Yes, the year is almost done and I completed the circle of fishing life by heading back to where 2017 started for me; the oyster reefs in the bay. It was time to check on my trout friends and catch up on the gossip.
I donned my waders and rain jacket to fend off the cold drizzle and headed out to where I last left them. The water was 61 degrees and off-color. The breeze wasn’t too bad and the tide was falling slightly. On the way, I stopped by a marsh channel to test out the repair job I did on my spinning rod. Had to replace a guide (bonus points if you can identify which one).
I flung my cocahoe around like a champ and it didn’t take long till somebody whacked it.
A fine start I thought to myself. And the very next cast:
Yep. Like a Hoover.
I keep telling you, readers of TKF, trout LOVE the cocahoe! A few more casts with my mended rod failed to impress any more trout and I was instantly depressed. I began humming ABBA tunes to cheer up, and this attracted a redfish. Pro tip: They LOVE ABBA songs. He began busting bait along a grassy shoreline nearby, so I put the ninja sneak on him and cast a few times into his path before he finally realized it was his sworn duty to eat my hook.
He had broad shoulders and a noble demeanor, so I saluted him as he swam off. By now, I was happy that my rod is in good order, so I cast my icy gaze outward to the bay and all the fish on the reefs knew I meant business. I put the death grip on my casting rod and headed out into the unknown. A couple of hours went by and no fish stuck themselves to my hooks. Hmmmmmmmmmm...what to do? The Jedi ghosts of Txspeck and Salty Kat appeared on the pale grey horizon, murmuring wisdom and bolstering my resolve. I kept at it, grinding with mighty determination. I concentrated on a reef complex in 4 feet that had ridges and humps coming up to 1.5’. Finally, I felt that ever so slight *tick* and pulled hard on the rod. It pulled back.
Ahhhhhhhh. That’s more like it.
I marked the waypoint (as is my tradition when fishing bays) and kept at it. From here on out, it was on. Trout after hungry trout assaulted my FAAAABULOUS pink Fat Boy.
Nothing monstrous, but plenty of solid fish.
They were trying their best to cram the Fat Boy down their throats.
All were in 2.5-4 feet around the reefs.
Even this little idiot.
Feeling giddy and exhausted, I watched the light grow dim and figured I’d beat a retreat to start the drive home. A good day on the bay and as always, no fish were killed during the making of this report. Until next time, keep on keepin’ on!
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