Tarpon Fever Can Skyrocket Thisfast! By Capt. Tony Petrella
We had two live crabs swimming in the water, and a bunny-strip fly undulating in the Gulf of Mexico’s gentle current, when Bob Cole felt a violent tug on his line.
“Got one,” he yelled.
“Nail him,” I said, rather forcefully. “Put the metal to him. Again! Again! Good. He’s on tight. Now, it’s all up to you, my friend. Warren. Dan. Get your lines out of the water right now!”
We were a couple hundred yards off Casey Key, one of Sarasota County’s barrier islands, just north of Venice. It was a couple minutes after seven in the morning, and the sea was tabletop flat.
With four sets of eyes scanning 360 degrees around the boat, this pod of copper-backed Silver Kings had popped up just yards off the starboard beam even though we’d spotted them ten minutes ago.
“Tarpon. Three o’clock,” I said, as calmly as possible under the circumstances. I mean, several dozen enormous fish just materialized from nowhere and they’re close enough to spit on them. It’s easy to get rattled.
But, that’s why I’m the Captain. Damn. It’s like being Ray Spruance at Midway laconically giving the order to “turn Enterprise into the wind and launch all aircraft.” Or, in this case, all baits.
He had to roll out of bed at 4am three different days, but Bob Cole FINALLY was rewarded with hooking his first tarpon ever. And what a monster it was!
Bob originally contacted me last season, but his schedule and mine simply didn’t mesh so I gave him the name of another guide in the Venice area. Bob never really said how they did that day, but when he called in April to set up a trip for this season he told me “we want to fish with you.”
That’s what I like to hear!
I scheduled the trip for him and his neighbors at Pelican Pointe, Dan Griffith and Warren Rothmann, for June 4. Unfortunately, after getting up in the middle of the night we all decided that the predawn thunder and lightning just wasn’t giving us a “warm, fuzzy feeling.” More like fuzzy hair standing up on the backs of our necks.
So, we rescheduled for June 10. The weather was wonderful, but the tarpon fishing wasn’t. Everybody decided that another crack at these big pelagics was in order, so here we were a week later with vengeance in our souls.
The weather was absolutely spectacular. We were using my new Rhodan GPS+ trolling motor to hold us at anchor on a particular spot that’s been a tarpon magnet for me over the years, and visibility was more than a half-mile.
We’d already had a lot of fish swim by well within shooting range. A LOT of fish! But no hookups. Dan was tossing a fly, while Warren and Bob were drowning crabs.
When the pod popped up close to the boat everybody got a line in the water pretty damn fast. Within seconds, I heard the music.
Bob yelped in the clipped British accent he hasn’t lost in 30 years of living as a Yank, and I told Dan and Warren to get their lines back in the boat as quickly as possible. Then we settled in for the fun.
Before I bore you with the details, let me cut to the chase. This fish never jumped. It finally broached the water like a submarine, though, and it’s back looked wide enough to launch a pair of F-14 Tomcats. It was, in my best estimation, pushing 200 pounds.
Right. That’s no typographical error. I said 200 pounds!
Bob used the rod and I used the throttle of my Hewes Redfisher to chase, herd, and generally harass that big fish for one hour and forty minutes. We had to ask four other boats to “please give us some room because we’ve got a real pig towing us around.” And, they were gracious enough to do just that.
That tarpon took us more than three miles! Finally, it looked like it was time for the coup de gras so I told Bob to pump the rod and reel up the slack as quickly as possible. We had this guy. I was sure of it.
Then I heard the sound of a .22 pistol being fired. In other words, 25-pound-test line popping. When Bob was reeling after pumping the rod, line overlapped on the spool and snarled. The fish made one last desperate lunge for freedom and won.
I said something that can’t be repeated here. Everyone else just groaned.
Of course, we spent a long time in the most-mortem discussing every aspect of the hookup, chase, fight and heartbreaking loss.
Bob was quite naturally disappointed. So was I. This was a season of big fish—I THINK because the oil spill way up north kept those monster tarpon down in the Venice area—but this was the biggest of the big.
I hooked an 80 and a 160-pounder Memorial Day Monday when Capt. John and I took a “busman’s holiday,” but this tarpon of Bob’s was way beyond my biggie in weight and strength.
But, that’s why we keep chasing these magnificent animals. If you’re an angler, you really haven’t lived until a fish like this slaps you across the face and challenges you to give it your best shot!
Sometimes you win. Sometimes they do. But it’s always one hell of a test of will and skill.
And that, I always say, is why God Created tomorrows!
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