Before I tell you about my first tarpon, in 1963, my first memories of fishing were walking down to the tackle shop to get some line and hooks. I never spent a nickel. RV was brand new and one of the employees knew who I was and gave me stuff. Most of the time I would take shrimp off the boats left over that the owner Dunc, did not care.
I would catch huge bluegill bream that lived under the fish house dock, that required sliding it through the gaps of the widest section to land it. I would break the shrimp in half and peel the hull off. Solid meat and smelly. The fish loved it. One of my friends caught a 2+ pound bluegill that made into the newspaper with a picture.
I remember scaling the bream, cutting its head off and have Mom fry it for me. Many times I would catch a stringer full of mangrove snapper in front of RV by some marsh flags. It was where Monkey Island is now, but had not been constructed. I was 10 years old then and allowed to be out in the boat alone or with a friend.
I would bring the snapper on the stringer upstairs to the restaurant where my Mom worked and trade them for either breakfast or lunch depending on the time of the day. I wonder now, what they did with those fish, as they were whole.
In 1971, age 16, my hero, Dad, took Buzz and I out tarpon fishing during the Spring run, where literally a thousand or more would show each year. He always left the dock before sun up. He could navigate the river with his eyes closed, had he chose to.
This was and still is the best day of my life tarpon fishing. Each trip requires preparation before going out. Dad just used eye to land navigation and a few markers that dotted the cost. He slowed as we neared the channel. A bust or wall of white water 6 feet high erupted. Not once but several times. Tarpon make this show with their tails to impress the females. My Dad related it to spawning and I believe he was right about everything when it came to fishing.
He idled the 24’ Pro until we were within paddling distance. Buzz and I on one side, Dad on the other. We were stroking it stern first as hard as we could. Fish rolling everywhere in front of us. Breathing hard, like 4th quarter football. I was very excited and my heart was pounding.
We were in range. This rod I never had casted one this big with a lure that felt like a chunk of lead. My Dad casted his a hundred yards it seemed. Buzz, the same. Me, about a 100 feet. We had three on a time but mine did not jump. Their fish were putting on a show leaping and silver shining and reflecting off their sides from the bright sun.
Their fish were gaffed and pulled into the boat. That’s the way it was done back then, kill ‘em. A tarp was put out and laid out on the deck in case the fish spermed, if they were males. Messy stuff to get off the boat. And the females were slimy, too.
All were females over 120 pounds, not bad for overgrown herrings. Except mine, while they were fighting theirs’, I have a huge cobia on, maybe 50-pounds. They were too busy to help. As I bent over to grab the gaff, my line got caught under a loose screw head on the bow rail and popped my line. SOB! Here I have food while they are messing around with non-edibles.
Back to fishing, all I can say is, it took a long, long cast, reeling fast as you can and twitching the lure. I couldn’t do it well enough. Maybe if I would have had a chance to get the hang of casting it far enough, I could. But Dad handed me a rod with a tarpon on. This is what he would do for all his clients if they were weenies. If their were 4 in his boat, all got numbered 1 through 4 and take turns jumping tarpon that would average 30 per morning.
On the way in, Dad saw three cobia, all huge. He casted out and the biggest ate. He said, “Here’s your cobia, boy!” 63-pounds, it was. Plus a 143, 138 and a peanut, 120ish.
Back then it was all show and tell. It was how my Dad got new clients. And it was bragging rights. Each tarpon, always had the weight posted on it’s side. When I was 8 years old, I began to see these giants hanging from the scales and this helped to give me the eye to guess the weight of one alongside the boat.
Fortunately, for the fish, not many guides pursued the mighty silver king. And these days, only world records are kept.
Give me any fish and I will be happy. Big or small. Wait, please no catfish!
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