Before a fishing trip, I usually spend a little time planning the trip. First, I ask friends how the fishing has been. This is a pretty good source of information, that can sometimes be mostly believed. Of course, there can be a gap between accurate information and biased fish stories.
The ones I find the most interesting, and/or amusing, are when a friend tells me he caught a 35-pound mahi.
I’ll sometimes ask if he or she weighed the fish on a scale. Usually, the answer is along these lines, “I don’t need to weigh them.” Or “I caught a 30-pounder last week, and this one looked like he was at least five pounds heavier.” Or “A few days ago, my buddy caught a mahi that looked just like this one, and that one weighed 35 pounds.”
My favorite fish-weighing experiences occurred on a friend’s boat a few years ago. He had just brought a big, beautiful mahi into the boat. “Sixty-five-pounder,” he announced confidently and gleefully. I asked if he had a scale onboard. “Yeah, look in the tackle locker,” he said. When I couldn’t find it, he answered, “I must have left it at home.” I didn’t even mention I had one in my boat bag.
Another method is looking at the websites of my favorite professional captains. I sometimes have to read between the lines, and I’ve learned to rely on the photos more than the narratives. Of course, newspaper stories, tackle shops, social media, books and magazines all play a part in this.
With all this said and knowing this time of year there’s a good chance of catching mahi mahi in relatively shallow water, I loaded up the EP-2 and headed for open water. As I approached Sombrero Reef, I hit the Otto Pilot button. I was fishing alone, depending on Otto to keep the boat moving in a straight line while I tend to lines, fight and land fish, and any other of a host of situations.
As I crossed the reef, my heart rate jumped up. I often catch big fish just past the reef this time of year. I turned to look behind the boat. My mind wandered to mahi mahi and wahoo that may be lurking at the dropoff to deeper water.
Wham! One of the baits got hit and line screeched from the reel. I slowed the boat and grabbed the rod. This was a big fish. It didn’t jump or break the surface like a mahi mahi would have done. “Wahoo,” I yelled to myself. “My favorite catch!”
Unfortunately, the fish never made the blistering-fast first run that signifies a wahoo is on the line. As I expected, when the first flash of color was visible, I saw I had a bonita on the line. A big bonita. I maneuvered him to the boat and did a quick release.
I let the line back out then turned the rod over to my other “fishing mate,” Rodney Rod Holder. I’m not sure if I’m just happy to have my pretend friends onboard, or actually losing my alleged mind. Either way, I’m OK with it.
The ocean was dead flat. The few clouds in the sky reflected on the water like looking in a mirror. The sun felt great against my skin. My 7-8 mph trolling speed was the only breeze and felt almost chilly on my arms and legs. It reminded me of a line from the Irwin Shaw book “Rich Man, Poor Man,” where the main characters describe their tropical island locations as having rich-man’s weather. How lucky for me to be living in the Florida Keys.
Four or 5 miles from the reef, one of the lines got hit and I boated a nice mahi mahi.
I watched for other mahis to eat the chunks of cut ballyhoo I had thrown behind the boat, but none appeared. Another five-or-six miles further from the reef, I could see a brown line of weeds in the distance. I approached it and realized it was predominantly bay grass and not sargassum weed. Local knowledge says this bay grass seldom holds fish. But it’s almost November and things change in November. I started to troll close to the weedline heading west on its deep side.
I turned the EP-2 over to Otto and Rodney and stepped to the front of the boat for a clear view.
After a while, on the other side of the weedline, I saw wispy silver streaks just above the surface of the water. “There they are.” I returned to the wheel and tried to break through the weeds without fouling the lines. As usual, that didn’t work. On autopilot, I took the time to clear the lines, then turned around and came closer to the weedline.
Before long, an outrigger popped and a big mahi broke the surface. By the time I got him on board, the other lines were covered with bay grass.
These are times when fishing alone can be difficult. After cleaning the lines and putting them back out, the cockpit was covered with bay grass. I rinsed everything off and got back on the troll. I was hot and tired when I looked forward and saw silver streaks ahead. “There they are.” A line with a rigged ballyhoo got hit and another mahi sprung to life behind the boat. I underestimated his size until he was right at the boat. I quickly put the rod in the holder, grabbed the leader and pulled the fish onboard through the lowest spot on the transom and into the cockpit. I could have repeated this all day. But I had plenty of fish for a couple dinners at home and some to share with friends.
What a great day. I was glad I stuck to my plan, loosely maybe, but close enough. You have to be ready for anything out in the open water. That’s a big part of the reason life is good in the Florida Keys; life is very good in the Florida Keys.
C.J. Geotis is a life-long fisherman who followed his dream more than 20 years ago to live in the Florida Keys. His books, “Florida Keys Fish Stories,” and “Double-Edged Sword” are available at Amazon.com. He lives in Marathon with his wife, Loretta, and her Coca-Cola collection. His email is fishstoriescj@comcast.net.