A winter search for skinny reds
Fly-fishing the shallow flats provides plenty of opportunities to catch redfish, and don't worry about waking up early.
By ED WALKER
Published January 13, 2006
The call came as a bit of a surprise. Neil Sigvartsen, a retired guide, had shown me the ropes and led me to my first fly-caught tarpon nearly 20 years ago. "What are you doing tomorrow?" he asked.
"I don't have plans, but it is supposed to be pretty cold." I said.
"That won't matter, just meet us at the diner at the crack of 9," he said.
That was fine with me, particularly because the forecast called for temperatures in the mid 40s the next morning. The mid-morning start would mean warmer temperatures.
Joining us was Wayne Simmons, a fly-fishing guide with an intimate knowledge of the area we would target. Over coffee and pancakes he and Sigvartsen told stories of clear water, zero boat traffic and sight-fishing for redfish.
By 10 a.m. we were pulling away from the dock in Simmons' ultra-shallow-draft skiff, heading into Old Tampa Bay. A few minutes later we came to a stop.
"That's it?" I asked.
"Yep, grab a fly-rod, you are up first," Simmons said as he picked up the push pole and stepped onto the poling platform.
The weapon of choice was a 9-foot, 8-weight fly-rod rigged with a floating line, a section of 12-pound fluorocarbon and a brown fly designed by noted Keys artist and fly-tier Tim Borski that looked positively delicious in the water.
Stepping onto the bow, I was surprised by the surroundings. The water was less than 2 feet deep for at least half a mile, and the bottom was white sand with no grass, oyster bars or potholes holes nearby. "Why would a redfish want to live here?" I wondered to myself.
As Sigvartsen and I shared stories about past fishing trips, we were pleasantly interrupted.
"Here we go, there's fish at 11 o'clock." Simmons said. My eyes scanned the water to the left of the bow, but I did not see them.
"How far?" I asked, as my heart rate began to increase.
"One-hundred-fifty feet" came the reply. I was not used to being able to see fish from that distance and had been looking too close.
"You have got to be kidding me!" I said as I spotted two dozen big reds slowly working across the sand toward us. There was no camouflage, only dark shapes slowly moving over bright bottom.
We held our position as the fish moved closer. I made a cast ahead of the school and waited. They changed course and appeared to be growing nervous. I hurriedly picked up and pitched the fly further to the right.
"Perfect. Let it sit." was the word from the stern.
By now we were looking eye to eye with a beautiful school of redfish. Movement in the boat was prohibited. As the pod approached I began to retrieve the fly in short, quick strips. A single fish broke out and approached the lure. I had his attention.
Each time the fly moved, so did the fish. Bump, bump, bump. I think everyone onboard was holding his breath. The fish was so close, he was either going to bite or spook in the next few seconds. As a last resort I stopped my retrieve and let the weighted fly to drop into the sand. The red tilted down and slurped it up. I gave one strip of the line to set the hook, and the water exploded.
Fly-line disappeared from the deck, and the fish left a rooster tail of water across the sand flats. The rest of the school scattered, creating large wakes and kicking up sand. One fish even bumped his head on the hull of the boat as he fled, making a noticeable thump.
The 6-pound red put up a classic skinny-water battle with long runs, pulling hard against the drag. This was real fly-fishing.
It was at least as challenging and rewarding as stalking bonefish in some exotic tropical location, but it was in our own backyard on a cold winter day.
We landed and released the fish, the thought of keeping it never crossing our minds. For the rest of the afternoon we took turns poling the boat and casting. Each of us landed a redfish or two, the largest weighing close to 10 pounds. Some were singles, and others swam with pods of 12 to 30 fish. By 3 p.m. the light was poor and we called it a day.
Back at the dock I had one question: "What are you guys doing tomorrow?".