Going on a tarpon fishing trip can always elevate some uneasiness. The fish are hard to find, hard to hook, and casting a fly rod on demand can be tough. Plus, you want to know that you’ve got the right guide for your angling personality, especially in Florida. Florida guides are notorious for their demeanor with clients. Most of the attitude originates in the Keys but much of that reputation permeates throughout the shallow, warm, saltwater to which they provide people like me entrée. Lucky for me, I have a friend in Dave Chouinard, who has guided – and still does on occasion – in Palm Harbor, FL. Captain Dave has fished the Tampa/Clearwater-area for over twenty years and has come to learn the habits of the wildlife. He’s always got the quick answers to questions such as, where’s the best place to go crab? Why do cobia like to follow stingrays? And, what snook like to eat? However, my visit will bring him a bigger question: How do I fish this guy for tarpon without flipping my boat?
Captain Dave represents Simms Fishing in the southeast. It is one of our top fishing and lifestyle brands here at Jesse Brown’s. Dave is a high energy, do-it-yourself family man who invited me, his friend, to go fishing. He fishes these Florida flats on a 16’4” Hell’s Bay Skiff called a Whipray. It’s an open-air boat with a raised, polling platform on the back, where the guide uses a 28-foot graphite pole to push the skiff around the flats. There’s also an elevated casting platform at the front, where the angler takes his turns standing. This particular boat is made to run the flats with an ability to operate down to 5 feet of water. This is where the tarpon feed, live and breed.
Tarpon are a prehistoric, migratory fish that roam the warm water throughout coastal South and Central America, the Caribbean, and the southern U.S. When the waters warm in Florida during May and June, tarpon begin their mating process. This is when sight fishing with a fly rod is most advantageous – if you consider casting a 12-weight fly rod on command into a 15 mile an hour breeze an advantage. These fish may travel solo, or they may be together in a school of 4 to 30 or more. Tarpon have a mating ritual that includes the traditional line dance of the sea: the daisy chain. This is when a group of tarpon gathers together head-to-tail and swim in a circle. Imagine a circular elephant walk under water.
I meet Captain Dave and another friend, Richard Griggs, at a sandy boat launch in a Palm Harbor city park on a Tuesday morning. The weather is calm and hot; perfect for tarpon fishing. However, a more descriptive offering would be tarpon “hunting”. Just like deer hunting, fishing for tarpon requires an inordinate amount of patience. But rather than being holed-up in a deer stand, you’re floating over 4-8 feet of water, waiting and looking.
“Looking” is an important part of tarpon fishing. In fact, your guide has three principle duties when out on the water in search of tarpon. The first is to know where the fish will be – or should be. Second is to provide the muscle in gliding quietly across the water with your boat engine turned off. A third is to spot these fish as they approach near enough to get a hook in one. However, the angler still has to train his or her eyes to recognize the difference between a group of tarpon and a large clump of underwater grass. That’s where Captain Dave’s experience and instruction are so valuable.
If I were to list a fourth requirement for a guide, I’d have to say it’s to keep the boat on top of the water. And Dave would have his work cut out for him this day, as captain, crew, and gear have this small craft well over its weight limits. The elevated poling and casting platforms only add to the challenge of keeping the boat balanced and upright. Every move on deck brings with it the potential for some very unwanted excitement.
Captain Dave takes us out less than ten minutes from the shore. The boat slowly putt-putts through the “no wake” zone containing a protected Manatee area. We’re heading for an area past the small, sandy barrier islands, just barely into the Gulf. Here we’re just beyond the small beaches only accessible by boat, with small groups sunbathing, shell hunting and enjoying the beautiful views of the Gulf. Now we’re ready to fish.
My time in the elevated front features me trying to stay steady so as not to flip us over. I still stand “tarpon ready”: my rod in right hand with my fly line managed between my pinky and index fingers; my left hand holds the fly. It’s a simple black and purple pattern with an eye that resembles a shrimp. The remaining line is pulled out and rests partially between me and the mounted stripping basket is ready to be cast.
It’s quiet on the boat. Birds pass overhead; the sun rises in the sky and a slight breeze comes from the east, heading west by northwest. There’s not much talking. I look but see nothing.
Captain Dave finally breaks the silence. “Here they come! 10 o’clock,” Chouinard shouts. The boat is like a clock with the bow being 12 o’clock. Guides give directions and instructions using this formula. However, something happens when you’re out on a boat and required to follow these quick instructions. Rights are heard as lefts, 3 o’clock suddenly becomes 9 o’clock. All of this is followed by other gritted corrections like, “your other left,” or “No! I said, 3 o’clock, not 9 o’clock.” Corrections become as quickly as directions each time a tarpon comes within 100 feet of the boat.
This is exactly what happens to me when it’s my turn on the casting platform. The fish come.
“Do you see ‘em?!” Dave shouts. “No, not yet,” I say with a less vigorous answer to his enthusiastic question. “I don’t see anything.” “They’re coming from 12 towards 3.” I’m straining to spot them then suddenly think I see something a hundred yards out. “Are they way out?” I ask “Hell no, bro. They’re about 80 feet. Start false casting!”
This is when I fall apart. Suddenly the fly that I could so ably handle before gets caught behind the reel. The line I had been so deftly managing earlier is now wrapped around me. I’m like a Christmas tree wrapped in fly line rather than lights and garland. Then I see the fish. I quickly get untangled with flustered abandon. I’m ready again. “Can I cast now?” “Hell no!Those fish are gone.”
When it’s Richard’s turn I sit and try to spot for him. There is a disadvantage when you’re down lower. Both he and Dave are elevated looking for fish. They can see more than I can but I’m swiveling my head around, looking. Richard gets some great shots at some schools of tarpon. He makes some great casts but no fish are eating. There are some refusals that provide hope that the fishing will be getting better.
When the winds begin to pick up, Captain Dave has us all three in the middle of the boat with no rocking. He’s paying attention to all the fish that we’re seeing and the stress on the boat with water lapping towards the deck. If I were to list a fourth requirement for a guide, I’d have to say it’s to keep the boat on top of the water. And Dave would has his work cut out for him this day, as captain, crew, and gear have this small craft well over its weight limits. The elevated poling and casting platforms only add to the challenge of keeping the boat balanced and upright. Every move on deck brings with it the potential for some very unwanted excitement. We’re feeling cautiously secure as Richard begins getting looks. Then nature calls.
“Captain Dave?” I’ve got to get his attention. “I have to pee”.
“Hold on a minute until these fish pass,” he answers.
The boat is rocking. The winds keep increasing and I start wiggling my legs like a kid in the backseat during on a long road trip. These tarpon and our safety are the most important things right now. Richard is still in the front getting casts. Dave is elevated in the back worriedly shouting instructions. I’m in the middle. I can wait to pee.
One minute goes by. I look back up again to Captain Dave right behind me.
“Uh, I’ve really got to pee!”
The desperation must show in my eyes. Captain Dave goes from shouting instructions to intently asking me.
“Are you going to wet your pants?”
“Yeah, probably.”
Then the dance begins. Richards stays up. I slide over. Dave jumps down and anchors us off, attempting to balance the boat as I get to the far rear of the boat and release my bladder into the Gulf.
The fishing here is done thanks to the increasing winds which have chased off even the larger boats. We are heading into the bay where spotting fish can be even more difficult but we’ll be protected from the wind by the barrier islands that we passed on our way out. This is where we would finish out the day and where I’d finally land a tarpon.
It was a solid hook set that I did by stripping strongly towards myself. The fish took off quickly taking all my line off and putting me into the backing. Then I muscled back into him. Pulling against him then reeling the backing that he took from me. The fish jumps. He’s huge! Then he jumps again. This fight goes on for over thirty minutes. I’m not sure if I’ve caught him or he’s caught me. The jumps, the runs; they repeat over and over. Finally, redemption from all the blown casts, from standing on my fly line, from not seeing the fish.
When I get the fish to the boat. He’s tired. I’m tired. All we need to do is get a picture of this 75 pound tarpon and me and my day will be complete. All will be right in this hunt-cast-fish sport. I’m going from a zero to a hero. Let’s celebrate. Then the fly breaks off.
“That was awesome,” says Captain Dave in the wake of the excitement.
“Damn,” I call back, as the boat is steadied by my resolve to return another time.