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RTP...!

My very favorite pastime is running the beachfront along the Upper Texas Coast in search of the wary and elusive tarpon. The angling antics of the tarpon have been well chronicled in recent years but prior to the gold rush dedicated tarpon anglers were few and far between. There was a lot more communication and camaraderie among the boats and crews. This held true for both pros and amateurs. Anglers that followed the rules and allowed honors for anglers already on fish were eventually accepted into the fleet.

Back in the day there was a bit of drinking, a lot of eating, a touch of womanizing, and miles upon miles of bouncing around in uncomfortable Boston Whalers. It was a time of practical jokes and hoaxes. It was the best of times!

One Sunday morning we were sitting around the dock at Sneakwood waiting for the seas to lie from 5 to 4 foot so that we could head out and bust the jetty. The coffee was flowing and stories of angling eHot Shotloits were flying from boat to boat and dock to dock. People were joking about lining up Kidney donations for transplants upon the return to port (RTP). All at once the scrammed VHF radio crackled to life, “How about chew HOT SHOT, where are you and what’s the report…?”

“Why hell, we’re out here in this Hell Hole trying to git on my fish”, replied the intrepid “HOT SHOT”.

“What are the conditions like where you’re at, “HOT SHOT”…?”

“Sloppy out to the Spuds, but settling down out here where we were on ~garbled~ day before yesterday at Ah, ~garbled~2 foot”

“Roger that, I guess we’ll head out”

“Rogee O, Its starting to settle out….”

“Thanks”HOT SHOT”, we’ve got the hammer down…!”

Several of the local guys were screaming that they were about to blow beets from laughing so hard.

A half hour later a new transmission came in…!

“Hey “HOT SHOT” what kind of conditions are you in now…? We’re heading out but it’s really bad…!”

“Yeah”, said “HOT SHOT” “It’s pretty bad there by the jetty but it straightens out…! It’s ice cream here… Bring it on Big Boy!”

“Rog, we’re coming”

A few minutes later…!

“HOT SHOT”, “we just lost an antenna, the mount snapped! Is it better out there…?”

“Hell, don’t let a few bumps bother you, hit the fasten seat belt sign and bring it on…!”

“We just lost the Depth O Meter, I think the transducer got knocked off…! Standby, the troll just went over, the mount broke, but the cord got caught on the power steering actuator so we saved it…! To Hell with this we’re RTP pronto!”

“Roger that, RTP”

A short while later, another transmission.

“Hey “HOT SHOT” we didn’t fish the day before yesterday, we spent it at Sneakwood putting that new….Ah….. You are one sorry ~garbled~…….!”

Ruminations....!

By nature and genetic makeup I am a curious fellow. I wonder about a lot of things, some important and some not so important. In the latter category I question two current caveats of the local saltwater angling scene. Why is the saltwater environment so harsh on gear and equipment and why does the trickle down effect of Bass gear make such an impact on the psyche of inland saltwater anglers? Indulge a few reflections on same.

Granted, launching your boat into the Galveston Estuary is tantamount to putting in to the Dead Sea of Jupiter. Only God, one would hope, knows what’s in there. All I’ll say is that anything that leaves a semi permanent ring around the gelcoat can’t be all good. In any event the saltiness of the water is frankly the least of my concerns. I feel fully protected by my series of interlocking sacrificial anodes. I’ve got a $1200.00 sacrificial trolling motor, numerous high dollar sacrificial transducers,  two sacrificial trim planes, six sacrificial cranking / troll batteries,  and yards of sacrificial schedule 2 aluminum round stock. My biggest sacrificial anode is a big black motor with fifteen tell tale warning horns of various timber that blast tooty fruity whenever the motor is within three blocks of the pond. Ask a Bass guy what an anode is and he’ll more than likely tell you it is something up in his sinus but he had his out when he was a kid!

My father in law is a big Bass guy and he runs the same gear year in and out. He leaves his pliers on deck along with assorted catch and release gear and they remain year after year. Can you imagine leaving some pliers on deck at the Dike? You could stand off and watch them grow legs!

The trailer anode is worthy of its own article and consequently I won’t burden you with how many trips have been fouled because of this equipment and it’s propensity to deteriorate when under tow!

The Bass boys did us right when they passed along the soft plastic worm like Bass Assassin. I guess these excellent baits have accounted for more than their fair share of fish caught in the last ten years or so but where do they get off putting a blade on the head and calling it a magic bait. Any self respecting trout wouldn’t be fooled by such simple folderol but those reds are easy prey for those Madison Avenue types. I can remember tossing spinner baits for trout when I was a kid. We tore them up at the wells in West Matagorda Bay.  At times we’d add a little pig to the hook as a taste enhancer. Most of our current top waters started life as a Bass bait. Ditto the latest craze of mid hook mounted weight designed to embed the hook point into the plastic. What difference this makes in our Estuary is beyond me. I can see the weedless plus down south but here the design creates a purported flutter factor that renders the presentation irresistible. I’m not convinced. Nor am I convinced about keeping trout alive for tournament weigh in. I don’t understand trout boys talking about drop offs and bait colors. Shoot, I just go out and get em! Any color is fine for me as long as it is red!

As for gear and hardware, as long as I think of everything as an anode than I’m ahead of the curve.

Trout are popping up everywhere. Trinity remains a bit fresh but East is hot!

Seven Weeks....?

Anglers are catching good trout everywhere within the Galveston Bay Estuary. I’m not because my boat is in the shop!

Those of you whom have followed my angling exploits in other media are very accustomed to this excuse. For those new to the saga of my angling pursuits, welcome, and be duly advised you will learn quickly that if something can be torn up and turned into a dog’s breakfast than I’m your guy! Actually partial blame for this latest fiasco belongs to my fishing partner and general bon vivant, Big Stuff Jones. Realize from the get go that Big Stuff is just that, Big Stuff! Everybody knows a Big Stuff but let me tell you my Big Stuff wrote the book on Big Stuff. Big Stuff claims the biggest, boat, the biggest dog, the biggest appetites and of course the biggest girl friend which fact alone makes him giggle in a decidedly un-manly way. In any event his bigness also encompasses his knowledge of all things marine and outboard motor related problemos. In short he is the finest diagnostician in my group as he will tell you straight out whenever an issue arises.

In March, my everyday partner and I put the ThirdMartini2 into the water off the Texas City Dike for a quick run to the Drum Hole on the other side of the Houston Ship Channel. Our boat had been sitting up a while. The tanks, one hundred and sixty gallons were topped off with new ethanol based premium. A stability additive in proper doses had been mixed to the tank. Big Stuff says this as a futile attempt to avoid the corrosive effects of the alcohol mix. He said I needed to drain the tanks when the boat would sit up for more than a few weeks to prevent the likelihood of massive fuel contamination resulting in catastrophic outboard failure at the least opportune moment. Now look I’d say, I’m somewhat of an expert on filtration having had numerous kidney stones over the years, and I just could not believe a short set up could be cataclysmic to my fuel system. Just to be safe I ran the motor for twenty minutes at the barn on a hose. Cranked and ran better than it has in years. Luckily we made it to the putin without the ass end falling off my Suburban. BS is always telling me that hauling my Whaler with a Suburban is an accident waiting to happen what with the ass end likely to fall off at any moment.  We launched without incident. We broke the breakwater and I put the chili to her only to putt putt and die. The outboard would not function under load. We troll motored back to the ramp and somehow loaded up much to the delight of the crowds gathered to view the debacle. You should have seen them scatter when I took off my cap and approached them for a donation.

I approached the local Mercury guru Monday morning who said without question that it would be at least two weeks before his new man could get on it. OH MY! Two whole weeks of I told you so from the BS. Six weeks later I get the call that the guru is finally ready. Naturally the anticipated diagnosis was predictably poor. Could be anything! All that means is that it’s going to be expensive. Fuel contamination was the most likely suspect. They’d been seeing an awful lot of that lately! Might be one or more fuel pumps! Can’t tell until I get a chance to get in there….

A day or so later I get a call from the guru that there had been a cat fight on board the stern of my boat and that it would cost an additional $200.00 to clean the remains of one baked on cat from the gelcoat. Fine I said dreading the news that was to come. On that no go matter the problem was a loose hose clamp on the inside the floor fuel hose that was allowing the motor to vapor lock under load.

I couldn’t believe it! Big Stuff was wrong!