Friday December the fifth became a kind of wacky redemptive poor man-rich man experience for me. Two weeks of cold fronts had greatly chilled Biscayne Bay- this weather causes a "two-sides-to-it" set of conditions: the widespread feeding of various species contracts to narrower honeyholes of warm water haven pools and more comfortable layers of water getting better as it's deeper and culminating in a warmth-retaining bottom. So, in effect, my scouting and hunting on the winter water is for spots versus expanses.
I began the day in a VERY back bay with lots of shelter and sunshine reflective and retaining wealth, but no soap! One lone tarpon did a quick roll in what turned out to be a solo act as the sun rose in a clear cold sky caressed by a 10 m.p.h. northerly breeze. Two more spots...and the same squat.
As I motored into a wider bay, I spotted a wad of diving gulls at 10 o'clock and 100 yards. Though I was sure this did not mean tarpon, I headed for the melee and positioned myself upwind as I cut the engine.
I pulled my ever-present 10-pound plug rod out of the holder and cast my white Spro bucktail (my ever-present plug rod lure) into the bustups. The hookup was achieved on the second rod sweep and a minute later, I was releasing a 4-pound jack. This scene repeated itself again and again, until, blessedly, the jacks sounded.
I started motoring along the area doing triangulated sweeps with one eye on my depth recorder.
A minute later, the black mass on the screen turned out to be the same school of fish as I deep jigged a strike and hookup along with about 50 companions.
I began to tire of this pretty quickly but what sealed the deal was some new lighter markings higher in the water column. This time I let out half the line on my drop and jigged quickly. Another hookup soon revealed a 3 -pound Spanish mackerel, which I released. As I fished to these markings, the strikes became non-stop and closer to the surface. Mackerel were mixed with small kingfish. My best moment in this next round of mayhem was a strike highlighted by a 100-yard run: wishes were granted as my hunch was confirmed with a boatside netting and taking of a kingfish over ten pounds...a real nice deal on a little plug rod.
I simply started catching fish after fish and releasing them until I lost count. I went through 14 bucktails, yet my 40-pound mono leader did the job pretty well. The tap on my shoulder from my more evolved self came in the form of a queasy kind of over-fishing bloat that told me this was quite more than enough. So I left the action with an all-too-sated kind of triumph that treaded water in a tub of far too many milkshakes.
I'm feeling more balanced now, but every time I close my eyes to attempt a descent into sleep, the "drop" is filled with whirling images of gulls, jacks, and mackerel; although I hardly expect my house to drop on the wicked witch upon landing: another time, another place!
Jan Maizler
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