Last of the Mohicans

Twenty-six years ago, someone snuck into my garage and walked off with a handful of my bay tackle. Next day I called a Daiwa rep, mentioned some brands I’d seen in the big box stores, and he said, “You don’t want anything from there.” So, for the princely sum of $65 each ($123 in today’s dollars), he sent five matched IM-7 graphite rods to my doorstep. They seemed a little stiff at first, medium-heavy action seven-footers, but did they ever catch fish. They were great for setting the hook against mono stretch, since I don’t use braid. And really tough.

Back then our local fishing guides may have been envious of my matched set of rods poking up from the leaning post on my Mako boat. Their own rod racks sported all manner of mismatched outfits and let’s just say that Walmart was…well-represented there. Maybe the guys didn’t want more expensive tackle in the hands of newbies and strangers. Or something.

It took a full 26 years for the last of those five rods to come to some bad end. Incredibly, after hundreds of strangers handled them, all five mishaps were my own fault. They were lost one at a time, not by backing the truck over them, which happened to friends in Arlington this past July. Or driving the boat under a low bridge and snapping off all five, as I saw a pro kingfish boat do. Like the Mohicans, there was slow attrition. Each story offers a small snapshot at the tribulations of a fishing guide.

On that first day out in the Gulf, first drift, I handed out my shiny rods. A guy tried to cast one and simply threw it in the water. Looked at his hands, mystified. (Maybe he’d had a rough night; I never asked.) We were drifting for trout at a fair clip, casting downwind. With only seconds to spare, I dug deep underwater with my own rod and snagged it. Saved!

A few years came and went. Then I had a young couple in the boat, who caught only two redfish before the guy’s cell phone rang. It was his boss, ordering him to get back to the motel, get on his laptop; he’d screwed up somebody’s insurance claim. We headed for the dock, it must have been 10:30. The guy was on vacation with his girlfriend, and I advised him that maybe he should reconsider his job. The couple knew nothing about paying a guide, said they’d brought no money. I had to follow them 20 miles to the nearest ATM machine. (No Venmo, in those days.) In my haste to follow their car, I rolled up the windows and one of my Daiwas broke. Rod number 1.

Then I took a professor friend and his 14-year old son fishing. Soon anchored on a high-tide shoreline, the kid wanted to get out and walk, so I handed him a baited rod. He trudged down the shoreline, stopping to examine black mangrove trees, even breaking off sample twigs. Not casting at all. However, next time we looked he was bowed up on something big that was finally dragged ashore, a 25-inch redfish, his first fish ever. He brought it back to the boat and his dad and I were pleased. I then climbed out with the castnet. Returning minutes later, there was a sudden splashing at the stern. Was it a fish? I climbed back in the boat and noticed my rod was missing. It had been torn out of the rod holder. The young angler said, “I kept hearing this zzzzzzzzing behind me, but didn’t know what it was, so I didn’t turn around.” Rod number two was gone. (I could mention here that it’s wise to “never get off the boat,” but I’ve covered that before.)

Years later another rod was torn from the boat, along with the PVC rod holder I’d been messing with back home, rigging it with an elbow for trolling in freshwater. Didn’t tighten the screws enough. That rod took off like a monster pickup truck had snagged it and the rod holder splashed 10 feet away. There was no way we would get that rod back. However, friends in another boat were anchored close by. A few glum minutes passed before one of their lines tightened, they’d snagged something, it was the line on my lost rod. Hand-over-hand, they retrieved the rod and then fought something on the far end, maybe a monster. It was a mere 24-inch redfish. Saved again.

The next incident was a lesson in patience. It’s difficult to get older anglers of 80 years or so, to set the hook or get a deep bend in that rod when a fish hits. I tell them to bend the rod like a banana, but that only seems to work with younger people. One day I had these older gents, my friend Josh and his buddy Kay Eoff from Kingsville sitting in the boat, waiting for a hit on the bow rods. When a rod bent double, they’d clamber out of their seats after several attempts, pick up the rod and reel slowly. They didn’t bend their rods at all and lost 4-5 reds and big trout in a row. Frustrated, I finally climbed past them to the bow, picked up a rod, and bent it with both hands. “This is how far you want to bend it…” Crack! The rod broke in half. Kay wryly commented, “Maybe not that much.” Rod number 3 was gone.

On a hot, glassy trip one of my clients was hooked up to the day’s biggest trout and needed net assistance. Big ladyfish were thick that day. In a hurry to grab the net, I set my rod down with the gold spoon twinkling two feet down in the green depths, and a big ladyfish obliged. There was a splash and streak of bubbles angling away from the boat like we’d launched a torpedo. Rod number 4 was gone.

Then last week, the Grim Reaper showed up for Number 5. This last surviving rod had only one original gold-lined guide, having survived 26 years and a few trips to the tackle repair shop. The cork handle was getting thin, but in recent years it was always in the thick of the action with redfish, trout, mackerel, sharks. Even a big tarpon for an hour.

Once again, impatience got the best of me. After parking the car far from the boat ramp, it wouldn’t lock, one of my doors wasn’t entirely closed. Amy was 100 yards away holding our boat at a crowded dock, with passing jet skis throwing wakes. (After a long day on the coast we’d decided to rinse trailer, outboard motor and ourselves in a lake without carrying fishing tackle.) In a hurry, I opened and slammed all five car doors, and of the five mixed rods inside, one of them slipped out the door when I opened and slammed it. Cutting it in half. The Daiwa, of course.

Gone, just gone. I knew those five rods so well, I could trick-cast behind me 30 yards and land close to my target. Well, nothing lasts forever. Friends say 26 years was a pretty good run, considering how much I fish, and maybe those were lucky rods. I’m now back to an assortment of brands I’ve acquired over time, good stuff kept rinsed and safe in my tackle room. With three tournaments to fish next month, I’m looking forward to slinging baits and artificials in cooler weather, following this cruel summer we’ve just had.