Chatter
SEALED THE DEAL: CAMERON SCHURLKNIGHT LOVINGLY REGARDS A REDFISH. THE CENTRAL FLORIDA LOCAL HAD THE MOVES OUR
VISITING WEST COASTER LACKED. PHOTO: PAUL LEBOWITZ
EDITOR’S ANGLE
AMONG THE FLAT LANDERS “W
A WEST COASTER’S INTRODUCTION TO FLORIDA’S SKINNY WATER
ho are these guys?” I asked myself, eyeing a collection of kayak flats
casters. We stood on the edge of Tampa Bay, a vast expanse of tea-brown water gently lap- ping at the shore. A half-dozen members of the Hardcore Kayak Anglers Club clustered together trading jokes and friendly jabs in a rhythm familiar to anyone who fishes. I stood slightly to the side, a stranger in a
strange land, a kayak angler hailing from deep blue seas, feeling welcome but out of my ele- ment. I was about to get my first taste of salty skinny water fishing. In the course of three long days stretched to
their limit, I danced the stringray shuffle (Suc- cessfully!), sank into larcenous mud (These shoes are mine. Mine! You can’t have them), and discovered what happens when a greedy moon sucks the water out to sea (You drag your dead-weight kayak the final half-mile back to the launch). There’s only one thing more seductive than a wiggling redfish tail, or more of a tease. Like
10 …KAYAK ANGLER SUMMER/FALL 2012
an enraptured puppy dog, I followed the first one I saw for close to half an hour. No joy—it imperiously turned up its nose at my hopeful offering. Fortunately everyone catches fish on the
flats, even seemingly blind anglers whose idea of shallow water is 60 feet. My first red wasn’t large, just big enough to understand why the giants are called bulls. They battle! Sea trout, not so much. They sure are willing. And those vampire fangs! Much to my surprise, I learned that it’s not
only possible but nearly mandatory to stand on the skinniest fishing kayak, even the Revo 13. When you’re sitting in the saddle on the flats, you might as well have your eyes shut. You can’t see the fish or the all-important structure. There’s no downside. Fall off; cool off. The
water’s only two feet deep. Which brings me to the next observation. Not a single central Florida kayak flats caster wore a PFD. The difference was stark the day we crossed paths with a group of avid touring kayakers.
They sat in their low-slung boats, eyes nearly at water level. They seemed hot and confined in their dry suits and hi-tech rescue vests, well armored against the potential ravages of the water. In contrast, the Hardcore Kayak An- glers were eager to embrace it. They spent as much time quietly stalking the flats on foot as they did slouching comfortably high atop their kayaks, confidently fan casting and fighting fish. The realization hit me in a flash. Whether
the water’s two feet deep or 200, calm enough to stand or swell-tossed, or whether an angler embraces spinning reels or stubbornly sticks with baitcasters, we are all free spirits on the hunt for fish. I no longer felt like a stranger. “Who are those guys?” I thought to myself. “I know them. They’re kayak anglers.” Kayak Angler editor Paul Lebowitz claims to
love the inky depths of his home water above all others, but we know the truth. The flats are better. Any time the urge hits, you can pee standing up.
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