It was mid-morning and I was in a spot I don’t often find myself, the bow of my skiff, as I spend far more time on the opposite end. My friend Justin Everett was taking his turn on the poling platform, having landed a fish a few minutes prior, it was one of many that came into the boat that day. Justin was pushing the boat into a narrow cut to exit the flat we were on, where he would then cross a small creek and enter the next flat to the north. I was looking out at 3 o’clock, scanning for fish on the flat we were exiting when Justin excitedly broke the silence “Fish right there”, “Where?”, I replied, waving the rod back and forth in the direction I was looking..”right..right.RIGHT FUCKING THERE” Justin almost shouted. It struck me, because while Justin is by no means a prude, his language is generally far less salty than mine. I looked at 12 O’clock and almost under the bow of the boat was a healthy redfish, glowing in the coppery orange color common to redfish in the tannic, grassy marsh. I flipped my fly in front of the fish, the leader barely clear of the rod tip, moved the fly once and the fish’s gills flared as he greedily inhaled it. The fish made a few good runs before I finally had it at the side of the boat. It was a nice fish, about 29 inches long with a full, round and nearly distended belly, every bit of 10 pounds. We landed the fish and laid it in the bottom of the boat to get the hook out, I then lifted the fish to get it back in the water and as I tried to lift it over the gunnel of the boat, the fish thrashed and slipped from my hand, it’s flailing head hitting one of Justin’s Sage rods like a bludgeon, breaking the rod. We chalked it up to “one of those things” and kept fishing.
After catching several more fish in the shallow ponds we moved into some larger marsh lakes looking for schooling fish. I was able to get Justin in front of a good sized school of really nice sized redfish, and he did his part and brought a fat redfish to the boat. My turn back on the front we pushed into the Southwest corner of the large marsh lake and saw a single laughing gull hovering, and occasionally dropping to just above the surface of the water to peck, a sure sign that there was a school of fish under it. We started moving in the gull’s direction when the school of fish started moving, pushing a large wake and a spray of fleeing shrimp in front of them. The school had too much of a head start on us to have any chance of catching up to them from behind, but they were headed toward a bank, which would necessitate a turn, presenting an opportunity for us to work the angles and cut them off. The fish hit the bank and made a left so Justin did the equivalent of the 400 yard dash on the push pole to get me in position on a spot on the bank before they arrived. It was timed perfectly, Justin got me within easy casting range of the bank right as the fish were passing by, I made an easy cast and was soon hooked up to a 13 pound redfish. The fish made a good accounting of himself but I soon had him boat side. Then I did something stupid. I lifted my rod to try to bring the fish close enough to the boat to land, the fish surged, and my Orvis T-3 9wt, at a high angle, snapped just above a ferrule. We were now 2 rods down on the trip with no regrets, and now, when we talk about that flat, we call it “Right Fucking There Flat”.
I have had numerous fishing trips that resulted in rod carnage, and for some reason those trips tend to be some of my most memorable, and not in a regrettable way. The trips that resulted in me and my fishing companions laying waste to tackle are some of my fondest memories. The tarpon trip to the Florida Panhandle with my old friend Danny Williams, where I hooked a 90 pound fish and after a relatively short fight had it boat side, only to high stick it resulting in a broken rod and lost fish. The redfish trip to the marsh with Captain Devin Palomino when, after we landed over 30 fish, he borrowed my 7 weight to see how it cast, hooked a fish that was on the other side of a strip of land and broke my rod trying to drag the fish across the peninsula and to the boat. The day at the pond with my daughter when she broke my 4 weight on a bluegill, and a great day fishing with my friend Ben Sittig.
Ben was on the bow of my boat, he had already landed a lot of redfish and black drum, and we had even doubled once, Ben catching a fish from the bow, and me catching one from the poling platform. After the first double of the day, Ben spotted a nice fish, made a cast and quickly hooked up. As Ben fought his fish, we spotted another. I made a quick cast from the poling platform and hooked up too. Then things went south, my fish ran under Ben’s line heading right as Ben’s fish ran left, carrying Ben’s fly line over my rod. The two fish then switched directions, my fish went left on the outside, while Ben’s fish went right nearer to the boat applying the force of 2 good sized redfish swimming at full steam in opposite directions to the mid-section of my rod. Then came the far too familiar sound of my rod snapping. Ben, being in the cockpit of the boat worked our lines free of each other and landed his fish, while I continued fighting mine on half of a rod, then Ben landed my fish and we celebrated. That particular trip was an annual gathering of friends from 4 states in the Louisiana Marsh. Over the course of the 5 day trip, 4 rods were broken in the group.
Looking back on all of those instances of broken tackle there seems to be a recurring theme, the fishing was good. Perhaps that’s the crux of it, we get drunk on the joy of a great trip and get a little less attentive and a little more careless resulting in graphite casualties. In our effort to fish hard, we are hard on tackle. The outcome of all of these trips has been me coining what’s now one of my favorite phrases, “You ain’t having fun, ‘till shit gets broke”. I’m sure there will be more broken rods in my future, my hope is that the occasions are as pleasantly memorable as all of my shattered rods have been to date.