Catching my first two citations in late winter boosted my optimism,
but spring was a long, frustrating season of disappointment. After missing with blues, I moved to targeting big red drum. I’ve caught several citation reds in the past. Their spring migration
onto the flats and shoals of Chesapeake Bay makes bull reds an easy target for kayak anglers. Virginia attracts red fish over 50 inches and 50 pounds—the largest in the world. To catch them, I paddle around looking for schools of big reds, then cast a large swim bait into the middle of the melee. It took me seven marathon trips to Virginia’s Eastern Shore before
finally landing trophy number three. Each time I hooked a big red, I would fall victim to bad timing, bad knots, bad weather and bad luck. Meanwhile, my friends were catching trophies all around me. I was dedicated to landing a bull drum while the fish were still within kayak range. By late May, time was running out. Instead of spending Memorial Day picnicking with the family or
relaxing on the beach like a normal person, I made the three-hour drive and two-mile paddle to Fisherman’s Island in search of a monster red. When one of my buddies hooked into a big one while blind trolling, I was worried. When he landed and released a 47-incher, anxiety set in. Realizing how close I was to victory, I made cast after cast with my swimbait until I finally felt the heavy bite of the fish that would lift a huge weight off my shoulders. Battling a 40-pound red in three feet of water is exhilarating. The fish
pulled me around and turned my kayak in circles. Red drum don’t give up easily. But eventually I was able to wrestle the fish into my kayak. The huge tail with a single black spot stretched past the end of my 46-inch ruler, making it the third fish on my list and the end to a four-month slump.
FIS H FRENZY A
fter landing the trophy redfish, I broadened my focus to include the large variety of fish that spend the summer in Chesapeake Bay.
Flounder, sheepshead, black drum, big reds, triggerfish, spadefish and a dozen other species call the Chesapeake Bay Bridge Tunnel home, I only needed to catch three fish big enough for citation. Easy right? I knew black drum and cobia lurk around First Island, a mile-long rock
island at the southern end of one of the bridge’s two underwater tunnels. Every chance I had, I made the three-mile paddle to the island in search of a trophy. Over the next month and a half, I saw several big cobia and hundreds of black drum, but I couldn’t get one to bite. I watched anglers fishing on Sea Gull Pier catch trophy fish, and one of my friends landed a 43-inch black drum right next to me. I was on the brink of depression. After eight fruitless trips for drum and cobia, my next citation
came from a species I had loads of experience catching. Many people consider Chesapeake Bay a world-class sheepshead fishery. While these silver and black striped fish only grow to a couple pounds in most places, Virginia hosts trophy fish up to 20 pounds. Using a fresh mole crab on 3/0 hook and a single-loop dropper rig, I convinced a 24-inch sheepshead to come out of the CBBT pilings. With a light bite and rock-hard mouth, it is hard to hook a sheepie. The fish run straight for the pilings and rocks that offer it freedom. Even after I got a slab in my kayak, the spastic fish twisted and flopped trying to jab me with one of its knife-like spines. I managed to subdue the fish and measure it. Knocking out citation number four had me tied with my two previous attempts at Expert Angler.
To stay focused on the quest I had to turn down trips with friends for
species that weren’t on my agenda. I couldn’t fish for a species that was already checked off the list or waste time chasing a long shot. I had quit fishing in freshwater. The thought of missing an opportunity to cross another trophy off my list wouldn’t allow me to enjoy fishing for anything else.
S H ARK WEEK E
ach summer, Discovery Channel runs their Shark Week marathon of programing featuring man-eaters. That gave me an idea.
I knew I could find big sharks on deep channel edges along the ocean-
side of the Eastern Shore. I had tangled with four- and five-foot sharks before. To score a citation I would have to catch a six-footer. While wrestling a muscular, toothy monster in a puny kayak had
me a little worried, the promise of checking another trophy off the list bolstered my courage. To reduce harm to the fish and fisherman, the rules make an exception when measuring sharks. All I would have to do is have a witness verify that the fish looked to be over 72 inches and I could release it without having to land it. My friend Jay Brooks volunteered to serve as wing man. We were
paddling across a large flat when I noticed a huge tail thrashing on some bait. I paddled towards the commotion with my bait dangling in the water behind me. Before I knew it I had my first hook up of the day. The fight was violent with unpredictable direction changes and horizontal streaks. We could tell the shark was close to six feet, but neither of us would swear it was long enough. To be sure, I tail roped the thrashing shark and dragged it to the shore. While Jay held the shark to the ground, I measured it. When I saw that
the fish was well over 72 inches, I jumped up and gave Jay a big man-hug. As I watched the shark swim off, a smile curled the corners of my mouth. It took me eight months, but I had five citations. With four months of fishing to go, I started to believe I might actually catch all six. That’s when the rollercoaster took another dive.
L O N G D R O AD T O THE END
uring my quest, I avoided my regular crew of fishing buddies. It wasn’t because I disliked them or didn’t want to be around them; I
was afraid that one of my friends would catch the fish that I needed to complete my Expert Angler. Which is exactly what happened. In late summer and early fall, cobia pour out of Chesapeake Bay
into the ocean. These big, brown shark-shaped fish can grow up to 100 pounds. They have a bad habit of swimming on the surface looking for a meal. This makes them an easy target for sharp-eyed anglers who can spot a fish and get off a quick cast with a live eel or three-ounce bucktail. To catch a cobia, I would punch through the surf along Sandbridge,
south of Virginia Beach and paddle up to five miles out in search of a sunning fish. On one trip, I took my good friend, William Ragulsky, for some company. On the frantic paddle through the surf, William flipped his kayak and
lost much of his gear. But his rough start was quickly rewarded with good luck. While I scoured the waves with my eyes and prepared to cast to a crossing cobia, William was paddling alongside dangling a live croaker behind his boat.
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