Trolling for Treasure

There are few conflicts in the history of humanity that hold the same gravitas as the eternal struggle between man and ocean. For many, it encapsulates the very sense of adventure that defines our culture – the intrinsic tick that made our forebears cross the seas with nothing but the clothes on their backs and the wooden planks beneath their feet, seeking worlds unknown. From the ancient coastal peoples of yesteryear to esteemed authors such as Melville and Hemingway to the sportsmen and fishermen of today, we’ve told tales of our adventures upon the high seas for millennia past and millennia to come.

In other words, nothing quite scratches the proverbial pioneer’s itch like a good fish story.

One such story of our own begins in the winter of 2009, aboard our magnificent Mainship Trawler named Glory Daze on a three-day journey across the Gulf of Mexico. It was winter break and we were en route from Pete’s Pier in Crystal River up to Carabelle in Florida’s panhandle. We’d hit some weather the previous night and encountered seas of up to twelve feet, which were more than enough to bring some water over the bow and make everyone aboard wonder if our little inflatable dinghy had an expiration date.

Needless to say, the sleep quality had not been ideal, and I found myself awake on the floor of the cabin a tad before seven o’clock eastern. The place was thoroughly trashed – I don’t think we had a single shelf with anything left on it and the contents of the cabinets had evidently been cuddling me throughout the night. Never one to let a little chop dull my spirits, I grabbed a spoon off my chest and a jar of Jiff crunchy peanut butter off the floor and went outside to survey the surroundings.

As any seafaring man worth his salt will tell you, the ocean after a storm is a pleasant sight to behold. The warm, orange glow of sunrise spilling over the eastern horizon was spreading over sparkling, mirror-like water as far as my eyes could see. The boat was rocking slightly if at all, in sharp contrast to a few hours prior. It was a beautiful day to fish, but we were in deep, unfamiliar waters and in a mood to arrive at our destination, lest we encounter more roughness before the trip was over. After a moment’s deliberation and a few mouthfuls of peanut butter, we decided we were going to toss out our three biggest reels and our heaviest leader and do some trolling.

So Carsen’s rigging up the rods and I’m - as the best damn bait-man east of the Mississippi - rooting through the tackle to find something suitable for trolling. I was hoping for a foot-long monster of a swimbait that would attract marlin or Mako or something else awesome, but no such luck. I ended up with a Mann’s stretch-30’ plug, maybe four or so inches - we weren’t gonna break any records, but hey, maybe something fun will bite.

We had been trolling NW around 10 knots for about three hours when we got our hit. The rod on the left, lovingly named “Stumpy”, a 5’ Penn rod and reel combo, jumped halfway out of its holder and contorted itself into a vicious, trembling curve. Morgan snatched it up - which was a good thing, seeing as she’s the best fisherman of any of us - and we cut the engine so she didn’t have to fight against the tow of the boat. It was evident early on she had hooked something pretty big; it was all she could do to make any progress on the thing and normally she’s got fish hopping in the cooler when she snaps her fingers.

So, seeing the magnitude of the struggle, we fire the engine back up and bring the boat around toward where the line is pointing as Morgan reels. But, try as she might, the fish ain’t in any obvious hurry to show itself. As any angler knows, half the fun of a long fight is the suspenseful period of wonder and speculation on what could be submerged on the other end of the line. We were all speculating on what it was - my money was on amberjack - and if our gear could handle the damn thing when Morgan got fed up with our lack of helpfulness and handed the reigns off to Carsen.

Ol’ Captain Carsen put his back into it, cranking the reel, bending to and fro, pacing, straining, gnashing teeth, and incorporating a healthy amount of swearing for another fifteen minutes or so. Never to be outdone, Morgan found herself rejuvenated and took back over, bringing the thing in close enough for us to get our first look at it.

And lo and behold, to our collective surprise, the fish was none of the sharks or cobia or grouper or snapper or amberjacks we had let swim through our imaginations on its way in. This visitor was most unexpected and most unlikely. Here we were, miles from our destination into the Gulf with nearly 100 feet of water beneath us, and we had next to our diving platform the largest redfish any of us had ever seen.

Upon closer inspection, not only was this redfish thoroughly lost, but she was astoundingly unlucky - our bait was not in the fish’s lip or even swallowed, no - the hook was embedded firmly into the side of her head. She hadn’t gone for the bait at all - we’d snagged the damned thing. And after struggling for close to half an hour, miraculously the hook had not been dislodged.

We were all still scratching our heads in disbelief when Captain Randy pushed us aside, gaff in hand. He hooked the fish and got her onto the platform when she shook her tail hard, snapping the hook clean off the gaff’s handle and flinging herself back into the water.

Amazingly, she still doesn’t get loose and we’re able to use a second gaff to finally land the fish. Everyone’s hooting and hollering and snapping pictures, and we finally get her across the classic Igloo cooler (before the roto-molded craze) to take a measurement - but the ruler only goes up to 48 inches and there was still plenty of fish left over. After much deliberation, we all come to a consensus she is somewhere in the neighborhood of 52 to 54 inches. We strung her up on the scale next, but unfortunately, its max reading is 50 pounds, another tool she maxed out handily. Again, we passed her around a few times and arrived at the scientific conclusion she had to be somewhere around 55 pounds - just a measly six shy of the Florida state record.

Snagged. While trolling. In the middle of nowhere.

The moral of the story is, keep your hook in the water gentlemen. Even against all odds, you can reel in something special.

- Simon