We didn't have the money nor the big equipment but we had an adventure and we caught big fish.
PO' BOY FISHIN'
H. Steven Robertson
Circa: Sometime in the early 1970's
As a life long resident of Florida, I had done a lot of fishing; however, most of it was confined to inland rivers, lakes and streams. Bass, bluegill, brim and speckled perch were my prime targets. The past few years; however, I had been living in Neptune Beach, which is near Jacksonville on the Atlantic Ocean in Florida.
Often in the past, friends and acquaintances had spoken to me of fantastic catches off the coast from where we live. Since my experience was from bass fishing, a few inshore party boat trips, fishing from bridges and surf fishing, I couldn't imagine what could be so much more exciting than these.
Finally, I more or less, coerced a friend of mine, Jeff Campbell, to take me along on one of his fishing trips. This would be what one might term "a poor man's charter." None of my friends or I were wealthy, so we made do with what we had. Jeff's fishing rig consisted of a tiny15 foot aluminum boat powered by a 25 horsepower Mercury outboard kicker, which ran most of the time. Those, plus a trailer he borrowed from me and a Jeep to pull it owned by my friend, Doug Marcy, put us in the fishing business. Ironically enough, who ever heard of fishing on the ocean in a glorified rowboat? Although at first thought, one might scorn the idea, it was quite common along the Florida coast. As I would soon find out, my first encounter with ocean fishing was going to be loaded with excitement not to be had in larger craft.
We were up before dawn. Since we had gotten all of the equipment ready the night before, all we had to do was jump in Doug's Jeep and go. As I was not accustomed to awaking at such an ungodly hour, I groped my way out into the darkness where Doug and Jeff were waiting in the Jeep. Jeff looked at me with a grin as I stumbled getting into the Jeep and plopped down on the seat. "What's a matter hoss, you ain't gone and got soft on us have ya?"
"Damn, Jeff, I don't count disliking early rising as being soft. We'll see who's soft as the day wears on." The morning was cool and the air smelled sweet as the wind blew in the window and assisted with my awakening. Other than the wind created by the Jeep driving down the road, there was practically no breeze at all this morning. Doug and Jeff were commenting on how that was a bonus because it meant the sea would be smoother today. Since the waves would be small, we wouldn't suffer too badly getting the small boat though the breakers along the beach to the calmer water behind them. Obviously, one could get drenched trying to get past the shore break and more often than not, it happened anyway.
We were headed south along A-1-A towards St. Augustine. As we passed through Ponte Vedra Beach, the horizon began taking on a pinkish hue. It would be a beautiful day. I was a little apprehensive as to the upcoming adventure. Any time a person is out in the ocean, there was a certain element of danger. The area where we were headed was also known for the large population of sharks.
Even though Jeff's equipment wasn't expensive, it didn't make him any the less a fisherman; quite the contrary. He was born and raised in Jacksonville Beach, weaned on salt water, and had surfed before he could walk. He had fished the waters of the Atlantic Ocean since the first time he heisted his mother's sewing box and took off for the ocean with a spool of thread, a safety pin and a hot little fist of bread rolled in little balls for bait.
When we had passed through Ponte Vedra, A-1-A ran along side the beach and the scenery was beautiful. Long, verdant dunes separated the road from the ocean. Jeff was looking out over the dunes, "Doug, keep on driving until we see a shrimp boat dragging for shrimp. When you see one, we'll launch there."
It took a few miles but finally, I spotted one. "Hey fellows, there's one. You can see it when we come from behind that dune. The boat seemed to join the huge orange disk of the sun as it crept up over the horizon. It was like a picture off of a postcard. Then came the mad rush to find a way to get over the dunes and down on the shore to launch the boat.
Jeff spotted it too. "Great! OK, Doug find us a way to get through these dunes down to the ocean." Finally, we were able to drive across the sand, sandspurs, goat's foot vines and jumping cactus down to the beach. Doug pulled the Jeep around and backed the boat and trailer down to the water's edge. Jeff walked around and stood beside the boat and trailer. "All right guys, let's get the boat and motor off the trailer and set it on the sand with the bow pointed toward the ocean. Load all the fishing gear into the boat and tie it down. The boat will still float if it tips or takes a wave, but we don't want to lose any gear." Doug pulled the Jeep up high on the beach away from the tide and trotted back down to join us.
We waded out knee deep with the boat between us and held it steady in the small surf while Jeff tried to get the motor started. After a series of pulls on the starting rope, the little outboard finally coughed and sputtered to life. Doug and Jeff jumped in the boat and I was last to go over the side when Jeff put the engine in gear and the boat started for the reckless dash over the breakers.
We sat on the floor of the boat to make it more stable and slightly toward the stern to keep the bow up so it would go over the breakers and not plow through them. Moments later, we found ourselves on the smoother water outside. The morning was beautiful. The cloudless sky seemed to go on forever and was a deep blue color punctuated by the brilliant sun, which had now turned to gold. The slowly undulating emerald swells reflected a million sparkles and the water was so clear we could see deep into the depths. There was a gentle breeze and it was too early in the day to be hot. I found myself thinking how, at times like these, it was wonderful to be alive.
The frothing white wake stretched out behind our little boat as we could see the picturesque shrimp boat looming above the ocean in front of us. It was in full trawl, with both of the huge booms lowered on both sides of the boat. Thick cables strung out from the booms and disappeared beneath the surface of the water. They stretched down to the shrimp nets that were dragging across the bottom. Swarms of seagulls swooped, looped and pirouetted, squalling in their characteristic, "kerreeeaahh, kerreeeaahh," calls begging for the trash fish and organisms the shrimpers had scooped up in the nets with the shrimp and were now shoveling back overboard. The backs dorsal fins of bottle nosed dolphins rolled on the surface all around the shrimp boat as they invited themselves to a free meal, complements of the shrimpers. There was nowhere else I would have rather been at that moment.
As we drew close to the shrimp boat, Jeff shouted over the noise of the engine, "We need some money, men." The three of us scrounged in our pockets for loose change, scraping up three bucks between us. We put the money into a large, four-foot long duffel bag to which three empty one-gallon bleach jugs had been tied. One of the shrimpers was standing at the gunwale of the huge boat as Jeff maneuvered our little one over close to it. It was a disconcerting to be in such a small boat, rising and falling in the swells next to the ominously large shrimp boat. "Doug, when I get close, throw the bag on board." Doug stood up in the bow and heaved the bag with the jugs tied to it over the rail to the shrimpers.
Since "chum" fishing was common on this coast, the shrimpers knew what we wanted. They were happy to exchange some of the worthless trash fish that would have normally gone to the seagulls and the sharks, for some beer money. They removed the cash and shoveled our bag full of every imaginable sea creature. In the mean time, Jeff had steered our little craft clear of the giant shrimper and the dangerous booms and cables.
When the shrimpers had filled our bag, they tied the top and heaved the bulging sack over the side. The bleach jugs kept the bag afloat and when it had cleared the cables, Jeff motored over to it and Doug and I heaved the heavy load of creatures over the side of our little boat.
Jeff gave the little kicker full throttle and we sped off to his secret fishing area. Ten minutes later we stopped in what looked to me to be a likely spot. We were probably about three miles away from shore several miles south of Ponte Vedra Beach. Jeff killed the engine and we began to drift slowly along.
Jeff began to prepare his tackle. "OK, dudes, watch how this is done." We followed his lead and imitated what he was doing. We began to extract the bodies of squid, small fish, shrimp mammies, crabs and other sea creatures from the bag. The fish and squid were inflated with air from a large hypodermic needle and dropped them overboard. This made them float on the surface, thus making a trail of "chum" which stretched out behind the little boat for at least a hundred yards.
Each of us chose a large silver trout from the chum bag for our 6/0 treble hooks. The fish were slit down the gut and pieces of Styrofoam were stuffed in and held in place by rubber bands. The six feet of stainless steel leader wire, which led from the hook was affixed to each 30-pound test monofilament line that ran from our reels. I had just purchased a used 4/0 Penn reel that I was extremely proud of. I was anxious for some action to break it in. The water jug was passed around as we leaned back to watch our colored floats in the anticipation of the action to come.
It wasn't long until we saw something happening in our chum line. It was a long ways behind the boat, but the big splashes and slurps in the distance told us that something very large was following it in. We had let our baits, which floated on the surface with the Styrofoam inserts, drift back into the center of the chum line. The plan was for the fish to come in eating the chum until it grabbed one of our baits. Since I was used to fresh water fish, the tremendous splashing the salt-water fish was making was like comparing a mouse and an elephant.
Suddenly there was another huge splash behind the boat and Doug's reel started singing like a police siren as the denizen of the deep took off with the bait. He tightened the drag a little and began to reel furiously, but he was still losing more line than he was gaining. Jeff was watching from the stern, "Keep that pole tip up, Doug. Let the pole do the work." Finally, the creature began to tire and Doug was able to start getting more of his line back. Twenty minutes later, the fish was close enough to the boat for us to get a look as it struggled and fought, swimming around and around the little boat. He had caught a four-foot shark. As soon as it had been subdued sufficiently enough for Doug to salvage his tackle from the snapping mouth, it would be released back into the depths.
Just as Doug was releasing his shark, my pole bent double and the reel began to scream. Things were further complicated when Doug and Jeff, still wrestling with the "man eater" started yelling at me to stop rocking the boat. This was joined by my curse of pain when I stupidly put my thumb down on the furiously spinning drum of line like the novice I was.
Finally, I was able to disengage the clicker and begin to reel in what seemed to be an aquatic rhinoceros or at least something as large. Every few feet of line I got onto the reel was immediately stripped back off. The creature seemed to be getting more line than I was. My arms began to ache from straining against the pole and cranking the reel. It was hard for me to believe that I had been reeling for fifteen minutes and seemed to be getting nowhere. Fresh water fishing had never been like this.
After what seemed to be an eternity of cranking on the reel and pulling on the pole we could see the flash of silver under the surface that meant the fish was getting close to the boat. It wasn't done yet and when it saw the boat it made another run, stripping my hard gained line back off of the reel. I got it turned around and began to reclaim line again. This time I got it up to the boat. I was afraid I might lose it but finally Jeff hooked it with the gaff and dragged a 40-pound king mackerel over the gunwale of the little boat.
Needless to say, I was ecstatic. Not only had I caught a prize, I was more of a meat hunter than a sportsman anyway and now we had meat in the boat. It was one of the more exciting things I had ever done. My hands were shaking from the exertion and excitement as I re-baited my hook. Doug was inflating chum and dropping it over the side and Jeff was shouting obscenities at the seagulls that seemed intent upon ruining our chum line with their thievery.
Moments after I started letting my bait back out, Jeff let out a whoop and grabbed his whipping pole with the screaming reel announcing that another fish was on. "Wahoo, Boys, hold on to your butts, I got a beauty on!" As I looked out towards where his bait had been, a miracle seemed to occur. Seconds after taking his bait, a huge tarpon leaped out of the water off to the side of the boat, 90 degrees from where the bait had been directly astern from it. Certainly nothing could swim that fast, but it had. Jeff's elation, however, was short lived as the tarpon breached once again and spit out the hook. I thought that he was going to do what the tarpon had failed to, break the pole in a dozen pieces, as he furiously vented his anger by whacking the side of the boat with it.
I heard a thunderous splash and my pole just about leaped out of my hands. I hadn't been paying attention and it really startled me. This time I kept my thumb off of the furiously spinning drum of line. Who said I wasn't trainable. Actually, it wasn't hard because the appendage still smarted from the previous encounter with the spool.
It was the same wrestling match. I'd get some line on and the creature would strip it back off. When I finally got the fish up to the boat 15 minutes later, I pulled a four-foot shark up next to the boat. It was thrashing the surface with its huge caudal fin and shaking its head against the treble hook. I held the line tight against thrashing monster's attempts to get free. I didn't want to lose the tackle, so in Jeff's favorite word, he stated he would 'submit' the creature so I could retrieve it.
Jeff was in the stern of the little boat and I was in the bow. Doug sat in the middle facing aft. Three big men plus all of the gear and a big bag of chum in a little boat made it a little precarious. Since my pole was as long as it was, it made it possible for me to hold the line tight, pointing towards the rear. This put Jeff in a good position to whack the furious beast with the boat paddle. Between the three of us and the struggling shark, the little boat was pitching wildly. Jeff was sitting on top of the outboard motor, awaiting his chance while he held the paddle like a baseball bat. Doug was winding on his reel wildly, trying to get his line in before the shark tangled it up and I was getting tired as I watched my line get stripped back off of the reel one more time.
Finally, I got the shark back up to the rear of the little boat again and held its head clear of the water. Jeff was right on cue and heaved a mighty swing of the paddle at the shark. Well, this really set things in motion. Actually, the motion was so rapid, complex and confused; it was hard to keep track of the chaos. Upon feeling the blow of the boat paddle the shark thrashed his tail wildly and since I was holding his head up out of the water, the body followed the path of least resistance, which was over the side and into the boat. It would have landed in Doug's lap; however, Doug, being a Nebraska cowboy, was used to dodging large furious animals. He decided to sit in my lap rather than to have friend shark sit in his.
All I could see were madly flailing elbows, arms, legs, hands, feet, body, mouth; the whole works, as Doug struggled to gain traction in order to throw himself backwards. When Jeff was finally able to close his mouth, he began to yell loudly at us. "Boys, boys, you gotta calm down before you capsize the boat and throw the whole lot of us into the drink with the hungry sharks!" We were rocking side to side so hard that water was splashing over the gunwales into the boat. The shark was flapping the bottom of the little aluminum so furiously it sounded like a fast hornet and a little old lady with a rolled up newspaper trapped together inside a port-o-let.
I was holding onto the side of the madly pitching boat with one hand while attempting to direct my pole in order to keep the shark's snapping teeth away from Doug's upended, kicking feet. Doug was struggling to disentangle himself from where he had landed back first in the confusion of tackle, chum, my king mackerel, boat line, and my feet.
Finally, we managed to keep afloat and settle down enough to gingerly shove the shark overboard with the boat paddle. I said to hell with it and just cut the line to release him. We were in mutual agreement that we wouldn't attempt to "submit" any more sharks.
The morning yielded to midday and the wind began to pick up, making the ocean take on a chop. I was starving and had a queasy feeling in my stomach from all the excitement, lack of food, and the tossing about all morning. I was glad when the decision was made to head for shore. We still had to get back across the shore break and the waves were picking up. The kicker acted a little cantankerous and Jeff broke off the starter rope trying to get it started. He had to take the cowling off of the engine and wrap the rope around the pulley to spin it around. Finally, it coughed to life and we were on our way back in.
We had five nice king fish in the boat and Doug and I started tying everything down. We shoved the kings in the duffle bag because we certainly didn't want to lose our prizes of the day. The shoreline was getting close as we prepared for the race to land.
Actually, the trick was to keep the boat moving in at the same speed as the waves so that it stayed in the trough between two breakers. If the boat moved too slowly it took a sea over the stern. If it went too fast, it plowed into the wave in front and that could result in the boat filling with water or something as horrible as going end over end, catapulting to the bottom. Jeff kept us pointed towards shore and held the throttle until the last minute. Unfortunately, he put his hand on the top of the engine to pull the prop clear of the bottom. He had forgotten that the cowling was off and injured his hand on the spinning pulley atop the exposed engine. The boat coasted up onto the beach, unscathed by the surf that we had just made our way through. We all jumped out and pulled the small boat clear of the breakers.
Doug trotted off to get the Jeep and trailer and Jeff and I untied the equipment. When we had loaded the boat and headed home tired and happy, I decided that there was definitely something to this saltwater fishing.
Undercover Reunion, a novel of romance and adventure for Baby Boomers,fans of “The Man from U.N.C.L.E.” and anyone who has ever attended their high school reunion!
