Thirty years ago, I got the saltwater-fly fishing itch so bad. This affliction consumed me. I compiled quite a collection of magazines and read stories about the different methods, flies, equipment, and anything else necessary to catch a tailing redfish, including how to stalk them.
Then, before even trying it, I began making purchases. It was the usual program: what I thought was needed wasn’t exactly what I bought, but I believed everything I read.
Back then, I was frequently working in Charleston when someone told me about a marshy area far off the beaten path, and when the tide came in, redfish dimples could be seen, with tailing fish everywhere. Of course, I believed him. I literally begged for a pin drop so I could check it out. I realized that working the rest of the day would be useless and unproductive. Besides, I had a lead on a new place to go catch my new dream fish far away from the beaten path, so I headed that way.
I followed the pin for almost an hour before turning off the main road towards my destination. One part of me wanted to speed and hurry to lay eyes on this place, while the other half was speaking in my other ear, telling me it had been there for hundreds of thousands of years and would be waiting for me when I arrived alive. Patience prevailed.
Paradise found
There it was. Looking out my car window, I saw the most beautiful piece of property I had ever seen, with no No Trespassing signs. This was my new “redfish” stomping grounds. The tide was extremely low, which gave me a good “lay of the land.”
The next 30 minutes were spent walking up and down the road in business clothes, surveying my path and approach, pointing out and memorizing landmarks, talking to myself, and pulling out a pad to write notes so I wouldn’t be mentally taxed.
Passersby must have thought I was somebody important too because everyone who drove by stopped to say hello and chat for a few minutes.
Finally, my work schedule was accidentally and deliberately rearranged to be back in the Charleston area, coinciding with the next afternoon’s high tide. High tide would be at 6 p.m., which meant I would have to leave Greenville, drive the three hours in the early-morning darkness, and attempt to make the day somewhat productive.
The plan was to work for the company in the morning, then be at the marsh around 1:30 p.m. to scout the area first. Then observe potential water flow patterns, identify low spots where the fish may enter first, and determine where to set up in the short grass and wait. A solid plan.
Getting ready
Based on the high tide report in Charleston, I should have three hours of good fishing. I was totally pumped and had a hard time containing myself. It was like being a small child on Christmas morning, except I tried to be an adult about it. The only thing I needed now was saltwater and cruising fish.
Changing clothes between two open car doors on the side of the road was quick until I realized I had packed my fishing clothes in the trunk. What the heck, I thought, go for it. After all, it wouldn’t have been the first time this has happened anyway. Several cars drove by and flashed their lights, but no one threw me any money, and the sheriff didn’t show up, so it all worked out.
Looking around, I hadn’t noticed the ditch I needed to cross to get to the short grass I had been studying. “Forge it, go ahead and bust through it,” I thought. The reward was worth it. So, I did. That was the yuckiest and stickiest pluff mud that reached almost to my knees. I could hear a gurgle, trying to suck me in every time I lifted my leg out to move forward. I had to pinch my toes together to keep from losing my good tennis shoes. Of course, I didn’t think about having to retrace my steps later to get back to the car.
The adventure began. There was a small, wooded knoll and then a large expanse of short grass surrounding it. I must have crossed the wooded hill ten times, venturing back and forth, exploring until I found the perfect spot. Snakes and a possible alligator didn’t come to mind until I was driving back home. Thoughts of those are probably what kept me awake.
Falling short
I sat down in the short grass and confidently watched a specific ditch, waiting for the water to rise. The pluff mud dried hard on my legs. And it was hot, but June in Charleston is always hot. The only part of my body that didn’t get mosquito-bitten or sunburned lay caked in that dark brown goo.
Patiently, I sat there doing my best to ignore the elements. The water and the fish never showed. I learned later that the tide needed to be at least six feet to reach up into the short grass, and this one was two feet short.
Disappointed, I trudged back to the car and had to somewhat swim back across the ditch because of the tide. I was so nasty, itchy, and dirty by then. Being this miserable was going to make it a long drive back to Greenville.
I noticed a bridge over a tidal creek about a quarter mile down the road, grabbed a towel, and managed to clean up underneath it in the rising water while clinging to the rock pilings and fighting off the crabs, multitasking in its purest form. Still yearning for that first redfish and determined to be back, I patiently waited for my next adventure. ■
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