by Jon Edward Edwards
The summer morning fog dissipated as we neared the mouth of Gordon’s Pass. Idling across Naples Bay, I pelted Captain Joel Pepper of Fish-N-Fever Charters with questions regarding the feeding patterns of the American red snapper and groupers that hang around the ledges west of Naples in 160’-175’ of water that we were targeting. “Opportunistic,” answered Joel. Meaning they’ll eat anything put in front of their faces. “That’s it. No more questions.”
“I got two questions left,” I replied, as Joel had issued a limit. As a relative newcomer to the offshore Guide/Captain World, I take advantage while in the presence of professionals. In other words, I become a “pain-in-the-ass.” It takes a unique individual to hold “pain-in-the-ass” status and make the cut. Perhaps it’s a testament to my dynamic personality.
Joel dignified my comment with a command, “Sit chur ass down, Son. We’re bout to get it on.” I scuttled to the open bow, monkey-crawled across ice chests and gear to the bean-bag emporium, and plopped down next to Will, my twenty-one-year-old son, and Jesse, my same old age best friend (Midwest Division). My rear touched down not a moment before Joel hit the juice on the ride, drenching the rock jetties as the Suzuki’s roared like mighty white dragons and charged into a clear horizon full of promise. Outward bound once again.
An interesting relationship, Joel’s and mine; a newer compadre, we get along like we’ve known each other forever. Kindred spirits, you might say. South Florida natives are good ole’ boys like us in Louisiana without accents. Like all my good friends, Joel isn’t bashful about telling me what he thinks and teasing me at will. Exhibit A – the night before, when I questioned the weather. It was a big mistake because, to Joel, it indicated a potential “back-out.”
My party and I weren’t a regular charter, but we were part of the annual “meat haul” – that is when the Captain fills the freezer. We were there to work, fish, and pay for bait and fuel. A hell of a deal – the best. I couldn’t back out if I wanted to.
Joel got over his case of the “red-ass” (North Louisiana speak for “angry”), realizing we were no “back-outers” when we showed up early, bright-eyed, and bushy-tailed, although it amplified the hazing.
“Where are the “Ditch Trolls?” Joel asked, referring to my guests. First of all, the term “Ditch Troll” comes from my story “Ditch City,” in which I write about a crazed young girl attacking me in a drainage ditch when I was a kid in West Monroe, Louisiana. Joel found this particularly amusing. Thus, when I said I had a friend from back home and her friend coming to visit, he immediately referred to them as “Ditch Trolls.”
The weather question wasn’t mine, you see? I was pressured into asking it the night before due to the inquiries of my “Ditch Trolls,” Jenny and Kelsey. I assure you, they are quite the opposite, as Joel would find out the following day, because this morning, they missed the bus—that is, they didn’t get up. Was this a blessing? We will soon see.
I must admit I had some trepidation because my guests were not watermen like the rest of us but land-based civilians. Are they up to the task? This was no novice parade – eighty-plus miles to wrangle deep water beasts. Had I made a mistake including them in such an extreme endeavor? When the topic of weather came up at dinner the night before, my anxiety bells began ringing. Was I worried about the weather? Hell no. I was worried about people complaining about the weather.
“Zero to one,” I said, reaching across the table for another butter for my baked potato. Jenny, my dear friend from Louisiana, removed a piece of iceberg lettuce from my elbow.
It wasn’t good enough. Looking at whatever weather app she had pulled up, Jenny said, “Really… looks like it’s going to be rough.”
A cheek full of baked potato packed in the left side, I mumbled, “Here we go…”
“What was that?” Jenny asked. Before answering, she told me to chew my food first—another interesting relationship – Jenny’s and mine. In public settings, outward appearances sometimes suggest that we are together. Hence, the back-and-forth like couples often do. Although this is an illusion, it couldn’t be further from the truth.
Jenny was always the girlfriend of a friend, and the first time she wasn’t, she shot me point blank in the face with a round of, “It’s never going to happen” so fast I didn’t even have a chance to think about the prospect.
“Don’t sweat it; it’s all good. Don’t even worry about it,” I said, taking another bite. For some reason, Jesse felt compelled to pull up his Buoyweather App and check the conditions offshore – eighty to a hundred miles out. His app reported four-to-five-foot seas. Mouths dropped, gasps were heard, and the chatter started.
“Pppfff, you can’t rely on those things,” I said about the application, which has been proven to be highly accurate and is used by anglers, sailors, and mariners abound. Here’s the thing: I wasn’t worried about it, and no one else should be either. Joel is a professional and won’t go eighty miles offshore in dangerous conditions. My crew and I know this. Hot chics from Dallas do not.
Upon saying goodnight, I emphasized the “alarm clock” as Captain Joel doesn’t wait or meet at the gate in the morning for a group hug. Stowe your thin skin when you come aboard.
When the alarm clock went off, I got up, stepped into my shorts and flip-flops, and called Jenny while waking up Jesse and Will – no answer. Ten minutes later, we’re ready and out of the door. I called again, leaving the Island and using the hands-free dash control system on the rented Chevy Silverado – lest I want to give the impression of texting and driving. The fog at the top of the bridge was so thick that it induced an anxiety pang that might have registered on the voicemail as a delay. The feeling of having your boundaries, your sense of direction, taken from you at a crucial moment is horrific. R.A.S.D. (Rapid Accelerating Sensory Deprivation). It sounds like a black-ops interrogation program. Maybe it is. The point of no return had come and gone. “That’s it,” I said to Will and Jesse. They were officially “left behind.”
Fog is an omen – a good one as it relates to offshore. Fog can’t form in the presence of wind. Small craft and wind are not friends. Isn’t fog also an obstruction on the water? One might ask. Well, young Timmy, but it means the conditions are mild. Aside from the not occasional, but probable, thunderstorm that has to be avoided, outrun, or endured.
To say I wasn’t a bit relieved would be slightly untrue. I’d been balancing a delicate scale: weather conditions, relationships, and anxiety. On the one hand, it could be an experience my visiting friends will never forget. On the other hand, they may not talk to me again, possibly angering my Captain and personal friend at a most inopportune time.
Back in the present – eighty elegant and serene miles later I felt the Captain back down on the throttles. I stood on wobbly legs as the thirty-six-foot Maralago settled into its wake and thought, “Damn, they’re going to be sorry they missed this if, for nothing else, the ride out.”
The Gulf of Mexico was iridescent blue at this depth, sprinkled with a sargassum garnish. I heard the twelve-foot chain clang away when Joel released the windlass anchor system. A minute or so later, the anchor rope became taught. “Bait ‘em up, Boys,” said Captain Bart Bailey, our First Mate.
“We’re on a meat haul,” the Skipper reminded, as we dropped baits hooked onto large circle hooks, live shrimp, and cut bait weighted for them to touch bottom – well over a minute. Humdedumdedum…. BLAM! Rods bowed and drags screeched.
Everyone hooked up; the pace was fast and furious, an offshore rodeo of epic proportions. Big fish at great depths vehemently opposed to leaving their lairs, they beat up on us. My first fish was a disappointing energy-zapping, bicep-cramping, seventy-pound amberjack. Locally referred to as “Reef Donkeys, they are nice gamefish, but when upper-echelon bruisers are present, an angler can’t afford to gas out on Busch League opponents.
On our way to a limit of big American Reds, Will was having a particularly hard time with what he thought was a Goliath grouper. It was wearing him out, bad. Capt. Joel recognized the struggle and intervened, spotting Will with the lifts of the rod as if they were lifting weights. When they got the fish closer to the boat, Joel yelled, “Huge Black Grouper!” I knew the game had entered another phase.
They landed the fish, seventy-five pounds, and Joel immediately went to work preparing appropriate tackle – Penn Internationals with thick boat rods. It became a factory, one angler after the other. One fish required a team, and the leading angler was spent for several minutes after. There were massive black grouper, the biggest I’d ever seen, every one the size of a young growing Goliath.
Less than two hours after setting the anchor, we were limited out on red snapper and black grouper, never having changed position. Never mind the by-catches: amberjack, snappers of all kinds, undersized reds, and gag groupers. Good timing because it would take three to four hours to get back and cleaned up, making the end of a perfect day.
Feeling like we’d been in a rodeo, Will, Jesse, and I settled in our bean bags for the long ride. Sometime later, a sudden jar to the spine woke me from my slumber. I peeked my head off the beanbag to find gigantic thunderheads pillowing the horizon, ominously black and flickering with lightning. Dark, angry skies and white caps crested atop five to six-foot seas, some seven or more. The metallic taste of ozone in the air – like licking a nine-volt battery. The temp plummeted as the low-pressure system enveloped us. Sea creatures became nervous, and birds tried to outfly the system. One lone frigate bird was undeterred, circling high overhead looking for a mackerel sandwich.
I hadn’t noticed the pelting rain due to the relentless saltwater splash peppering us. Joel backed off the throttles so that we were in rhythm with the sea, and went back to sleep.
In my half-sleep state, I’d recognized an increase in the seas and a decrease in power, but I came alive when I heard the urgency in Joel’s voice.
“Clear the deck!” I jumped up to lend a hand bu was swiftly reprimanded. “Jed! Sit down! The last thing I need is a rescue!” At this point, I decided it was good that Jenny and Kelsey hadn’t gotten up.
We made it back unscathed with a story to tell, like always. Even though Jenny and Kelsey missed the adventure of a lifetime, and in the days to come, my Beavertail would break down on the backside of Cape Romano. Clear skies, a light southwest wind, and zero boat traffic – all equating to being stranded. Hey, at least we weren’t lost – I could see Marco in the distance.
It wasn’t all bad. We did some cool stuff, like hiking Tigertail Lagoon to Coconut Island past the point about midway, where the rip tide pulls the strongest swimmers into the Gulf for a ride. We also hunted seashells (I didn’t—they did) in secluded coves where ospreys scooped mullet from nervous water, the sun an orange orb dipping in the western sky.
I’d like to think they’ll remember the experience for a long time, maybe even cherish it, depending on their senses of adventure, experiencing the 10,000 Islands like the settlers did, fumbling around in the dark, digging through clouds of no-see-ums.
