The Suburban Sportsman

As I lay on the stern of the 24-foot Boston Whaler, gazing at the menagerie of charter boats surrounding us, I gradually capitulated to the Florida sun. We had set out this spring morning in pursuit of sharks off of Captiva Island’s infamous

Captain Butch

Redfish Pass, but success had eluded us. The lifeless rod sitting in my hands, the crowded local reef and the guide’s progressively longer hits from his cigarette suggested that our prey had moved to more bountiful harvests. Then, just as my subconscious was drifting towards the girls in the boat adjacent to ours, it happened.

“Tarpon!” Captain Butch yelled as my salt-encrusted baitcaster purged yard after yard of line. Quickly I swept the rod, embedding the circle hook in the corner of the fish’s mouth, kicking its survival instincts into high gear. The acrobatic display that followed is permanently embedded in my memory – flips and turns that even Shaun White would envy. I was frozen in time, mesmerized by the power before me. But the fight that could have taken hours, was over in moments. The same jumps that captivated, me were also my undoing, as the fish eventually wrapped the line and threw the hook. That day I returned to the dock sunburnt and tarponless.

I thought about that fish for the next several years until I had the chance to return to Captiva. Unfortunately, I was met with disappointment when Butch informed me that the tarpon run hadn’t started yet and I had a better chance of catching a manta ray than the 100lb minnow (tarpon do having a striking resemblance to an overgrown shiner) I was after. Defeated, I returned to our resort’s mangrove ponds with my cousin Matt and proceeded to fish for snook and redfish.

After several hours of less-than-productive action, boredom crept in and we began to joke about our grandpa George. A life-long fisherman, Grandpa had a unique style of fishing, often emulated by Bill Dance, which involved as much sitting as possible. Because of his sedentary tactics, Grandpa would frequently cast backward and over his head instead of turning around, usually resulting in a massive bird’s nest rather than a convenient trick. In honor of his approach, and to stave off further lethargy, I attempted a “grandpa cast” into the mangroves. Matt and I broke down laughing as the lure hit the water about 20 feet from shore.

Suddenly, the water erupted around my lure. Regaining my composure I set

The Grandpa Cast Tarpon

the hook, and stared in awe as a tarpon leapt from the pond! I fought the fish for just five minutes on my light spinning tackle, but I was giddy. I landed the fish, snapped a photo and released the silver king back to his brackish domain. I looked at my cousin and laughed, “Scratch that off the ‘Things to Catch Before I Die’ list.” Exhausted, we went back to the room and detailed our encounter to my dad.

This fish, though much smaller than what I hoped to catch, expands upon the theme I spoke about in my first post, “Inspiration”. Fisherman often set lofty expectations, which, while challenging us to become better sportsmen, can mute our overall enjoyment of each catch. Take a step back and remember a three-pound bass, a thirty-six-inch muskie and even a twelve-inch crappie are all fantastic catches. Embracing the above average will make the extraordinary seem even more spectacular.

…As a side note, I still have yet to catch a 100+lb tarpon. This remains one of my life-long dreams, and is second only to catching a permit on 6lb tackle.