I got to my first spot and let loose the mighty cocahoe on 1/8 ounce jig head. The trout slayer. Only it didn’t slay. I didn’t see any bait or fish either. Onto the next spot. Except I have to paddle across some open bay to get to it and after about 15 minutes of making little headway into the wind, I was having serious doubts about the day. I tried a couple more spots and still hadn’t made any fish appear on my hooks. And there were occasional blasts from shotguns in the distance. Made me nervous thinking maybe this is the start of an alien invasion. My mind drifted to food and my comfortable sofa. Wait a minute! THats loser thinking!!! What if George Washington went home to watch tv instead of crossing the Delaware? Suppose Eisenhower played video games in his parents’ basement instead of joining the army! Imagine if Steve Spielberg became a power-napper instead of learning how to make movies! No, I needed to continue. It might be slim pickings, but that thought alone filled me with inspiration.
I headed deeper into the marsh to seek for warmer water and happy redfish. The best redfish hunter-seeker in the world was on my line (gold spinnerbait with chartreuse shad body) and it was target locked, systems checked, enter code:
Finally! Hunting and scratching in the rising tide of the flooded marsh, I managed another.
Then nothing. Hmmmmmm...maybe it’s best to head back. Trolling a cocahoe resulted in meager rewards.
But I figured I’d check my trout hole one last time. You know. Just in case. First cast and a monster whacked it. Drag pulled and I figured it was a redfish. But as I winched it to the kayak, I saw a monstrous, silver form. After wetting myself, I reached for the net. That’s when it gave a mighty head shake and spit my cocahoe in my face. “NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO.” I cried, along with a string of profanities. The time: 3:30 pm. On a Friday. I carry a license. I’m an angler. The name’s Cuervo. Dunnnnn-dunun-dun.
After sobbing and hurling insults at every deity I could think of, I regained my composure and cast some more. Nothing. I was reeling slow and steady like previous weeks. Then I cast and thought of something funny and forgot to reel. When I picked up the slack and pulled it tight, there was a pull right back.
Huzzah! I smiled like Louis CK with a fresh bottle of hand lotion.
Maybe there’s more of my friends home? I started letting the cocaho sink to the bottom and bouncing it back slowly.
Aright aright aright! So they want it on the bottom! Now they tell me!!
The day was turning out to be not so bad after all. But I was getting hungry and tired. Maybe a final couple of casts and then teleport home.
That’ll do, trouts. That’ll do. Get out when you can and find those fish! They’re there and they’re chomping cocahoes and spinnerbaits regardless of weather. Just make sure you experiment with retrieves and report your findings. Cuervo Jones, last survivor of the Nostromo, signing off.
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