I like vacations because they have a great ability to jostle you into a change of perspective. A vacation is like a free pass to reconsider the everyday in a Rubik’s cube endless possibilities sort of way. For example, I recently learned that on a boat, at six in the morning, a big chewy chocolate chip cookie and a nice cold Newcastle make the perfect breakfast. Alcoholic you say? Try genius my friend.
A few weeks ago I had the supreme pleasure of going on one of those quintessential father and sons fishing trips. An outing in no way diminished by the fact that both my brother and I aren’t exactly youngins and are sporting families of our own.
My dad had set up the trip months in advance and even with all of his planning there was no way we could have been ready for Hurricane Ike to hit just days before our appointed time. Worried that we’d have to call it off we checked in with our soon to be guide and man on the scene, Captain Frank. Fortunately, it seems fish don’t really give a shit about the weather.
A taste of good times to come.
We loaded our ride down optimistically with lots ‘o empty coolers (not to mention several full ones) and headed out on a lovely Friday morning. Our destination was some marshes in the toe of the Louisiana boot near a place called Shell Beach.
About halfway through our drive we decided to call in to the Captain and check on the status of our planned afternoon outing. “What? No, I got y’all down for Friday, Saturday and Sunday. We ain’t fishing today; I’m not even in town.” It sounded like he was at a bar. After a careful and extensive explanation of the calendar system and our current position in relation to it, Frank agreed to head down to meet us. Reassured, we drove on.
Shell beach was pretty messed up. Ike hadn’t pulled any punches. Debris was piled high on the roadsides, vehicles were overturned, boats perched in distinctly unboat like positions. It seemed an unlikely place for a fishing trip.
After several false leads we stumbled upon our rendezvous place and living quarters by default. It was an unmarked doublewide hiked up on 30 foot pylons. Sheet metal lined a muddy path to stairs that tilted drunkenly and appeared held up by one nail and fortuitous wedging. My brother, an architect, at first refused to go up them. He finally joined us a while later mumbling something about deathtrap and huge liability something, something.
Frank popped up to meet us. He was a slight man in his mid fifties sporting an outfit meant for serious fishing. He spoke with that odd Chalmetian lilt that sounds like it would be more at home in Brooklyn than in south Louisiana. Niceties were kept short and in no time we had our gear, our beer, and high hopes loaded up in the Captain’s boat. It was a beautiful day for fishing.
On our way out of the channel we pulled our utilitarian but comfy ride up to a shoreside vender and loaded up with 300 live shrimp and plenty of ice. It was a cool setup that rose and fell with the tides and used the whole interior as a live well when the water was up. This was a place we’d be real familiar with over the next few days.
As Frank hauled ass through the marshes I didn’t really know what to expect. I hadn’t been fishing in years and remembered it as enjoyable in a slow and relaxed kind of way. Frank didn’t seem like a slow and relaxed kind of guy. In fact he seemed twitchy with a ferret like intensity. We would soon learn the difference between fishing and Fishing with Frank.
After about thirty minutes of twisting and weaving through the back waters we pulled up to a spot the Captain liked. It was at the convergence of three separate flows that came together in one big sweeping eddy. The tide was high, matching the energy in the boat. Frank lobbed out a cast. He let it sit for a second and then popped it hard making the line snap before it settled back down. He repeated this a few times before reeling it back in.
One seriously good looking Sheephead.
The next cast had barely hit the water before the cork plunged below the surface. Frank set the hook smoothly and reeled in a perfect speckled trout giving a detailed tutorial along the way. “Well boys, at least we weren’t skunked!” Frank exclaimed with a grin.
The three of us followed suit. Bite after bite, trout after trout we could barely unhook them fast enough. If we hadn’t been in the middle of nowhere I would have sworn that Frank had stocked the place.
After about an hour it slowed down. Brandon, brother and fishing cohort, switched sides and started casting up near the bank poking around for Redfish. “Get outta there! Throw on this side. We need ta get ‘em worked back up with a boo-fay tray!” The Captain is not one for autonomy. Brandon eyed Frank. Frank eyed back. Brandon’s pole bent in half. “Well, maybe there are a few over there,” our guide relented.
The first Redfish of the trip was exciting. Those dudes can put up a serious fight. He led Brandon halfway around the boat yanking and splashing before he got close enough for the net. He wasn’t huge but he and most of his buddies turned out to be perfect eating size.
The afternoon wrapped up nicely. We neared our limit of 25 trout per person and threw in a few Redfish and a Black Drum for good measure. We eased the boat back into the slip right at dusk and I was ready for some serious fish cooking.
Not having brought many supplies, Frank offered me full run of his kitchen. It turns out that “full run” has a different meaning when you are a high strung, type-A, control case. I’ll spare you the details but it ended with my brother making a necklace out of the Captain’s ears and teeth and performing a somber but lively jig on his entrails.
Well, not exactly. In the end we all lived through the altercation and went on to have a lovely dinner. I stuffed four of the trout with an olive salad and baked them in little parchment packets. I scrounged together a tomato, cucumber and goat cheese salad and a little sweet and sour corn maque choux. A crispy potato galette turned up to bring a little salt and texture to the party. And for a final white-trash fabulous bonus I whipped up a French’s mustard beurre blanc. Don’t think it didn’t kick ass.
The next day saw us hitting the water well before sun up. We cut through the marshes, our bleary eyed grins leading the way. Our first stop was the same sweet confluence that was so lucky the day before. The tides were different but the fish were still hanging around. After a slow but steady start things dried up. Frank started to make noises about moving on but then tapered off pensively.
His head snapped up. “Boys, them fish went to the bottom on us. Take your corks off, get on some bigger weights, we got work to do!” He flew into a flurry of activity. In moments we were all fishing deep, letting the lines drift with the tide. And damned if they didn’t start biting. We pulled up trout left and right. I don’t have a clue how Frank knew but they had indeed gone to the bottom on us.
Tenacity's a bitch.
As you may have guessed, Captain Frank is a bit of an eccentric character. Not just with people either; it extends to fish too. We didn’t just catch trout and Redfish. No, lots of other things came up from the deep and they each got their own unique treatment from Frank.
When we caught our first hardhead catfish, Frank produced a short aluminum bat from under a seat. Bat met fish several times with a quite distinctive ring. When we caught a different type of cat we were informed that they were cool “’cause they run with the trout,” and for these he had a curved rod that flipped them off the hook and back into the water. Ladyfish got tossed up into the marsh grass. Needlefish got an extremely energetic flailing back and forth on the end of the line, smacking the water over and over. For stingrays he had a two piece rig that he used to reach into their mouths and free the hook. And on and on it went with every species receiving highly personalized attention. I’m sure it’s worked that way for years and who am I to question tradition?
Winner of the tiniest catfish competition.
As I mentioned early on, fishing and Fishing with Frank are two very different experiences. Relaxation isn’t part of the Captains equation. As we fished, we would move from spot to spot and if we didn’t get a bite in the first cast or two we pulled up anchor and moved on- sometimes a few dozen yards, sometimes a few minutes down the shore.
At lunch time Frank would cram some sort of premade sandwich into his mouth as he drove. The first day, I tried to put out a spread and was met with a sharp “you gonna fish or you gonna eat?” as our intense guide floored it, leaving a blowing trail of salt and vinegar chips in our wake. We adapted. I learned to spread mayo with one hand and sneak hunks of jerky while Frank was occupied netting something. Brandon and I worked together, one blocking the wind as the other made the most of the travel time between fishing spots. It was like some sort of bizarre party game, like speed charades but with Vienna sausages.
The weekend passed slowly, but all too soon it was time to pack up and head back to the real world. I wanted to give a thorough recounting of all of our adventures but a lot can happen in three days on a boat. Trust me, you didn't want to know about the other guide and the five gallon bucket anyway. Your life will be just as rich with the edited version.
When all was said and done we had caught 200 trout, 43 redfish, 6 black drum, 1 sheephead, 1 flounder, and 3 channel mullet. A testament to Frank’s skill and the bounty of the water you can be sure since we were just along for the ride. It was a hell of ride though and I still get tingly opening my freezer to an endless array of aquatic cuisine possibility.
So here’s a shout out to dads everywhere and mine in particular: thanks for the good times, the fishing and the beer! (And thanks for the cookies mom!)
-L. Pants
