A Savage Week in Port O’Connor

Six straight days of fishing—-that’s a real vacation, even if you’re tired and sore each night. You won’t find me wading through the buffet line on a cruise ship with a thousand tourists, or some idyllic beach reposing in a lawn chair reading a trashy novel…I seem to be happier slinging spoons where waves wash and crash against cruel jetty rocks on the Texas coast.

So that’s what Pete Churton and I did last week, covered well from a hot sun, battling fish each day in Port O’Connor. The very first fish took the starch out of me, a 45-plus inch redfish caught with a smallish Ambassador 6000 reel…The brute wouldn’t give up after it nailed my home-made bucktail jig (tossed at a surface swirl near the rocks) and it dove deep for at least 10 minutes. It set the pace for the rest of our week.

We then brought former neighbor Ladd Hockey along for a 12-hour day out there, racking up six of those oversized “bull” redfish and nine slot-sized redfish, also landing two out of three tarpon at the jetties. We used live mullet, casting them like lures at rolling tarpon.

I had a tarpon roll and gulp my mullet perhaps 20 feet away, flashing chrome-sideways in the water, a beautiful sight…for a moment I nearly panicked and opened the spin reel’s bail to feed it line, which is a huge mistake with tarpon. It slashed through 20 feet of water, ripping braid line off the spool, and my hand was in the way. That tarpon jumped after the sketchy hook-set, throwing the circle hook, and my trigger finger had its fingernail cut off, but only the part you normally trim with clippers…a half-inch of nail ripped almost off, hanging 90 degrees…it seems braid line will cut like a dull knife. At one point, a tarpon of Ladd’s jumped eight feet in the air, higher than our heads. They’re an amazing fish.

When we ran out of live mullet, thanks to swarms of predatory ladyfish, we resorted to live croaker, which we’d bought just this once because the locals had been racking up tarpon using these very baits. The free-lined croakers would dive down better than finger mullet, ladyfish would only peck at them, and then thump! A redfish would inhale each one. Also a snook, the first we’ve seen on the middle Texas coast. Anyway, we were wore out after 12 hours and headed back for happy hour, beating the sundown.

Next day, friend and tarpon guide Curtiss Cash from Victoria agreed to ride along in our boat. We could certainly use his expertise, after nine years in these waters…We checked his close-in surf and Pass Cavallo big tarpon spots, where the waters had muddied since the Louisiana storm (with north winds Gulf-wide) only a few days before. Nothing happening, so we eased back into our spot on the jetty and settled down for some warm work.

Big jacks, bull redfish, keeper redfish for the grill, more ladyfish, a bucket of Spanish mackerel, a tarpon…action grew frantic in the evening, with minnows spraying everywhere. Gulls screamed and pelicans dove at sunset. One gull sat on a number of pelicans, hoping for free scraps. 

Our free-lined mullet couldn’t match the pace, so Pete and I used the old ways of yesteryear, slinging gold or white spoons, earning multiple strikes on almost every cast. We fought fish until sunset. Lost a lot of tackle, with big fish diving behind prominent submerged rocks. The entire evening remains a blur.

But not next morning. Curtiss again rode with us, and he scanned his favorite areas offshore in the 30 foot depths for big tarpon. We stopped at two platforms offshore, where big sandtrout were biting and borderline keeper snapper there in state waters, then got the phone call. Another tarpon guide, KT, was patrolling the same area we’d checked, and now the big tarpon were finally rolling where they could be seen. KT had fly guys on his boat, real diehards hoping to present a fly in front of rolling tarpon on that vast expanse of water. We weren’t that proud, easing within 300 yards of him and watching tarpon rolling around us. We quickly set out three rods with live mullet. Pete’s rod soon screeched (or was it Pete?) and he was fast into a 100-pounder that jumped so high and close it left us all bug-eyed without even reaching for a camera. A nice battle on an Ambassador 7000 reel and Pete soon had it near the boat, but the hook pulled—-it was a smaller circle hook used back at the platform. Pete’s rod also had the only egg weights, amounting to two ounces or so, keeping his bait deep, so we rigged the remaining rods accordingly.

Pete’s lucky rod screeched again and a 120-pounder jumped free on the first try, ejecting a new 14/0 circle hook. We drifted on and the afternoon grew hotter. Tarpon rolled around us many times, up to half a mile away. I used the electric motor at full throttle, moving several hundred yards where we’d last seen them, and we’d set out another spread of mullet. At one point I was amidships sitting next to Curtiss’s Shimano 4500 Baitrunner spin reel with 65-pound braid line. We’d bolted stainless steel rod holders up and down Pete’s boat, so our rods during a sideways drift were evenly spaced. Then it happened.

Several of our rod holders were bolted on the inside of the boat’s gunnel, so they wouldn’t bump a marina dock and damage them. But as it turns out, you can’t bolt one of these puppies down on the inside of the hull, strong enough to withstand a tarpon strike using heavy drag on the reel. (Fairly heavy drag is desirable when setting a circle hook into a bony tarpon’s mouth). A huge tarpon suddenly hit like a freight train, bending the rod holder down that was mounted inches behind me, down and almost flat to the horizon…Curtiss yelled “grab the rod” and I spun and slapped a glove on the rod’s foregrip in about 1.5 seconds, then a second glove. I was in the right place at the right time: Though aimed at a flat horizon, the rod was still jammed inside the holder. Perhaps the rod’s handle was warping inside the rod holder, under the strain.

I wrenched it out of the holder, and it was time to dance…I scrambled up to the bow while the first 100 yards of braid line ripped off the reel, and we began to follow with the boat. Faster, more throttle…In the near distance, KT’s fly guys glumly watched, counting the jumps. By then the reel was well into the mono backing, but as we picked up speed and I reeled like crazy, we got the fish back on the braid line. We estimated this tarpon at 150-plus pounds, but never got to measure it. We got within 30 feet, and clearly saw it cruising the surface from right to left, close to seven feet long. Suddenly the line slacked for perhaps two feet, and we surmised it had wrapped a pectoral fin and the line came loose from that. Then this great fish jumped for the fourth time with a crash, while Pete’s camera clicked away at six frames per second, and the hook sailed free.

What a fish. That evening I nursed a strong one on the front porch of Jimmy Crouch’s trailer, which was always Tarpon Central for us going back to 1988. We re-rigged all rods with heavier 200-pound Ande leader with 2-ounce weights and big, sharp circle hooks, preparing ourselves for the following day. And this time as it turns out we would have 75 big live mullet in the live well, instead of 15.

But guess what? We returned to the same spot marked with GPS the day before, and nary a tarpon rolled. Several drifts with tasty mullet, and only a pair of big, energetic blacktip sharks came calling. We then ran 15 miles south in the same depth off the beach, on the theory these fish were migrating towards Mexico. Patrolling in perfect conditions, green water with just a ripple, with nary a whitecap or flashing fish. Not even a pelican’s splash. Nada…We tried the platforms way down south, boxing a half dozen of our biggest Spanish mackerel of the trip, but never saw a tarpon. And this time the patient KT put it on us, checking shallow water, finally hitting tarpon in only 12 feet. He found a rare pod of tarpon actually following a school of jacks, and one of his guys nailed a 50-pound tarp with his flyrod. Good on them…Just where all of those big rolling tarpon went from the day before, no man knows.

We had definitely peaked for the week. A million cabbage head jellyfish, each the size of a baseball, arrived at the jetties and near Pass Cavallo, shutting down the action entirely. The Sunday morning crowd gave up in disgust, with 20 boats apparently returning to port empty-handed. But the trip was a great one and we didn’t suffer a scratch. I did lose a favorite pair of needlenose pliers on the first day to a snagged bull shark that spun around quick as a cat and snapped empty air where my hand had just been. Also lost a cheap bucket and a bait dipnet. But that ain’t bad for six days of action on the Texas Gulf. 

We also had big fun watching the current swarm of hummingbirds in Port O’Connor, birds crowding around the feeders before they migrate down to the Yucatan in October. Captain Joe Surovik, who we also stayed with during our week, keeps his feeders going full-time. I’ll post some hummingbird photos in tomorrow’s Blog. 

A strange, twisted tale of a cobia’s demise.

We were offshore in the Gulf yesterday, a dozen miles off the Florida coast, and I’d just finished a half-hour dive, taking pictures of undersea critters. A peaceful endeavor. But back in the boat, things were about to turn strange and violent. A big cobia suddenly appeared, cruising boldly on the surface, circling us. I grabbed the biggest rod on the boat, rigged with a circle hook. We had not carried proper cobia or kingfish tackle, since they’re normally scarce in that area.

We did not have proper live bait either, but I pinned a small, live seabass to the circle hook and flipped it out there in front of the cobia. It showed immediate interest, nosing the seabass that wiggled feebly. Soon the bait disappeared and the cobia seemed to munched it thoughtfully—-so I leaned back on the 20-pound spin rod, trying to set the circle hook. (You can’t yank it hard, like when setting a J-hook). If that cobia had made a run, the circle hook would have dug into his hard lip. But instead the big fish wallowed on the surface, puzzled what might be holding it back. For half a minute, a stalemate: the spin rod bent double, the fish wallowing, the circle hook trying to dig into gristle and bone. Then the hook flew out of his mouth! Disappointed, we watched it cruise away. The big fish didn’t seem too agitated from losing its dinner, however.

Minutes later the cobia showed up again, eventually passing us by a dozen times. I tried to entice it with a colorful jig, slices of fresh fish, free chum chunks tossed in front of it. This time it ignored everything. Often it passed by close enough to touch or even “free-gaff” it into the boat, which is fairly dangerous, since they can wreck a boat’s interior. So, in desperation, we loaded a big speargun. You’re not supposed to shoot these out of water, and I had never tried it. But young Bradley, a graduate student from the University of Florida, is gung-ho and wanted his first cobia ever. I had him put on snorkel gear for a water fight, thinking that even shooting the cobia in the head would result in a serious battle that, from the boat, would possibly ruin the spear or break its cord tether.

Young Bradley cocked the gun and waited. Several times, the cobia approached from the wrong side, necessitating a hasty duck-walk that was difficult with large flippers on his feet…but his boat is an 18-footer and not far from one side to the other. Finally, the cobia approached slowly from the stern, a perfect right-to-left shot. I coaxed him: “Aim low, aim low, remember light defracts, you’ll shoot over the top of him…” Seconds later he fired, there was a mighty splash, we retrieved the spear, he’d missed…shot right across the top of its head at point-blank range!

At that point the cobia seemed to realize it wasn’t welcome, for it disappeared. We assumed our only chance remaining was for Bradley to suit up in scuba gear, and hunt for it some 30 feet below on bottom. He began suiting up. I grabbed our only Sabiki bait rig and dropped it down, after we’d noted several schools of circling, prime baitfish below—-both cigar minnows and Spanish sardines. But ours was a heavier Sabiki with hooks a little too big for both species. Then something bigger than a sardine grabbed the Sabiki and hung up on bottom. As Bradley rolled overboard with his tank, his parting words were a promise to loosen my bait rig from the bottom.

As he sank astern in a cloud of bubbles, I noticed my bait rig was no longer hung up on bottom, but was headed towards Bradley…I lifted the rod, which had a tiny spin reel suitable for freshwater fishing, and began pulling…Hmmm….there was considerable weight on it, and moving. I pulled a little harder and the same big cobia materialized, swimming with my tiny bait rig that held six small hooks. He seemed to have eaten some small, lively fish on my rig while it was snagged on bottom, but now refused to turn it loose. And he was swimming towards Bradley…

Whose bubbles converged on my line. No! Don’t shoot! He’s on my line! There was a thumping on my line, then a heavy, stationary weight. Lots of bubbles. More jerks and savage tugs. I stopped pulling on the line, merely keeping it taunt. Minutes passed, or seemed to. Then a slack line, my bait rig was cut off, only two hooks remaining out of six. I put the rod away.

Then Bradley surfaced, clutching the cobia. His floating speargun trailed a dozen feet behind him. I gaffed the near-lifeless cobia in the lip and lifted it aboard, a heavy fish. Bradley climbed aboard, wired with adrenalin, stammering out his story: When the cobia passed close by and slightly below, Bradley had fired the spear, a solid hit behind the head, though missing the spine. The cobia went crazy, towed Bradley to the bottom, where they fought it out. Grappling with the fish so it wouldn’t break his spear, he pulled his small dive knife and stabbed it repeatedly just behind the head, while the cobia’s big tail pounded his legs. ‘Round and ‘round they went. In the excitement, Bradley never noticed my six-hook Sabiki rig, one of them later found stuck in his foot bootie, another in the cobia’s gill cover. I had assumed the six hooks would be pinned all over Bradley and would have to be removed with needlenose pliers, since the nearest Doc-in-the-Box was far away.   

Anyway, it was a strange ending for a fine fish. Bradley’s steel spear was bent, but may be salvageable. We returned to port early, since it’s tail wouldn’t fit inside the boat’s ice chest. Bradley will never forget his first cobia—-that weighed 52 pounds on marina scales. A crowd gathered ‘round us at the dock while we cleaned the fish, some shaking their heads as our story unfolded.   

Kingfish Chronicles

While offshore in the Gulf of Mexico kingfishing recently with Bud and Alan Reynolds, we had a good day—-releasing six fish that exceeded 30 pounds. The biggest was estimated at 42 pounds. Plop! Back in the water. It’s a little tough, grabbing them by their bony tail as they pass alongside the boat, and timing is critical. The fish has to be right on the surface, yet the the angler has to drop the head by slacking off, as it coasts by the grabber. The angler must also lead the fish forcefully by the grabber, making circles of about 8-10 feet. These fish are so powerful, they can easily shake off a strong hand and glove on the first two tries. It’s the third solid grab, when the king usually gives up.

(The 50-plus pound kingfish below was tailed by Pete Churton in Beaumont, Texas aboard his small boat, and quickly released several years ago That fish, with luck, has grown into the 60-pound range by now..). 

He’s then hoisted aboard on the side of the boat, or laid on deck, and the hook(s) quickly removed with strong needlenose pliers. A quick picture and back he goes, dropped straight down, forcing water over his gills. With 90 or more feet of water below, that fish has time to wake up before he hits bottom. We know this technique works—-because we’ve tagged and released several hundred kings and had recaptures years later in faraway lands.

That’s a process that can be repeated over and over by anglers who have no real need to keep a kingfish of this size, without a very good reason, such as a high-stakes tournament. There are government warnings against eating kings bigger than about 16 pounds, because of possible mercury in the tissue. As a “coastal pelagic” fish that migrates along the coast, or at least along the continental shelf, they accumulate mercury by eating a variety of fish species.

I’ve fished the king tournaments before, even won a few, on days when a big kingfish was desperately needed. It always irked us to see a much-needed 30 pound or bigger kingfish, brought in by someone just to show it on the dock, give it away, even toss it in a dumpster. In the excitement of fighting these fish, the urge to stick a gaff in them is sometimes great. Charterboats love to show a big fish back at the dock, and use it as advertising for the next day’s potential trip. And many of these captains seem very hesitant to  preach conservation, at risk of offending their clients. Other anglers are afraid of anything with sharp teeth, so they gaff and club these big fish like they’re sharks. Or water-borne rattlesnakes.   

It takes a minimum of 10 years to grow a 30-pound kingfish, whose migrations may take it right back where it was the previous year. We once tagged and released a 36-pounder at a rock far offshore of Galveston, and my friends caught it the same month the following year, in a tournament, and won second place. (Talk about karma). Doing so impresses on you that the Gulf or Atlantic is not some vast hole, where the same fish never passes that same way again. Another odd happening—-One of the first Texas kings I ever tagged, in 1985, was recaptured by the only angler I knew living in Mobile, Alabama. What were the chances of that? Apparently, not that big. 

These high-flying king, big or small, are capable of tremendous leaps when striking a surface bait. A fine fish. 

Anyway, next time you see a big kingfish about to be gaffed, outside a tournament, or even in a tournament when a bigger king is in the box, try to coax the angler (and especially, the captain or mate with a gaff) to tail the fish aboard instead, and release it quickly. A king that big is a female, the spawning stock, from 10 to 15 years old…It takes a long time to replace such a fish. 

On another note, and speaking of big kings, I’m still trying to find the angler in Puerto Rico who caught the world record 94-pounder back in 1999. The IGFA sent me his last-known mailing address, and the letter is going out today. I’m hoping for a good photo, and some testimony on catching that huge fish. Not many anglers shot digital photos back then, but perhaps someone took slides or film that day. That huge fish will be featured in my book coming out this autumn, The Kingfish Bible Part Part II, with many new stories. The book this time will feature all color photography. Biggest kingfish photo in there so far is 74 pounds, which is a whopper, caught by one of the Delph family captains out of Key West. One wonders how much luck, or how many breaks this kingfish received, before growing this huge.

Sun Protection

I’ve been experimenting with sun protection for the past several years, after being carved on by the skin doctor a few times, usually on my face and once on the back. And it wasn’t as much fun as it sounds…I’d been wearing Columbia Wear long sleeve shirts since 1994, back before they became stylish far away from the docks. Captain Joe Surovik, who’d survived a major skin cancer on his leg, advised me that year to load up on CW shirts at the Houston Boat Show when they were marked down—-and there was a seamstress there who would sew your name on each shirt for an extra dollar or two.     

My big hat with neck protection, sometimes called a Lefty Kreh hat or a Mark Sosin hat (by Mark Sosin), I had worn since the early 1980s, drawing commentary at the Galveston tournaments. People there called it my pelican hat, because of the funny, longer bill. You know the type.

Years later, first mate Amy and I were wearing doctor’s scrub pants, Columbia shirts and pants, and using the bigger hats. Decent sun protection.

Then we fished several billfish tournaments in Puerto Rico, and were impressed to see these billfish crews smearing lots of high-SP sunscreen on themselves at 8 a.m. every morning, as we headed across the harbor. White guys, brown guys, black guys in our crews—-they all smeared it on thick. There must be some bad sun in those southern latitudes. And maybe these guys didn’t want to look like wrinkled Australians from the Outback. There are lots of lady’s men in Puerto Rico. And fine ladies, for that matter… At a well-attended happy hour each evening, you could easily pick out the visiting Texans, by their sunburns. One of them was Richard Richardson, an old comrade from the Galveston Tourney days. Another was from South Padre Island, I think named Bruce. Pam Basco was also there, but she wasn’t burned.

Back in Florida, a local friend and I later fished for trout in a boat with no shade and after watching him, I began covering up even more, this photo taken two weeks ago.

I was impressed when he donned sun gloves, was well-covered, and while snorkeling for scallops, literally wore a rubber bathing cap. The last item looked lame, but it certainly protected his balding head. On the next snorkel trip I brought a biker’s black du-wrap and swam for hours with that, with zero sunburn on my head. Somehow it seemed more dignified than the bathing cap. 

Since that trip with the du-wrap, two years came and went. Florida fishing guides are slowly switching over to face wraps made by Buff, which covers every inch of your head and neck, if you have sunglasses. A simple cap worn above adds additional shade, water protection and visor-aid for the eyes. Saltwater fly fishermen, who have zero shade in small skiffs, seem to be paving the way in this field.

The Buff material is far more breathable than a bandana, which I wore all of last year, including 15 consecutive days in boats without shade during drought conditions on the Texas coast. A nearby fly fishing guide wore a Buff wrap during those two weeks, and I never did see his face. My bandana, as I drove back into the marina, made me look like a train robber at the very least. Three months later in Venezuela during the national bass tournament, the red bandana also worked well, and drew honks and upright fists from motorists passing by on the reservoir dam above us. What? I had forgotten, the red bandana is a staple in Venezuela these days… 

So, last week I switched to the Buff head wrap, which still requires sunscreen beneath it. During a recent 12-hour day in a Contender boat without shade, catching kingfish and snapper in August heat, it worked okay, though it still allows five percent sunlight penetration. I used Neutrogena 30 sunscreen underneath, which still seemed to allow sun. (Better switch back to Bullfrog sunscreen). The sun gloves worked well, and when you’re hauling squirming baitfish into the boat rapid-fire, tossing them into the live well, they prevent various nicks and scrapes from spikey fins. A purist would use a de-hooker without even touching the baitfish, believing sunscreen in baitfish water is a bad thing. But with gloves, you don’t get sunscreen on everything you grab. I’ve now tried four brands of sung gloves and the best brand was Wind River, which carries the palm padding for handling fish and equipment. 

My two Texas friends, Alan and Bud, fished alternately last week without shirts or hats, the younger Alan more inclined to go without a shirt. (The young cultivate their tans, after all). We had to pull a green shirt onto Alan, while he fought this quickly-released kingfish, so we could take a picture the magazines might actually be interested in. 

This year I also fished with two new guys wearing the Buff head wraps. One was the bowfishing guide named Ed McCormick, written about in another story below, who has the babe girlfriend, who bowfishes Tampa Bay. He’s downright pale for a fishing guide, but then many of his trips are at night, when they shoot with the aid of generators and lights. 

The other new guy was last week on the Navarre Beach Pier. He is about 70 and has fished a great deal, makes and sells his own pompano jigs. He was completely wrapped up, though I saw his pale face a time or two while we talked.

He said he’s had 30 skin cancer surgeries, but refuses to stop fishing in the Florida sun. (I’ll track him down and get his name). He just shakes his head at the passing, hatless tourists and small kids without shirts in the August sun. He said he saw a kid and parents on the pier recently, the kid with a large sun blister on his cheek, with no shirt or hat, and it made him sick. “They’ll find out the hard way, like I did. But years ago, we didn’t even know about long-term sun damage,” he said. Around us that day fished tourists from other regions, including Alabama and Georgia. Even redheads.

Today the old veteran angler is pale beneath his cloth, but his skin damage happened many years ago. (He’s tried a number of sun glove brands, by the way, and favors those made by Bass Pro Shop). 

It all boils down to individual choice. Some people burn more easily, or are more susceptible to skin cancers. Some were children when they were toasted years ago. And then nationality may play a part. Bill Sheka, a trophy trout guide out of Corpus Christi, once told me that at 37, he’d never worn sunscreen in his life. He said he was part Russian and that seemed to help. His skin back then (1989) was the blackest of any fishing guide I’d ever seen, outside The Bahamas.  

Fishing guides are the high-risk group, guys and gals who fish so many days in a row, and who often sport sport “raccoon eyes,” their sunglasses saving a small part of their faces from constant pummeling from UVA and UVB radiation. UVA will penetrate glass and cuts deeply into skin. UVB won’t penetrate glass, but affects the outer layer of skin. Both cause wrinkles, lowers immunity against infection, inflicts various aging skin disorders and cancer.

That certainly seems worth guarding against. 

Red Snapper in the Gulf

Last Sunday we went scouting for big kingfish, since there is a king tournament coming up in Freeport, Texas the following week. We knew snapper season was closed to recreational anglers, but figured we’d still catch something to eat, while running all over the Gulf in a center console Contender boat. We found the kingfish, in a narrow band of water beyond what appeared to be a large dead zone of dark water that stretched further offshore than we’d ever seen before. We landed a half dozen big kings, tailed them into the boat, and released them all. No need to hurt them.

After all, there is a health advisory against eating kingfish bigger than about 16 pounds. There is no reason to kill one of these bigger trophy 12-14 year old fish, without a very good reason. (Like first place in a tournament). So, we had fun with these big kings, and even got a couple to skyrocket, jumping 10 or 12 feet in the air. I missed those two photo shots, but I didn’t want to spend half the day peering through a camera viewfinder, waiting for such a picture. Maybe next time…

We also caught red snapper before we found the kingfish. Snapper are plentiful offshore these days, and I dropped a bare jig deep without even bait, and almost had the rod pulled from my hands.

A nice fish…We didn’t weigh it, just deflated it, took pictures, and watched it swim back down. Caught a half dozen snappers before tiring of that game. We talked about how, back in the late 1960s, we could fish all day at one of the few oil rigs we had offshore and never see a snapper bigger than a pound. There were no limits of any kind and the population seemed plundered. At Gaidos’ Restaurant in Galveston, you could order snapper and they served two to the plate. As in very small snapper. 

So, here we were many years later in a much nicer boat, floating over schools of red snapper, both big and small. But we had no fish in the box. We saw no ling (cobia). The barracuda we landed sometimes have ciguatera toxin, so we released them. 

The amberjack appeared to be even further offshore in blue water. And we were too far offshore to find edible pompano or Spanish mackerel. They were back there in the dead zone, so catching fish there was very problematical. A big patch of sargassum weed some 50 miles offshore appeared completely devoid of life. We circled it slowly, looking underneath, and never saw a minnow or crab. Much less a dolphin.

Then, further offshore and later in the day, a commercial snapper boat hove into view, one of only a few boats to be seen on a Sunday. The Chelsea Ann out of Galveston eased up to the platform, and we were impressed how many baited circle hooks were draped up and down the their boat, ready to fish.

They used electric bandit rigs, able to drop almost 20 baited hooks on each line, weighted with a heavy sash weight. And they cranked up a minimum of a dozen snapper on each drop. Lots of action on their part, and no fish released. About a hundred fish hit their deck in the first 20 minutes.

Commercial snapper boats in the Gulf of Mexico now have an individual fishing quota (IFQ) that allows them to catch their quota at any time of year, when the weather is favorable, and while spreading out the catch all year long, when prices are more good. This went into effect in 2006. I’m not sure how many million pounds of snapper they’re allowed, but it can’t be more than a few hundred boats (perhaps far less) Gulf-wide, catching these fish.

The new system of commercial fishing in good weather makes sense, avoiding the insane derby-style fishing at the start of each year, fishing in cold fronts and 15-foot seas like I used to see Captain Buddy Guindon do in Port O’Connor. The Federal rules and regs of the newer commercial IFQ system can be viewed at: 

http://sero.nmfs.noaa.gov/sf/pdfs/Red%20Snapper%20IFQ%20FAQs%20July%202009.pdf

Apparently there is now no trip limits for commercial boats. They can keep thousands of pounds of snapper from a single spot, which might explain why former honeyholes offshore are sometimes found completely devoid of snapper during the same time of year.

Meanwhile we had to sit there and watch, our fishbox empty. (Beans and rice for dinner). We burned about $300 bucks worth of fuel. We had apparently deflated each snapper we caught, so they could end up in a fish market back in Galveston. Whoops! What’s wrong with that picture? It was a long ride back to port.

Someone mentioned that snapper season may open up again this year, because recreational anglers haven’t caught their quota yet. The BP oil spill closure of a large section of the Gulf kept many boats in port this summer. And of course our snapper season was the shortest in history, less than two months. I’m guessing if the Feds re-open the season again it will be after Labor Day, when many offshore fishermen have turned their attention to hunting or football…