As the redfish come to the top, rolling aggressively, I
anxiously listen to the “plink, plink, plink” of my braided line
popping over their muscular bodies, broad tail, and wide fins.
It is exciting and terrifying as I fear the battle may still be lost.
If the hook and line hold, the great warrior, after a few more
short runs, will reluctantly come to the net. No fish is more
dignified in defeat. Their beady eyes seem to ignore me as I
remove the hook with shaking hands. They lie there stoically
while I catch my breath and wait for my heartbeat to return to
normal, so I might be able to take a steady picture. However,
when I pick them up so a passerby can take a picture of the
great hero and his prize, they suddenly regain their vigor.
If I have absentmindedly placed my thumb in their mouth,
I immediately regret it. They clamp their overbite jaws and
twist powerfully from side to side removing a several layers
of skin with their heavy sandpaper-like mouth.
Although it is an unpleasant experience for me, the fish
seem to enjoy it. I will look at my hard-earned “scars” for days
after and smile. Finally, after enduring every indignity that I
have put them through, they will glide away, seemingly none
the worse for the wear. I wonder if, like fishermen, they will
embellish the adventure to their friends? Perhaps they will
exaggerate my size and claim they escaped from an eight-foot
behemoth?
I arise and look out the kitchen window. There is a heavy
frost on the golf course green. I’m thinking the cold snap will
slow the bite. I tend to be a pessimist, but I so love the potential
thrill of a “bull of the marsh” on my line, that I disregard all
thoughts of failure and head for Bass Pond. I am prone to
overthinking, so the night before I had researched tactics for
cold front redfish. I had determined that soft jerkbait rigged
Texas-style (hook buried in the plastic) on a single 4/0 hook
would be the lure of choice. I could cast it into the shallow
water, approximately two feet deep, without fear of snagging
or gathering excessive vegetation. Its light weight would allow
it to wiggle down enticingly and slowly—just the ticket for a
lethargic redfish that might be rooting for a tasty crustacean in
the thin water warmed by the morning sun—I hoped.
Rarely has a plan come together so well. The chartreuse
bait lands with a soft “splat” in the shallows as I struggle
awkwardly to avoid slipping down the frosted grass into what
I fear will be a watery grave. I have not yet engaged the reel
when I see the line jump. I crank down and set the hook.
The fight is on! The leviathan uses all the tactics previously
described—and more. It is wonderful! Finally, the defeat of
the beast seems certain, but I always have doubts until I lift
the shimmering copper flesh. I hold the rod in my left hand
and extended my landing net to its full nine feet.
At last, he is mine! I struggle gleefully up the bank holding
the wire hoop in both hands while gaping down at the most
SUMMER/FALL 2018 • VOLUME 40
beautiful redfish I have ever seen. He is a full 31" long and as
thick as my thigh, but what is most striking is the multitude
of coal black spots on the last half of his glistening silver
body; there are more than 20 that go all the way to his broad
tail. The bright morning sun, the crisp morning air, the
unusually beautiful redfish, and my adrenaline-stimulated
racing heart, make a memory that will be among those that
never fade. It is a moment forever frozen in time.
A car passes by, and I scream like an adolescent girl. The
driver slams on his breaks, likely thinking an alligator has me
by the leg and jumps out. I ask, with the most charming smile
I can muster, “Would you take a picture for me?” He can see
my excitement, smiles, and says, “Of course!” When he sees
my spotted beauty, he becomes excited. After several pictures
I thank him, and he goes on his way, no doubt a story added
to his day for retelling. I wonder if he would remember me at
all, or if the fish would be the only star in his story. I am ok
with that. After all, I am only average at best, and this redfish
could win Miss Lagoon 2017.
I sit down on the roadside railing to reflect and regain my
composure. Why do I love this so much? I am a 67-year-old
man. Is it the beautiful environment? Is it the fellow travelers I
share my moments with? Is it contact with wild creatures that
make me feel young again and remind me what matters most?
I do not know. I only know I feel compelled to seek more such
moments with increased urgency because the clock is ticking
and I will not be this way again. I release the fish and watch
him swim strongly away. Already, it seems like a dream. I
wonder, did my skill enable me to make this memory, or was
it only the “Luck of the Irish?” I suspect the latter and am
quite content with it. I just wish I had a green beer. NK
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