The Fog

March marks the end of what is generally the worst of fog season on the coast, although I’ve seen it thick at night even in early June when driving down to South Padre Island. On the water, today’s boaters are equipped with various tools to navigate through these blinding gray curtains of low- and sometimes zero-visibility that may last all day, with plenty of unseen hazards. Before modern aids there was only the compass, which wouldn’t exactly deliver you right on the spot; there was tidal flow and wind to contend with. That, and nagging doubts in the murk that can make one doubt his own compass, because even a nearby screwdriver or can of WD-40 can shift the compass needle.

The many johnboat owners on the coast who have duck hunted seldom carried a compass unless it was hand-held, which still makes for sketchy navigation. Lots of boats wound up in all sorts of places they hadn’t bargained on. It was easy to run in circles, when the water was calm and no visible landmarks. If there are wind ripples or waves, one could at least keep them on the same quarter while scooting along.

As I write this in late January, we’ve been doing pretty well fishing in fog with visibility as low as 40 yards, which is just enough to stop a cautious boat when a shoreline or object looms directly ahead. That visual range is so much better than, say, 10 yards. The difference between the two can mean avoiding other boats, waders, crab trap buoys, rock jetties, seawalls, navigation markers and bridge pilings. It’s a great time to wear a self-inflating life vest.  

This past winter I found a way to launch in a tidal creek with a primitive sand boat ramp. Rolling up the pants legs and wading around, launching, and then idling through tricky water until out in the bay within a half-mile of where I like to fish. (In fog it’s best to launch close to the fish, not 10 miles away). Even in 40-yard fog all day long, we were able to follow shorelines and generally find my good spots. I was surprised how many boats were out there, when the nearest real boat ramp was six miles away. The bigger center consoles must have had dashboard navigation electronics that made their task easy, though mistakes are made in such low visibility. We also saw johnboats out there, and these probably had the iNavX app feature on their cell phones, which has taken me up to 10 miles each way in bad fog in recent years. Note: I also keep a phone charger in a water-proof box in the boat after having my phone battery die by early afternoon in all-day fog. The only other fishermen out there charged up my phone. You can bet we anchored close by them, until my phone was ready.   

Years ago before getting phone navigation, Amy and I were caught out there under blue skies when unpredicted fog rolled in. Unwilling to run nine miles back to the car in 30-yard visibility, we ran the boat up that same primitive creek, determined to hitch-hike back to our car if need be, rather than get lost in the murk. As luck would have it, kayakers were loading their truck and offered a ride. They hadn’t caught any fish, so I gave them some soft plastic baits that trout were hungry for. They returned next day, caught fish, and we became friends.

On another trip we were caught on yet another calm sunny day in February when fog streaked by above until we were socked in. Preoccupied with a hot trout bite, (they seemed to love the fog), we kept fishing until 2 p.m. and high tide. (Even making short drifts, we never did find my buoy marker.) Giving up on that, we ran the shoreline six miles back to the ramp. That fog was so bad, we had to run inside every cove, just to keep sight of land. It took a long time but we made it. If the tide had been low, we would have had no navigable land to follow, nothing. And dark would have set in before the tide returned. Running fog at night is the worst, and might even cause vertigo. It’s safer to sit tight on the shore, build a fire and gather ‘round. Which is why I carry a winter survival bag full of food, tarp, matches, etc.  

While fog often hinders or complicates our fishing efforts, the fish often seem active. We’ve made some great catches from redfish on shallow-water flats, drifting open water, and the jetties where we hug the rocks to avoid crewboat and ship traffic. The weather is invariably warmer though damp, sometimes windy but often calm. The reduced light may trigger more strikes, or maybe the fish are content with fewer predators around, like ospreys.

One day I’d just paid for cell phone navigation, we met at the boat ramp and found appalling sea fog. This guy called Jersey Ted had made the big drive and was ready to fish, even if we couldn’t see anything. So, I cautiously ran nine miles in a blank, gray tunnel, phone in hand, aiming for a small island. The northern tip had a particular bush where I like to park and fish. Well, that bush was the first thing we saw, dead ahead at 50 yards, after running all that way. It really was impressive. After 19 redfish, Ted had enough action. 

Many of us were raised driving boats on the ICW, with its barge traffic and shallow water on both sides. Very difficult to run without today’s electronic aids. Barge traffic would often park against the bank on their starboard sides, anticipating night fog. We used to see them lined up near Port O’Connor, costing those companies money, but at least those clumsy barges weren’t blundering through boat docks and crowded restaurants. We avoided running the ICW in fog; in the Port Arthur area we had lots of quiet marsh. Back then we’d heard the tale of local duck hunters in a johnboat who were run over by a slow tugboat’s lead barge. Their wide duck boat wouldn’t flip over, just got pushed along the surface for hours until daylight, when another boat spotted them and radioed the tugboat to stop. Another duck boat didn’t have the same luck, but ran straight into a steel barge and there were fatalities.

Foggy fishing sits very well with my technique of anchoring snug against high tide grassy shorelines and setting out numerous rods, a classic Port Arthur salt marsh fishing method taught to us by old-timers a long time ago. Safe from passing boats, we catch a break from the wind and the fish are active. Last week it was so foggy, I missed my first spot only a half-mile away. (My cell phone Nav needed an update.) Instead, we followed the shoreline for a mile and reached my farthest spot, which is only good during an incoming tide, and sure enough the current was flowing in. The fog was so thick, I wasn’t positive it was even my spot, until I saw the old corner post from a duck blind that I often use as a tide gauge.

On the first cast, a slot redfish doubled the rod over. Same with the second and third casts. My charter had no clue where we were and must have thought I was pulling rabbits out of a hat. His 12-year old son, wearing a t-shirt for winter fishing, hung in there in the blowing damp and landed his first four redfish, groaning and pulling as hard as he could. We wound up with eight slot reds and a bonus keeper black drum that fought like the devil, and those guys thought I’d hung the moon. When a bunch of big hardhead catfish moved in, I knew the party was over and it was time to go find the car. Where the sun was still shining of course, but that sea fog had served up a memorable trip.