I knew better. But I’d pedaled almost two miles, fighting my way through a gusty headwind to reach the grassy point that, in my experience, delineated productive fishing grounds from the area most people fished just because it was easy to reach. Kayakers generally turned back before they reached the point, and most boaters avoided the rather nondescript grassflats ahead because they were too shallow for all but technical poling skiffs to traverse. So, despite it being a comparatively popular fishing area, I rarely had to share the mile-plus-long stretch of beautiful mixed bottom with anyone other than a lot of hungry redfish and spotted seatrout.
I was in a hurry to get started, especially after I pulled a 23-inch redfish out of the spartina grass that protruded into the bay right at the point. With the tide coming in and mullet jumping up ahead, I knew more fish were waiting. So I pedaled off into the wind, fan-casting as I went. By the time I reached the creekmouth where I usually turn back, I’d landed a couple more 22’s and pulled the hooks on a 25 right at the kayak.
I knew I’d screwed up. The tide was high enough. The afternoon sun had sufficiently warmed the winter shallows. There were isolated schools of mullet. Conditions were right. I knew the fish were there. I should have caught at least 10 reds had I not let my impatience get the best of me.
Where’d I go wrong? I broke my own cardinal rule regarding fishing into a strong wind on shallow flats.
Kayakers frequently give their little boats far more credit in terms of stealth than they deserve. In reality, the majority of kayaks fished into the wind probably produce more hull slap than the best poling skiffs. In addition, any object being propelled through the water — shark, porpoise, kayak — pushes a fish-alerting pressure wave ahead of it. In deep water, stealth or lack of isn’t an issue. In a foot of clear water, it can be everything.
RELATED: Saltwater Shallows Often Overlooked
I’ve written often that the fishing sin committed most often is running over the fish. On virtually every outing, I witness anglers in all types of boats running right up to where they think the fish are, and then hit the brakes and immediately start fishing. Or they run over a grassflat at full speed, and then turn right around and fish it. I’m in full agreement with the old saying that 10 percent of anglers catch 90 percent of the fish. That one lack-of-stealth flaw dooms many anglers to lifetime memberships among the 90 percent majority. Kayakers are among the worst offenders; we just assume because kayaks lack motors, the fish pay no attention to us. For kayaks that do employ electric power, it’s even more vital to approach quietly. Big fish in 18 inches of water got wise to trolling motors long before kayakers adopted them.
My problem is that the Hobie MirageDrive makes it so tempting to get impatient. Had I been in one of my paddle boats, it never would have occurred to me to commit such an indiscretion; I’d have made a wide loop offshore to avoid running over the shallow fish, and then let the wind and tide push me silently back down the shoreline. Even I’m smart enough to recognize that it’s counter-productive to try to paddle into the wind, then put the paddle down and drift backward while I cast and work a lure. Those darn foot pedals and rudder just make it too easy to maintain steerage while fishing. Idle hands are indeed the Devil’s workshop.
The second problem that exacerbates the lack of stealth is casting distance. With a 15-knot wind behind me, I can readily fling most plugs a good 40 yards on 10-pound braid. Facing a stiff breeze, that distance might be cut in half, along with a loss of accuracy, the lure often fluttering left or right of the target as wind gusts rip at it. So not only am I making more noise, I’m not throwing the lure far enough to reach beyond the fish’s range of detection. Most of them know I’m there before I get into range. If a fish does strike, I’m also more likely to miss a solid hookset due to additional slack line.
To prove my own point, I did it right on the way back to the truck. I set up a silent drift, using my pedals and rudder only when I needed to gently correct my drift to stay in the proper depth zone back down the stump-lined shore I’d already fished. Fortunately, on this day the fish were forgiving of my stupidity; I released another 11 nice fish despite quitting a quarter-mile short of my initial starting point, ending the day on a pair of reds exceeding the 27-inch upper slot limit. One assumes those clear results will make me fully embrace greater patience in the future.
I can’t make any promises. It’s those darn pedals.
