Growing up a favorite pastime of mine was daydreaming each class away. Instead of learning algebra, I was in some remote corner of the globe chasing trophy fish. While the list of preplanned trips were endless, there was one journey
I spent more time thinking about it than any of the others combined. Catching big bull redfish in the marsh.
For many years this dream laid dormant, until a few months after my college graduation, when it was reignited in a single phone call. A close friend wanted me to fly down to South Carolina for big redfish from the beach.
I was skeptical. I had almost no vacation days at my new job, not to mention I am historically a horrendous surf fisherman.
“Are you catching any?”
I asked, expecting to hear reports of him hooking a few puppy drums after spending the week checking untouched baits.
“Like you wouldn’t believe”
He replied, his smugness apparent in his voice.
A steady stream of pictures flooded my phone, each with a bigger redfish than the last. My naïve brain could not wrap my head around the possibility of landing that many trophy fish from shore in such a short period. Immediately after picking my jaw up off the floor, I booked my flight to South Carolina. I was in.
My buddy picked me and my girlfriend up from the airport, whom I dragged along with me.
Straight from the pickup line to the boat ramp, it was an exciting 30-minute Jon boat ride, snaking through ankle-deep creeks lined with 7ft marsh grass so thick you couldn’t see three rows in. We were in the nastiest corn maze anyone could ever think up. It brought on a somewhat eerie and claustrophobic feeling but at the same time satisfying to know how few people likely had ever made this trip. I am always an advocate for trekking to the harvest to reach places.
Our guides for the day were a father and son combo. My father’s friend from high school and his father, the biologist, who brought back the fish of my daydreams from the verge of extinction. I still am not quite sure how to thank him for that. After a short debriefing on the trophy fish from yesterday and the day before, I was eager and ready to take off down the beach after the first rod bent over. Everyone was nice enough to offer us the first fish of the morning, and we didn’t have to wait long.
Five minutes after the last line was set the rod directly in front of me doubled over and I shot off the dune, pulled the rod out of the holder, and started cranking.
Should I have let my girlfriend whom I drug to South Carolina on a five am flight get the first fish?
Yes.
Not my most gentlemanly moment. Fortunately, she forgave me, and my selfishness was greatly rewarded. I reeled down into the circle hook, setting it in place, and watched as the rod tip reached towards the ocean in response to my successful hook set. The drag began screaming off the 6000-size spinning reel, I was hooked into my first redfish.
Powerful headshakes and long screaming runs. It was everything the famous game fish advertised, including beautiful. The fight ended as the amber color back emerged from the surf, black spotted tail bobbing in the whitewash.
I was holding a lifelong dream of mine in my hands, a box on my bucket list had been checked, and from here things only got better. A fury of shouting and chasing bent over rods along the entire spread ensued. Within a few hours of setting up, all eight of us reeled in a handful of big fish apiece, and my girlfriend had found her karma. She pulled in the biggest fish of the day, a forty plus-inch fish that even impressed our very experienced family friends/ guides.
After an eventful eight hours, we wrapped up our trip and snaked our way through the weeds back home. I found myself already swiping through my camera roll, ogling at the dozens of over-slot fish we struggled to hold. I couldn’t help but imagine how proud fifteen-year-old me would be to know I carried out his dream.
I have never been so glad I didn’t pay more attention in school