THE FIRST BULL RED
by
Capt. Mike Holmes
The first time I went surf fishing changed my life, and in many ways, it was a life that probably needed changing. Recently divorced, and in my mid-twenties, I found myself spending far too much time and disposable income in various drinking establishments across Southeast Texas and Southwest Louisiana. As I have often told anyone who cared to listen, "bars" and "guts" had a different meaning to me in the mid-seventies, and it took a lot of guts just to go in some of the bars I frequented. At the time, my fishing activity was pretty much limited to a bit time spent on freshwater lakes in east Texas. Then my high school hunting and fishing buddy, Dave Shaeffer, suggested a surf fishing trip for bull reds. I think this was partly an attempt to even the score a bit on his part, because I had been getting the better of him in bass fishing! My only previous saltwater fishing had been a snapper trip on Tee-Boy McCall’s old Sunrise II party boat out of Cameron, Louisiana, as a high school freshman. The adventure of big water fishing had made a lasting impression on me, but in those days kids living in small towns located well inland didn’t get a whole lot of opportunities to visit the coast. The few journeys I had managed to Galveston beaches had been social events, save for one overnight “survival” campout with the Boy Scouts where a little fishing and crabbing was allowed. I happened to mention to Dave during a BS session that I had always wanted to catch bull reds, like I had read about in the Houston papers as a pre-teen, and he immediately began bragging about the one he caught on his first try the year before. Since he seemed so knowledgeable, and we both now lived within an easy hour’s drive of the coast, a trip was quickly planned. Later on, it began to look like Dave had not a lot more experience at redfishing than me, and I even wondered if that bull of his hadn’t been a big ‘ol fish tale. Still, it was at his urging that I spent that first weekend on the beach, and after catching my own first bull red, the world suddenly became a better, more peaceful, and orderly place in which to live.
Actually, the time frame between that first trip and actually catching a big redfish was more like six or seven months, as I recall. Our first effort was in February, because we didn't know that the Texas surf can be almost lifeless in winter. That first weekend was overcast and cold, with a biting wind blowing the top off angry gray surf. We used some of Dave's short boat rods mounting cheap level-wind reels, and hooked freezer-burnt mullet on "tourist" leaders of blue coated braided wire with bright red beads above the big chromed snaps the hooks were attached to. I think we sat by a driftwood campfire, getting the stench of the smoke from the salt-soaked wood deep in our clothing, most of the night - drinking beer and sharing the adventure of fishing for something I had never even seen, except in pictures. Late Sunday evening, the sun appeared long enough to warm the air to shirt-sleeve conditions and reflect off the crests of the waves and wet sand in a million sparkling diamonds. Dave caught a decent sand trout, with a beautiful golden hue - and I fell hopelesly in love with fishing the beach.
We went through a steep learning curve during those months of waiting for our first bull reds. Finding out which tidal movement was most productive, what were the best baits and how to throw a cast net to catch them, and how to make proper leaders of single strand wire using "surf sinkers" with copper tines molded into their lead bodies to act as little anchors holding baits against the surge of the waves. Bars were now sandbars, and guts were the channels between them. You had to get at least beyond the second bar to catch fish, unless the tide was extremely high, but to get to the third bar to cast usually meant swimming with a surf rod in your hand. My first surf reel was a 3/0 Penn Senator, and I mounted it on a two-piece fiberglass rod that later broke in mid cast. We quickly turned to Penn Squidders as our reel of choice, and built up long surf rods from Calcutta cane poles. Every weekend was spent on the beach, and each was a time to be treasured.
Gradually, I began to recognize a change in my habits. At first, trying to haul enough beer down to last the weekend was a priority, but at some point I realized that I was bringing home leftovers on Sunday evening. I guess it was like the speckled trout fisherman who told his friend he liked to put his fish in the plastic bags newspapers come in when it’s raining, and tie the ends before tossing them in the cooler – so his beer wouldn’t taste like fish. When the friend asked what he did when the specks were running too large to fit in the bags, he replied that, in that case, he didn’t have time to drink beer! My night life was now mostly spent watching the little red battery-powered lights we clipped to the ends of the surf rods to signal any sort of movement, and falling asleep in a folding chair between two surf rods in sand spike holders. I also spent a lot of time sleeping on the tailgate of my truck, in various small surf boats, and on a couple of big coolers pushed together – but always trying to listen for the clatter of a reel spool spinning into action against the pull of a strong fish. I gained a saltwater tan, and lost sedentary pounds. Instead of checking TV listings or movie schedules I tracked the coastal weather forecasts, tide tables, and the recorded fishing report from the Gulf Coast pier on the Galveston seawall. The money I might have slid across a dimly lit bar in the past was squirreled away towards a new reel, a custom rod blank, bulk spools of mono, and boxes of 8/0 hooks.. Surf fishing was not a hobby or a pastime, but a way of life, and one that I did not practice alone.
Surf fishermen, for all their love of solitude, are as generous a bunch of people among their own as you could ever meet. We made new friends who helped us learn more about our obsession. Jim Kenworthy was mostly interested in sharks, but helped us with a lot of the fundamentals. Others I remember only by first names - Frank, the Houston police officer; Al, the ex-motorcycle gang member (who still had a "Support Your Local Bandido" bumper sticker on his truck), Mexican Henry, who fancied big stingrays and could cast a 6/0 as well as I could a squidder, the guys in the school bus camper, and many others whose first names have even faded away. Dave's wife, Patsy, also deserves a lot of credit for coming along on these trips and not laughing at us too hard.
We did catch fish during that first long spring and summer of fruitless redfishing. Sand trout, croaker, gafftopsail catfish, and small sharks mostly. My first speckled trout - a 5 1/2 pound beauty - came on a double hookup with a shark of almost the same size on the other drop. There were also fish we didn't catch. Something stripped most of the line from my Squidder one night while I was waist deep cast netting bait. Either a big shark, tarpon, or king mackerel - depending on whose eyewitness account one believes - spooled my 3/0 one bright July morning before destroying a leader not meant for such serious prey. Seasoned fishermen kept us enthralled with stories of big reds, leaping tarpon, schools of big stingrays hitting every bait on the beach, and sharks big enough to make you wonder about wading too deep at night.
Our normal fishing ground was a spot just to the east of San Luis Pass, on the far western tip of Galveston Island. In those days most of the traffic on this beach was still fishermen. One weekend Dave had decided we should find another spot - maybe it wasn't entirely our fault that we weren't finding the big reds. When I joined him he was parked beside a blue Ford truck and it's young owner, who invited me to look in his fish cooler. There, still flopping on the ice, was the prize we sought - a 37 pound bull red! While I was congradulating the fellow, he got another "run", and set the hook on something heavy and powerful. I gaffed that one after a spirited battle, and it was a bull of 27 pounds. This was our introduction to fishing with Beaver Springs, then an engineering student at Texas A&M and a native of San Antonio. Over the next few years, our fishing duet became a trio, and some very good times were ahead. On this evening, Beaver had to leave - with his fish - and suggested we take over his lucky spot. We did. Hardly an hour later, my Squidder began to scream like it had never screamed before! I was out catching more live mullet, and had to run through knee-deep surf to take the rod - my longest and most flexible Calcutta - from Dave. It was a defining moment in my life. Line peeled off the reel effortlessly, and even when I gained some back it would soon be taken away again. I burned my thumb on the spool of racing monofilament, and yelled with delight. Dave solemnly announced that, "This is what it's all about!" Looking back, I realize he was referring to surf fishing, but at the time I thought he meant life itself. We were generally behaving like two children on a particularly fine Christmas morning.
Finally, I began to get line back. Still the fish would dig into each wave, shaking its head and bucking against the rod - which was bent nearly double. Splashes began to appear on the shallow second bar, then a spotted tail pierced the surface, and soon a fish that seemed much too large to be caught from shore was exposed in the receding waves like washed up monster from the deep. We slid the red up past the surf line, me on the rod and Dave with the short gaff, before daring to admire it. Twenty- four pounds of what I had been working so hard for all these months! Less than an hour later, Dave repeated the process with a bull that was the twin of mine. We'd hunted since February to no avail, and now saw the capture of four huge redfish in the space of an afternoon.
Life was good.
Over the next few years the big bronze bulls developed an almost religious significance. We preferred them to all other fish, even the hard fighting jack crevalle. We had a camp rule that we kept no red under 20 pounds, and we were prone to make rude remarks about the manhood of those who would actually catch the smaller reds of the bays on purpose. One trip Patsy skunked us all with a 14 pound red caught with dead shrimp on a light spin-cast rod on the second bar, but we told her it wasn’t a keeper, and therefore didn’t count! The passion for bull reds put me in touch with the natural beauty to be found on the edge of the ocean. Each glorious sunrise and sunset was enjoyed to the fullest. The days of warm summer sun and flat green seas were treasured no more or no less than the blustery days of fall, with their harsh gray mountains of surf capped with foaming peaks of white. Water so clear your feet were visible standing neck deep and surf glowing with phosphorescent plankton all night are things casual visitors to the Texas coast are rarely privileged to see.
We took our graduate courses from the academy of surf fishing, moving to custom wrapped 14 foot rods, then to big game tackle and surf boats to tangle with monster class sharks. We even hooked a few, along with an occasional tarpon, big rays, and sometimes a stray king mackerel. We fished wet and cold through the fall wearing chest waders and slicker tops snugged around our waists with bungee cords, and baked under the sun on those flat August days when we could make it out to the third bar. The third bar is a place of legend to most Texas surf fishermen. It can rarely be reached without swimming, and is often too deep to stand on and cast – but beyond it lie dreams of better water and larger fish. I have memories of fighting big surf across the second bar, bouncing high to keep my head – and reel – above water in the gut beyond, then climbing the slope of the bar to find knee-deep depth again. On rough days the surf out there might crest and break well above my full height, and the only way to keep from being washed back into the gut was to duck into a falling breaker and brace against the force of the water like hitting the blocking sled in high school football practice. After a quick cast over the next incoming boomer and setting the surf sinker firmly in sand bottom you could bounce and float – letting out line all the way - back to the second bar, where the receding waves tried to suck your legs out from under you, then splash through the shallow first gut to set the rod in a sand spike, check the drag, pick up the next rod and do it all over again! At one point, between red fish and shark outfits I was fishing a dozen rods.
We had nights of exceptional success, like when Beaver out fought a 200 pound Lemon shark on 30# line, a 3/0 Senator, and a redfish rod. One of our best outings, however, came in early May, with calm surf and a tide that went out Friday night and was still out on Sunday afternoon. I swam the baits out past the third bar with a little one-man raft and dive fins because we didn’t expect much action with the lack of water movement and no bait in the surf. By morning, Dave had beached a dandy 30 pound bull, a 46 pound stingray, and a 46 pound blacktip shark. My contribution to the night was a 41 pound red –still my personal best – and a strong run on my 12/0 shark rig.
To us, this was fishing!
When Dave moved back to East Texas to become a family man and bass fisherman, I found myself fishing even harder. Then Galveston declared camping and open fires on the beach illegal, and I moved across the bridge into Brazoria County, and fished the beach at Follett's Island, Surfside, Quintana, and the mouth of the Brazos River. I made occasional trips to Matagorda, Sargent, and Boca Chica at the mouth of the Rio Grande, and might have continued into Mexico if state regulations had not made bull reds a catch-and-release only fish and changed my focus on the world of angling.
My group seldom released a big red, but since we didn't catch all that many, we didn't figure we were damaging the fishery. A weekend that ended with one bull in the cooler for me was an unqualified success, and catching two or more was like winning the lottery. To battle and land one of these magnificent fish from the beach, without the help of a boat or fancy electronics, while competing one-on-one against the power of the Gulf was more than just fishing. The primal feeling was taken away when no fish could be kept. Now it was just a game, somehow not as serious or satisfying. Even worse was not having the option to keep an injured fish that might end up as crab food. Maybe I was just being stubborn, but it is one thing to release a fish because you want to – quite another to be required to release it by law. I never really understood why my golfing friends would chase that little white ball all over the pasture, only to whack hell out of it again, either!
Even though there were other fish to seek and catch, a lot of the joy of surf fishing left with the bull red. The beaches themselves were becoming more and more crowded with non-fishermen, and once deserted stretches were seeing new housing developments spring up like summer weeds. All the noise and vibration from increased vehicular traffic and almost constant construction scared the big fish further offshore, and I went with them. My time on the beach prepared me well for offshore fishing. I had learned bait rigging and tackle techniques as well as boat handling from running inflatables and outboard powered skiffs through rough surf. Offshore, fishing could still be a solitary affair, - if another boat crowds too close, there is always a new spot over the horizon.
Changes in state law now allows us to keep up to two oversize reds per season, and the big bulls are supposed to be making a comeback after the sad era of the blackened redfish craze. There are still a few stretches of open Texas beach where a fisherman can be alone with the sand, the sun and the sea – or his family. Most of these are only accessible by boat, but no one charges a fee to park and the sand crabs outnumber the tourists. Surf fishing could never be the same for me, however. For one thing, thirty years have passed, and with them some of my physical abilities. I have more weight to hold me down in rough water, but less stamina to challenge the waves and make the long cast. The carefree days of youthful irresponsibility have not quite been replaced by the free time of pending retirement – I could no longer drop everything on a moment’s notice to chase a prime green tide. I may never get back to the beach in that way again, but the memory of that first bull red – and all those that followed – will be with me forever.
(First published in “Backcasts", Saltwater Sportsman)