ALL PICTURES AND TEXT ON THIS WEB SITE ARE COPYRIGHTED BY DONALD L SCHULTZ


The sign on the side of the building proudly proclaimed, “Master Bait and Tackle -You Can't Beat Our Bait”. I was there on the word of an old saltwater fisherman I met on the beach who said, “Them boys got the best bait in town and they will tell you how to do it.”

Assuming, hopefully, that he meant how to fish, I entered this little store in Bonita Springs, Florida which probably has the distinction of being the only bait shop that makes more revenue from the sale of its souvenir T-shirts emblazoned with the company logo than it does on the sale of bait.

Trying not to stand out like a Midwest freshwater walleye and trout fisherman, whose total knowledge of saltwater fishing was gleaned from the reading of one thin book, I asked the man behind the counter if I could purchase some bait shrimp. He responded with, “Live or frozen and how many?” Assuming that live was better, I said with confidence, “Live.” To which he responded, “Where the hell is your bucket? You need a bucket.” As the fishermen lined up behind me chuckled in unison and waves of humiliation flooded across my face, my cover blown, the proprietor came to my rescue by asking me to stand to the side so he could help his amused regulars first.

After the line had finally passed, as each fisherman glanced in my direction with bait bucket in hand and an expression that shouted “Rookie”, I stepped up to the counter, this time deciding that honesty was the best policy.

I announced that I had a new salt water surf rod; a home made rod holder that you push in the sand to anchor your rod, and didn’t have the slightest idea what the hell I was doing. This approach seemed to bring out a level of sympathy from the store owner that was most welcome. I was still stinging a bit, as he suggested that I get a salt water license if I didn’t want to get arrested and that I buy a snook tag for an extra two bucks. I handed him my South Dakota driver’s license and his suspicions were confirmed with a smile as I pondered privately what a snook was.

Over the period of the next half hour, I was given a crash course on salt water fishing including bait selection, terminal tackle setups (that what you tie to the end of your line) and a map of several locations in the area that I should try. He closed with, “Here is your tide table chart.” By this time we had developed enough rapport for me to have the courage to ask what I needed that for. It also helped that there were no other customers in the store. He indicated that I wanted to fish on the incoming tide or two to three hours before high tide. My level of courage had not reached a point to ask why. I had asked enough dumb questions for one day.

As I left the store with new gear in hand and a bag of the smelliest frozen shrimp I have ever experienced, I heard, “Hey, maybe you should start out on a head boat.” It was explained that each day a 70 ft charter boat takes 40-50 fishermen, all bait and equipment included, several miles out into the ocean to fish for about $60 a head, thus a “head boat”. He suggested I take the night cruise because it was the most productive and handed me a coupon with a $10 discount. He closed by saying, “You can learn a lot from them guys on the boat. They got it in their blood.”

The coupon indicated that Great Getaway Cruises left the dock for the night trip at 6 PM and returned at 1 AM. Seven hours of fishing for a mere $50, everything included. What a deal. I called and made a reservation for the night. After all, Sara and I had been spending an awful lot of time together and I was informed that a little male companionship would be good for me. As I departed for the dock, Sara waved good bye and told me to have fun and bring back a big one for supper.

I sudden realized that while I had remembered to bring my fishing license, camera, jacket and credit card, I had absolutely no cash with me. Oh well, everything was included and I was late. The traffic was horrendous as it always is in the Ft. Myer, FL area and I was determined not to miss the boat. At the dock, I could see a large boat filled with eager fishermen. I had made it in time. After paying my fare by credit card, I was handed a ticket and told that I was assigned position number 48. Having absolutely no idea in hell what that meant, I let it pass because my attention was focused on a dozen of some of the largest fish I had ever seen mounted on the walls of the office. One had a sign that read “Record Snook”. Hey, that is what a snook is and I had a snook tag. Sara, heat up the frying pan!!! This is going to be great.

I boarded the boat and soon realized the significance of being assigned number 48. Lining the railing of the vessel were steel pipes welded about one shoulder width apart. Each had a number, and as I slowly circled the boat, I found my spot right in the middle of the stern. That is the back side of the boat. I had no idea if that was a good spot or not, but I was informed that I had to fish my assigned spot by a crew member. Being late, the selection of available rods was limited and it soon became apparent that most the rods had already been taken. As I picked out what looked like the best of the last and placed it in my holder, I curiously observed that many of my fellow fishermen had brought their own rods. Later I would find out why. As the last fishermen boarded the boat with a huge cooler, one of the crew members yelled out, “You don’t have no beer in thar do yah? Can’t bring brew on the boat, yah know! Sure yah got no beer?” The fishermen looked strangely sheepish as they lugged the box on board, loudly proclaiming their innocence. Others had brought small coolers, probably for sandwiches, but this was too big for a lunch.

The boat had an inside cabin which contained several tables and booths covered in green, cracked vinyl and chrome trim, reminiscent of a cheap diner on Route 66. At the rear of the cabin there was a small kitchen with a greasy grill and counter lined with bags of chips, snacks and beef jerky. You could get a burger, ham and cheese, pizza slice, hot dog, chili, and of course beer at $3.00 a can, a real man’s menu I secretly lamented the fact that I didn’t have any cash on hand, but hey, I was here to fish, not drink.

As the sun began to set over the bay, we were all shuttled to the bow of the boat where we were given an orientation by what appeared to be the least fluent of the entire crew. This young man had the best of intentions, but his presentation was punctuated with a series of “Ahs, You knows, and did I forget anything?” to which his fellow crew member would join in with equal clarity. We were informed that we would be going out about 30 miles, yes 30 miles. We also were advised to keep both hands on the fishing rod because it would cost $90 dollars if it fell overboard. I gazed at a nearby rod with its missing screws and battered housing and pondered how it could possibly be worth $90. I then understood why many fishermen had brought their own gear.

The boat finally reached cruising speed and for the first hour we plunged through the darkness toward the open sea. The 50 odd fellow fishermen then mysteriously divided into two distinct groups. About a third stayed in the enclosed cabin while the rest remained on the deck. The clouds of cigar smoke on the deck revealed why. There was a no smoking rule in the cabin and everyone outside was smoking and drinking. The coolers, large and small, began to open and my companions were throwing down the brews. I watched one guy actually smoking five cigarettes in a row by lighting the end of a new one by touching it to the glowing butt of the last one. He also put down 5 beers, one after another. His partner downed a half pint of brandy. This was going to be a long night. An hour into our trip to the fishing grounds, the beer was still flowing and the fishing and hunting stories became more and harder to believe. I had had enough and retired to the cabin and squeezed in a seat.

We passed several other fishing boats and I began to wonder how long it would be before we wet our lines. I asked a fellow cabin mate when do we start fishing and he casually remarked, “We got another hour to get there.” What? In my mind, I calculated the total travel time of the trip to be 4 hours out and back, about 2 to 3 hours for actual fishing and a boat speed of about 15 mph.

The captain in the wheel house on the upper deck must have known some secret spot where all the fish between the shore and 30 miles out were gathering to make catching them more convenient. Just then the captain came on the speaker to announce that we were going to experience what he described as “sort of rough seas” and advised the folks on the deck to hang on if they didn’t want to get wet. Only two people came into the cabin, indicating that the urge to smoke and the courage contained in a can of beer was stronger than the fear of falling overboard.

The diesel engines finally began to slow and the crew placed small plastic pails at predetermined intervals along the rolling deck. Two hours into our trip the captain finally yelled, “Let’s fish”. Everyone rushed to the deck to their assigned positions with the exceptions of a few who were moving very slowly. I noticed that most had a small white towel attached to their belt. Humm…What was that for? I moved to position 48 which was directly above the diesel engine exhausts in the back of the boat. The bait pail contained fermented sardines cut in half with squid strips on the bottom. I watched the fellow to my right grab a sardine and attach it to his hook. Assuming there was an advantage to sardines; I waited my turn at the bucket and reached in. The sardine was covered in a layer of slime whose smell screamed, “Rotten Fish.” Now I knew what the towel was for but assumed it was against protocol to wipe my hands on someone else’s towel. I used my pants.

As the stern of the boat pounded up and down in the rough seas and the diesel fumes floated up, I dropped my line overboard with the sardine attached. As the line shot out, I remembered why we were told to keep our thumb on the spool during the orientation session. I looked down as the line stopped and the reel looked like a bowl of tossed spaghetti. Damn, everyone was fishing but me. After 10 minutes of pulling at the tangled line, I was finally fishing.

Now keep in mind, you let the line slide out to a depth of 40 ft, set the drag and pull up until the bait is just off the bottom. But the boat had to be jumping up and down at least five feet and it was very hard to tell where the bottom was. You were supposed to keep your rod tip down and slam it up as hard as you could when you felt a tug. I felt a tug every time the boat rolled. As I tried to master the art of deep sea fishing, I smelled the distinct odor of fried chicken over the smell of the bait. The guy on my left was both fishing and eating Kentucky Fried Chicken, occasionally throwing a bone over board. Just then I felt a tug and jammed my rod up. So did the guy to my right and the chicken guy. Wow. We all cranked up in unison, only to find our lines wrapped around each other like a strands of licorice. Both my fellow fishermen looked at me like it was my fault because I was in the middle. I offered to untangle the lines but was told, “Just cut them; I am here to fish.” Well, so was I. Ten minutes later we were all fishing again, but I was praying my line stayed away from everyone else’s. Suddenly someone yelled, “Fish on” and I saw my first red snapper pulled out of the water further down the boat. Four or five more fish of various sizes and shapes were landed. Each time the crew members would yell in unison, “There is another one”. Hey, there were some 40 lines in the water. Somebody had better be catching fish.

The captain then announced that due to the rough seas, several people were sea sick and that no more cigar smoking would be allowed. Also he admonished that the “head” or bathroom should not be used for the purpose of expelling the contents of one’s stomach but put it in more graphic terms. “Just hang it over the side” and stay toward the back of the boat.” Oh great, that is the stern where I was fishing.

As the fellow on the left tossed another bone overboard, the guy on my right suddenly erupted over the rail spewing the contents of his beer filled belly a good six feet out. Oh my God. Between the bones and the barf, how could any fish be hungry down there, and if it was, would you really want to catch it?

After a few more fish, the Captain announced that all lines should be pulled up and he knew of another spot that might be more productive. By this time the smells were overpowering and I was happy just to have the air moving around me. This time I was staying on the deck. I found a seat near the bow and slowly pulled the fresh sea air into my lungs in long deep breaths. I could not believe that between the bait, the barf and diesel fumes, I wasn’t sea sick. We had another hour and half of fishing and a two hour ride home. About a third of the passengers were sick, much to the amusement of the crew.

The second spot proved to be a bit more productive, if not in the actual number of fish caught at least in the increased enthusiasm of the crew for each one netted. Shouts of “Another snapper; That’s a yellow fin; Big one up here; Pompano on, they’re great eating” could be heard. Eating was the farthest thing from my mind; besides I didn’t have any money to buy anything anyway. I hung up my pole and headed for the cabin to get a booth seat for the long ride home. So I didn’t catch a fish. At least I wasn’t sick. I took an entire seat and stretched out. As I drifted in and out of sleep, I rejoiced at the sound of the captain’s voice announcing that all lines had to be pulled up as we had to head for home. Occasionally I would look up to view my fellow voyagers, most of whom were sleeping, many snoring with mouths opens, bodies draped over the booths in various odd positions like barnacles on a dock piling. It was like the boxcar scene in Dr. ZhIvago.

The seas continued to pound but at least we were moving. An hour and a half into the trip home, I awoke to a full bladder caused by consuming tiny sips of water from a bottle I found rolling on the floor of the cabin. It was still sealed but the label was rubbed off. I think it was water. As I opened the door to the bathroom it became obvious from the smell that the “No Heaving in the Head” rule had been basically ignored. The sight of the young man who had drunk the 5 beers in a row earlier, kneeling over the bowl retching was further evidence. I snapped a picture to document the event knowing that my subject was oblivious to most everything. I decided at this point that peeing over the back rail was a rather small infraction and proceeded to do so. Some how a little urine seemed somewhat insignificant in such a big ocean comparison to all that barf, chicken bones, and God know what else that had gone over board this night.

In a final act of cooperative effort all the participants in this bizarre event were awakened about a mile from the dock by the booming voice of the captain on the intercom. He informed us that due to an extremely low tide, there was a chance that the boat could run aground and that we would be stuck until the next high tide, 12 hours later. He asked that we all go to the very bow of the boat to balance out the keel of the craft. Faced with that prospect there was not a single body that did not run to the bow. As I stood in this quivering quantity of human ballast, gazing at the lights on the distant shore, I decided to jump ship and swim home if we did run aground. Finally, the captain again give the all clear and one could hear a loud sigh of relief not that much less impressive that that which must have come from Noah and all the animals on the Ark when it finally stopped raining.

As we left the boat, the Captain thanked all for coming, apologized for the rough seas and the poor fishing, the two things he probably could not have done anything about and suggested that we join the Great Getaway Fishing Charter when ever any of us get the urge to go deep sea fishing again. It was an urge I did not anticipate anytime in the near future.