loudly slaps the surface as Little guides it into the wide-mouthed landing net Another far-out cast, and in comes
another fat-bellied flatfish. That’s it. I can no longer keep the
truth from my companions, hard- working and honest men who sincere- ly believe in my angling abilities. “Guys,” I confess, “Here’s what
happened. My plan worked like a charm. Over the years you learn to anticipate this sort of thing when you’re fishing the jetties. Right after we caught those reds off the rocks, just for the sake of variety I shortened the anchor line so that we could target the strike zone on the outside edge of the jetty, not too far off of the structure. “Those trout were exactly where
they were supposed to be.” While casually rigging a leader, I
sneak a furtive peek at my comrades’ faces. Not the slightest hint of skepticism. Inspired and emboldened, I wrap
up the post-game analysis. “After the trout started biting, it
occurred to me that the fall flounder run is still underway. Seeing as how this is the last place where migrating flatfish can stage and feed before entering the Gulf, it only made sense that at least a
few quality fish would be holding out here…you know, taking advantage of the flat, unobstructed bottom and the outgoing tide, just like I suspected.”
COUNT ON THE ROCKS My boat is almost back where it
started. Dollihite and Son are again doing battle, this time with a 40-plus- pound black drum that will be success- fully released after a few quick photos. I watch them stare in awe as the char-
coal-sided hulk of a fish comes to the surface. Then, with a sudden sense of urgency, I pull my camera case out of its designated dry storage compartment. At the age of 12, I hooked and land-
ed my first-ever redfish with the encouragement and advice of both my father and grandfather. We were anchored up, and not coincidentally, within a scant few feet of the very same spot currently occupied by Bill Wade and crew. It was the last fishing trip I would
make with my granddad. Less than one year later he suffered a fatal heart attack. As for my father, my brothers and I fished the jetty with him for the
last time in September of 1986. He’s been gone for over 20 years. We have few precious photos from
those long-ago trips. Before we leave today, the men and boys in the adja- cent boat will have enough pictures to fill a small album. I’ll gladly settle for a return trip with my friends in the not-too-distant future — and maybe even another impromptu “proven strategy” — just as soon as the tide and wind once again choose to cooperate. Meanwhile, trust me on at least this much: For an unforgettable fish story, a bit far-fetched perhaps but backed up all the same with truly solid results, there are far worse places to go than the seemingly-immovable rocks of the world’s largest jetties.
Larry Bozka is a fifth-generation Texan
and winner of more than 100 state and national writing, photography and broad- casting awards since 1979. He is a veteran outdoor writer, photographer and broad- caster. Friend Larry on Facebook to keep up with all things outdoors in the State of Texas.
TIDE
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