Trolling Plugs for Florida Keys Grouper

Aldous Huxley writes that the solitary figure against a wide open foreground and background signifies the value of visionary art as nothing else does. When I read these words 40 years ago, it seemed obvious to me that the idea is symbolic of the individual human being alone in a wide open world, but as I recall, I never came upon Huxley confirming the notion. Maybe he thought it was too obvious to comment on.

The single stunted tree stands about the same height on the islet in the Atlantic a few hundred yards from Bahia Honda Key, as when last we paid respects in 2012. This time, Matt and I had motored out to the reef and to the drop over 85 feet of water, the seas rough, but we got out there without much fear. Jigging didn't seem doable, because pushed by the wind and flow of the waves up top, the boat drifted a considerable distance before a heavy jig would hit bottom. But of course, on Matt's first or second drop, his jig hit bottom, and when he lifted, he found it snagged.

I prepped Matt on using the rods before we flew down. I should have flexed one of the two we owned, to ensure that his memory held in place. Hanging bottom with 50-pound test and heavy drag, he held his rod high. Jigging rods are not pool cue stand-up rods. Mine is rated for 50 to 100-pound braid, but is constructed to be an amazingly light-weight tool. You would never think it has such a high rating, unless familiar with the sort. Listening closely to videos, I learned that when held with too much bend in the rod, it is likely to explode, a point which did not surprise me.

Deep bend in his rod, Matt's broke. He called for my help, pathetically, so I immediately motioned that all was OK, took his rod in hand just before he might have lost the reel with it, aimed at the snag, thumbed the spool, let line break.

No big deal. Told him he can fish bait. I later filled him that since I am more informed on jigging rods than when we bought these in 2012, his new rod will be even better. Besides, the technology advances. We don't pay $1000.00 for a rod, because we don't jig all the time, but Shimano is a good make.

Shortly thereafter, I reeled in a small yellowtail snapper from the bottom. I don't recall if I was already sick, but I did get seasick for the first time in my life, vomiting over the side.

"Eat these chips," Matt said, "The salt will stabilize your stomach."

I worried that if the sickness persisted or got worse, I might be compromised at manning the boat. Matt had driven it over the rough inshore, but out here, the rough would be difficult for a neophyte. Possibly not doable, for all I knew. Only after arrival back here in New Jersey, it occurred to me that I should have let him try. Soon, he might have a son. I have experience at boating rough from my youth. I missed an opportunity to expose him to some while he actually stood at the wheel.

So you can guess I got better. But the seas had suddenly got higher, the space between wave crests narrower. It was not because I felt sick that I said, "We should go in." The sickness had entirely left me.

What if the seas were to get even worse?

I assume they did, because while we fished Bahia Honda, wind increased. It had taken us awhile to get in; I couldn't safely run the boat as fast as I did as we came out. I said to Matt once, "Did you feel the boat twist!?" And then I told him that if the wave was higher, the crests even steeper, the boat would have rolled.

It's not cool to roll your boat there. The water temp was 76.74. But sharks all over.

As we fished Bahia Honda, a small craft advisory had been issued.

Right off the bat, I caught a beautiful 14-plus-inch lane snapper. They're usually six or seven inches long. Went in the cooler. Shrimp bait. Soon I cut up a grunt and we tried to catch grouper, but the only grouper caught while we fished bait was my smallish red grouper on a big piece of shrimp.

Action slowed. Something prompted me to think of trolling plugs. And then I remembered Matt had caught a seven-pound Nassau grouper while trolling a plug from the sailboat while enrolled in Seabase of the Boy Scouts of America. Down here in the Keys. Would it work? Like most questions, it couldn't truly be answered without physical trial.

Took awhile, but Matt finally boated a 12-inch black grouper on a Bandit Walleye Deep, a diving minnow-shaped plug that gets way down. We marked water as deep as 24.7 feet, but this fish hit as we arrived upon shallows. I guess it was from 12 feet of water.

Matt enjoyed more action. Nothing wanted my Rapala diver. But nothing wanted my other Bandit, when I put that on instead. Matt caught all five groupers, two of them pretty nice: a black grouper of about 18 inches, a red grouper I measured at about 17.  They were in that shallower water. Before we went in, we talked about the possibility of a keeper red grouper--legal only inshore, in Gulf waters--and concluded it's probably like bass up here. Plenty of them 18 inches, but 20 inches rare. Or like fluke. How many 17 inches? How many 18?

We took a quick break at the cottage before Trish came out with us We motored under the bridge and trolled straight up Bogie Channel, something slamming Matt's Bandit within minutes. It cut the line, likely a barracuda. A minute later, Matt rigged with the other Bandit, something ploughed into my Rapala. The fight dogged, the fish felt plenty heavy on the jigging rod, so when I saw it was a nice red grouper, I said, "This one could be a keeper!"

Well, that would be too amazing, I guess. Exclamation is usually uttered by a fool. We had just a few fish for dinner. So that night, we ordered pizza, but it was delicious pizza. Gave the delivery a girl a fat tip, even before we knew how good. Trish did eat snapper again, however.

The grouper was fat enough, but measured--barely--19 inches. Twenty inches is legal size.

Matt caught a couple more small ones. So seven groupers jigged by him.

We caught fish.

Old Bahia Honda rail bridge.

Lane Snapper

Red grouper on shrimp.

Matt's first black grouper.

Triggerfish Matt caught.

Matt's Biggest black grouper. When this fish came into my view over the side of the boat in the water, I felt deeply moved by its dignity and size.

My trolled red grouper.

By the way, I can't get that silly white marking under the sentence about small craft advisory off the page.

https://littonsfishinglines.blogspot.com/2012/07/cero-mackerel-groupers-snappers-bahia.html

RVR Project Update

https://www.roundvalleyproject.com/project-updates/

Jack Crevalle in the Gulf

The Seafox Commander 22.5-foot center console is a nice craft, but we judged it wasn't for the high seas whipped by winds on Tuesday the 14th. True to habit developed in 2012, when we never got out to the reef, we progressed about a half mile beyond the bridge into the ocean before we turned back, convinced that it just wasn't safe. National Ocean and Atmospheric Association concurred, having issued a small craft advisor. We rode waves as high as six to eight feet from trough to crest. Out beyond the reef over depths exceeding a hundred feet, chances of capsizing might have been pretty good. I don't know for certain. But I heeded my fears.

So we rode back to camp. Old Wooden Bridge Cottages and Marina used to be called Old Wooden Bridge Fish Camp, which I prefer. To think my wife chose the formerly named destination makes me very proud of her. We got her in the boat and headed for the far edge of the Florida Keys backcountry. There where it exceeds the land masses furthest back at the face of the open Gulf of Mexico. Back of Big Pine, which is a big one that extends back there a way.

Clouds overhead meant rain gear kept handy, and some rain at about 80 degrees felt refreshing. Water temp 77. We roared eight miles over rough at 35 mph until the last little key came into view. It has a name, but I forget it. An uninhabited little spit but to mention the birds, mostly pelicans. Matt had become thoroughly engrossed in the Navionics app. By that use, he had discovered this deep water--as deep as 20 feet, a lot for these flats--with its sharp drops that especially interested us. I paid little attention to the device, never tried to use it on my mobile, but what he showed me is very detailed information, and his role as navigator was completely needed.

I guess it took three casts to the edge between shallow and deep. Fish on! And going, going...not gone. The run felt just like a four-pound hybrid striper's on Lake Hopatcong.

Weeks before, in the middle of all of my nervous posts about the week to come, Matt discovered a dude from Key West. He kayaks, produces riveting videos, and runs a lure production and sales operation. A very interesting life, looks like to us. All About the Bait is his website, and from it I ordered loads of swimbaits that imitate pilchards. He uses them--on occasion--for blackfin tuna in lieu of the speed jigs that work deep. By our guesswork, no other swimbait imitates this forage better. Since his banana jigs are pricey, I looked on Ebay for the same, and purchased a heavy bag of one-ounce leadheads that didn't boost my suitcase over United's weight limit. (Coming and going, they searched that suitcase, and I just laugh at what they must have thought--or felt, if they reached blindly. No blood stains.) Matt and I reasoned from the evidence we found online that these same jigs would serve as the perfect lure for Jack Crevalle. He hadn't opened Navionics, not until Monday night in the cottage, but we knew the spots were inshore channel edges.

Jack crevalle. I felt certain that's what I had on. I used my 8-foot Tica spinning rod and 20-pound Power Pro, a five-foot 20-pound fluorocarbon leader tied directly to that braid. Matt used a lighter rod and 10-pound test monofilament, making me feel edgy in a way he never suffered. It is that way. Every society, no matter how small, has its designated suffering men who must do their damn best never to give in to feeling victimized by it. It's necessary. Someone has to hold down the mainstay.

Sometimes it works to their mysterious advantage. Wink, wink. He is my son, but I don't feel sorry for his catching jacks of smaller size. Well. Slightly. Suffering man. There you have it. But I liked the fish I caught. And Jimmy Cliff sums it all: "I'm a struggling man. And I've got to move on."

Once mine was boated and photographed, Matt soon brought a 16-incher to hand. Mine was somewhere around three pounds. I had to choose. Cover more of this compelling space or stick to these fish. We moved on. Sooner than later, I caught one better two or two-and-a-half before we got to the last island, where Matt caught another less than two, when my feeling for his light tackle felt confirmed. There you have it. Suitable concern, suitable fish. Not that I don't want him to catch bigger. I can't describe now how much I wanted a five-pound hybrid for him on Hopatcong before he caught it. But by everything he told me, he was happy with what he caught.

Me? Nah, I wanted bigger. And it got on my line and ran just like a five-pound hybrid. I hoisted a jack crevalle I estimated at fully four pounds, and slipped it back rather than bothered with more photography. Hope got a little out of mind there, but that was a good fish. Bigger was not to come for the camera after all, but it was bigger I missed, not the mere image of it.

Tide or whatever put the fish off, us off, or both. We stormed back to Bogie Channel near the cottage, Trish feeling deeply uncomfortable as the boat lurched repeatedly, her son illegally at the wheel. (Or so I think there's some stipulation about the renter operating it. Or was it age 25 or older. So what. Which is the crime. The doing or the don't do. Age 25? I fished bass tournaments at 16.) Humphrey Bogart is a favorite. Key Largo is to the north, but Big Pine remembers. Old Bogie haunts the salt.

I don't remember if we took a break. Now I do, vaguely. Matt took a power nap, and then we doused shrimp in Bogie Channel. My first fish was real nice 12-inch mangrove snapper, fully two inches over keeper size, me exclaiming that this would be the best of Trish's meal, feeling fully expectant about filling out meat for all with more small stuff. Trish wasn't so childish, but I still felt it for the meal ahead. And we caught and kept grunts and porgies, which couldn't have tasted as good, and judging by the evidence of Trish's enthusiasm for her fresh snapper when she ate it--did not. But they were alright.

We sacrificed a small grunt, cutting off its eager head, and used the cut bait, hoping to catch grouper. Nothing but grunts resulted. As the sun got low, we switched to pilchard jigs and Matt hooked something--momentarily--beyond the edge over deep water. "It took the jig when it hit the water," Matt said. Cut the line.

Florida Kite

https://littonsfishinglines.blogspot.com/2012/07/florida-keys-bridge-fishing.html