There comes a
point on some hunting and fishing trips when adventure and stupidity meet to
from a fork in the road. This past Saturday I was at that fork, and we almost
took the wrong one. Down one road was a day filled with fun and adventure
catching whatever the open waters of the Gulf of Mexico had to offer. Down the
other road was a near death experience riding a twenty one foot bay boat in
four to five foot whitecaps. I think you can see where this story is going.
My good friend
Mackenzie and I like to spend our free weekends patrolling the fresh waters of
the Atchafalaya Basin and some surrounding water in search of dark green swamp
bass. We had planned to do just that for my birthday last weekend when he got
an offer to go catch snapper in a little place called Venice, Louisiana. For
those who are not familiar with this place it has been called “the fishing
capital of the world” by some of the best in the business.
Venice offers
such a unique fishery with its abundance of species and the different environments
in which you can catch these species. You can make one turn out of the marina
and be engulfed in nutrient rich marshland that holds monster redfish and
speckled trout. If you have the boat and the gas money, the Gulf of Mexico is
just a short ride out of South Pass. Species in the gulf include Tuna, Kobia,
Amberjack, Snapper and the elusive Black Marlin, amongst others. As tempting as
offshore fishing is, it is not always guaranteed and not always for the faint
of heart. The open waters of the Gulf are not a very forgiving place,
especially in a small vessel. Before crossing into the vast open water there is
a small bay that can offer an appetizer of what type of water lies ahead. When
the bay is providing two to three feet chop you can only imagine what mother
nature may have in store for you outside of the pass. But like any group of
adventurous ‘young adults’ we forged on without a care in the world.
Now let it be
noted that I am a very inexperienced saltwater angler, but an angler none the
less. Although the waters did seem a bit on the rough side, I followed the
unwritten rule “trust the captain” and to be honest the thought of hooking into
a 75lb Kobia was a bit overwhelming and spurred me on. We pressed on toward a
familiar oil rig with all of the boat’s occupants growing ever more anxious
every time the hull smashed into the trough between two whitecaps. After what
seemed like a month and my spine feeling compressed like a slinky, we arrived
at the rig. As we cut the engine off and realized there were no other boats
anywhere near our location, several waves began to peak over the bow. This is
where, in my mind, things went from adventurous to dicey. When an experienced
offshore angler like Mackenzie asks for a life jacket, you may want to look up
towards the clouds and ask the big Guy for a favor. Thankfully for us, the
captain was able to swallow his pride and realize this was not our day to catch
Snapper. As we got the boat turned around and headed with grain of the waves
instead on directly at them, everyone on board seemed to take a deep breath of
the hot salty air and be thankful we were headed to chase Redfish instead of
becoming a primetime slot on next year’s Shark Week.
With a “what the
hell were we thinking” look plastered on my face, my thoughts turned from
treading water to pitching shrimp into shallow marshlands. As we approached the
first spot it was time to crack a cold one and get down to doing what we came
for, filling a cooler full of South Louisiana Redfish. As soon as we had our
lines in the water captain J-Rod was reeling in the first keeper of the day. In
my mind we were on our way to turning the trip around. We had questioned Mother
Nature and though she scolded us we lived to fight another day. And fight we
did. We spent the better part of two hours picking up a few more keepers and
trolling around wondering if it was our day or not. Then came that moment when
you and an old fishing buddy look at one another and a light bulb clicks
simultaneously in both of your minds.
As Mackenzie and
I looked around it was clear to both of us that the marshes of Venice are no
different than the waters we troll outside of Baton Rouge. Sure we were
targeting another species, but if our tricks work in the swamp, why can’t they
work in the marsh? Could flipping and pitching fifteen feet off the bow net us
the Bull Reds that have made this area famous? We weren’t sure, but we did know
one thing, we were going to give these fish everything that we had.
After some
prodding, we convinced the captain to lead us down a small cut just off of the
main river into a familiar scenario, trolling grass lines. We were back at
home. The action was slow at first, but once we landed the first Red, it got
pretty hot. Tailing Redfish were absolutely everywhere. We could not get lines in the water fast
enough. If a fish wasn’t taking the hook, he was at least forcing you to
rebait. We had found the honey hole, a skinny stretch of brackish water that
held keeper after keeper. One by one these fish found an icy grave. If it were
not for one of Venice’s famous thunderstorms we would have finished more than
the three limits we had. However we had tempted fate once today and that was
enough for all of us. With lightning bolts at our backs, we made our way to the
marina to show off the day’s haul.
It was quite an adventure that day in Venice,
and like many other trips the ending was not exactly what we had pictured. If
you ask me though, these are the trips that make the best stories. These are
the trips that will live in our memories for years to come. When I come home from any trip my girlfriend
usually greets me with universal question “So, how was it?”. As I
hugged her a bit longer than normal, thankful to be home on dry land, the
answer was a bit more complicated. So I ask you, next time you find yourself at
a fork in the road, which way will you go?
Good Hunting
