"The One That Got Away"
(You have to read the whole story to get to that part!)

by Plasticaster AKA Terry

(Editor's note:   Plasticaster won this trip from David's Tackle Box when he attended their Grand Re-Opening Celebration.  David's has been a long-time supporter of the CCCF)

Tuesday morning, October 22, found us running fast on West Mata in Tommy's Big Bay Parker. Toward the west end of the Bay off the north shore of the Island, Tommy saw some birds working. So we got out, waded over to them and proceeded to land a few Specs on topwaters.

As the birds and the action played out, we saw another larger flock form and start to feed more aggressively about a hundred yards closer to the Island's north shore. We decided to wade toward them.

Here's the picture for your mind's eye. The sky, which earlier had some sun showing through the clouds, became totally overcast. It is getting darker. The sky at the west end of the Bay has turned bluish black, with enormously long jags of horizontal lightening too far away for thunder to be heard. Water visibility is nearly 3 feet; and the pond is reflective glass, the same color as the sky. There is no discernable line between the water horizon and the sky in the west. It is getting cooler. Widely spaced raindrops are disturbing the glassy surface, helping with depth perception, adding more reflections with each ripple. A storm front is coming. It is an El Nino-like pulse from the low-pressure system far to the west.  Shrimp are jumping under the birds. The trout splashing and slurping are the only sounds except the zinngggggg of our lines and the splashes of She Dogs and Super Spooks landing among them. The blowups are beautiful. They play with the tops, slapping them, butting them.

We catch a few trout hooked in their backs, their stomachs and their heads. But most are hungry and are solidly hooked in their mouths. I have one very interested Spec that hits as I count aloud to my companions: A splash- "That's one." A pop- "Two." A bump- "Three !" A slap- "Four"; A swirl and splat- "Five !" A plop- "Six." And kerthunk- "Seven !" Lucky seven, and it's stringered a few satisfying minutes later !

The skies are getting darker. The lightening is yellow, and it is spectacular - reflecting off the thigh-deep glass. Thunder is booming and cracking in the distance, and the rain drops are getting bigger. The fish are feeding harder ! How can we stop ? But our guide is wise as he goes back for the boat, leaving Curt and I to have our last minutes of fun. I throw my trusty She Dog, and she is knocked into the air a half-second after she lands. I twitch the rod, and SheD is kerthoomped under the water for the last time. The line goes limp as She is eaten by a big fish. I shoulda retied. But how could anyone think to stop to do that? I coulda and shoulda; but woulda?

We load up, throw our stringers in the ice chest, and dash for cover on the lee-side porch of a little bayshack that Tommy knew. He had strategically decided to fish near it just in case what happened with the weather happened. The rain is horizontal and stinging. We hold our heads down as we run for the shelter. The guide is the only one smart enough to have worn a rain jacket before he ever got into the water. But we don't care. It has already been a great trip.

Most of an hour later the storm front has passed, and we are running to a Redfish area near salt grass with scattered shell underfoot. It is a fresh, new day. Was there a storm this morning ? The sky lightens and the air warms behind the front. Too much weed on top, so we change to soft plastics. Everyone picks up a Red or two. We gobble down a snack lunch as we idle out for new grounds.

Our last stop seems to be somewhere "in the middle" of the Bay a mile or more from land. Landmarks are not evident. How does he know where we are? "Where are we gonna fish, Tommy?" He gestures, "Out there, that area out in front. There's Reds out there." So we get abreast, about 40 yards apart, and "dress-right-dress" to match his course.  And thar's Red's out yonder! The wind has picked up. We keep it to our backs. The sun has come out. The water has become off-color. They like my Morning Glory BA. We catch a few, just barely undersize. Curt and Tommy string keeper Reds. I pick up a Spec.

And a fish story.

My cast is long and satisfying with the wind. Far out, near where it lands, the jig is tapped, and I set the hook. I am rewarded with a strong tug and a big swirl and splash. It has to be a Red ! She strips line, I slowly work her toward me. She is strong. Minutes pass. She comes up to 90 degrees to my right about 20 yards away. The rod has stayed bowed right over. Then quickly she runs to 180 degrees from where she got on - starting the circle that Red's always make around you. 'Strips more line to 30 yards, seems strong as ever, heading out into the Bay, but still turning to the right. I adjust the drag on the Curado two clicks tighter. The line is like banjo string.  This is undoubtedly the biggest Red I've ever had on the line wadefishing. She's a beast, and doesn't seem to be tiring much. She's at 270 degrees now, and still stripping a little line now and then. Not running much. Finally she's just setting about 10 yards away, my rod bowed over. From the other side of Curt, Tommy gives me the needle: "Are ya gonna land her or just play with her all day ?!" But I don't dare set the drag any tighter, and horsing her in is out of the question. The 12 pound test has to be at it's limits.  Another moment passes in the stalemate. "Alright", I respond, "I think she's giving up". She is coming to me as I crank slowly. Then the rod tip comes up too quickly, and I crank faster to get the bend back. There is something there, but it is not big.  I crank it in, and it comes out of the water. It is a Spec, maybe 12 inches long. The Morning Glory on the Hoagie jig is in the side of it's mouth. I am absolutely dumbstruck.

Later, Tommy says "You should have seen the look on your face". I didn't understand what my eyes saw. It was incredulous. I was embarrassed. I was confused. That was not the beast I had fought for ... what ? Ten ...twelve minutes ? That was not the animal that had my pulse racing and my arms tired! I felt my shoulders droop.  Finally Tommy says, "Look at the sides of that Spec and see if it's torn up!" I do. The clarity is relief. But the truth is disappointing. There are perfect crescent-shaped jaw marks that have worn away the scales and the normally iridescent color down to the pink flesh below. The Red has had the baby Spec firmly in it's jaws the whole time ! I take the Spec off the hook. It is dead as a nail. Floating on it's back. It must have been crushed.

JoCur makes a wisecrack. I throw the carcass at him, suggesting he put it on his hook.

We end our most excellent adventure with limits of slot Reds and 17 solid Specs. A great big 'thanks again' to Tommy's Guide Service and David's Tackle Box !