we made the number, we had more than enough fun with the sheepshead. “How about us doing something different for awhile” I said to all. The Tireys’ were in agreement to find out what else I had in my bag of fish tricks. While things were getting back in order and snack time was going on, I told Steve I’d like to do some near shore grouper trolling. He and I readied four trolling rods before pulling the anchor. Two to three miles southwest of where we were at was a scattering of rocky patches. After a brief run down on the how to’s of trolling; the four adults put out four Rapalas in a staggered spread. The water clarity was close to pure and the temperature was in the low to mid sixties. The grouper should be active. I went to one of the best spots first simply to give me an idea if trolling was going to pan out. I didn’t want to bore a child with too much inactivity. Ten seconds after running over the first cluster of rocks we got lucky. Two of the four poles bent over. The game was on. Steve helped Claude with the first pole that got hit. John grabbed the second strike. Brenda and I hurriedly reeled in the two blank plugs. I was racing to beat Claude in. After stowing my rod away and asking Brenda to carry her pole forward, I handed Steve a gaff for his fish and took the other gaff to help John. As luck would have it, both gag grouper were keepers. I was one happy captain. Steve and Claude were captured on digital film many times before we set off again. In two hours of trolling we boxed seven keeper grouper and a few throw backs. One of the grouper was a touch over twelve pounds and Claude reeled it in with his dad. “Mister Steve how big is this fish?” Claude asked. “Oh, it’s twelve or thirteen pounds” Steve replied. “Captain this fish is bigger than the mama sheepshead!” exclaimed Claude. “Claude, I think you had this one coming to you” I told him with smile that wrapped around my head. We finished the day dabbling with some ravenous sea bass on the same trout poles we caught the sheepshead on. When we docked the boat, Steve had the fish box lid open at Claude’s request. I glanced at it and it looked good to me too. Claude made it his mission to inform everybody at the marina how good his day was. You can’t buy advertisement like that anywhere and the cost was ‘priceless’. Some men brought two large coolers of sheepshead up to the fish cleaning table. They flipped the lids open and started tossing some of the fish up on the table. Claude ran over to take a look. “Mister that big one was a mommy, why didn’t you let her have her babies?” said the little man. The lack of an answer from the big man hopefully meant the man inside had to think beyond his moment. Thank you for your time. Capt B Ignorant men don’t know what good they hold in their hands until they’ve flung it away. Sophocies (c. 495-406 b.c.)