Even though we were both past retirement age our jobs required our presence on site so days off were scarce, so Jimmy Buck and I jumped at the chance of a hastily organized fishing trip.  Hastily organized because Brad had just returned from a tour in Korea and had been transferred into the First Cavalry Division, at Ft. Hood and they were currently training for a bout with the aggressors at Ft. Irwin.  It also happened that at the time Iraq was being fumbled by the U.N. Inspectors.

Brad had called and said that he had this coming Friday off and so did his kids and he would like to take his son, Bradley, salt water fishing.  Bradley, at the time was thirteen and had been fishing with me several times, so I quickly said OK and called Jim and he said that since his nephew and great nephew would be there, he would make time to go, so the trip was on!

The night before Brad and his family drove down from Copperas Cove and when Jim drove down we were almost ready to shove off.  Months before, Layla and I had moved full time to Bayou Vista and I had my twenty-two footer in the boat stall on the canal, so all we had to do was load up the ice, water, food and Jim’s tackle.

Brad and Bradley were using my tackle and shrimp were no problem since I had bought some the night before and kept them alive in a specially remanufactured, plastic, garbage can tied to the boat stall.  Transferring them, using a long handled net only took a short time and then we were off.

My “party” wanted to fish Jones Lake to see if my bragging was correct and the fishing was as really as good as I had been saying.  Since it was Friday, as we glided under the railroad bridge, boat traffic was almost non-existent.  At mid tide the bridge’s clearance was almost seven feet and the distance between the bridge supports was about eight feet, with signs clearly marking both channels.  Several years before, a new bridge had been built that really opened up Bayou Vista’s access to West Galveston Bay.

This is a picture of Highlands Bayou flowing under the new, Bayou Vista bridge.  The old bridge had half the clearance of the new one.  The Bayou empties into Jones Lake and then on into West Galveston Bay.  When I took this shot, the tide was high, it was cloudy and threatening rain, the precursor of Tropical Storm Erin, that one week later caused serious flooding in Illinois, Wisconsin and Minnesota.

Sometimes you get lucky and today was one of those days with the tide flowing in all morning, light winds from the southeast and nice, green, clear water.  All we had to do now was find signs of baitfish or shrimp popping out of the water as the predators chased them.

As we cruised slowly towards Tiki Island, the boat seemed to handle a little sluggish, but I thought it was just the load of our food, water and equipment, plus the four big guys.  There were bait fish in the water as we started our drift and began casting out our shrimp, under rattling popping corks and soon, whamo, Jim was into a nice fish, a speckled trout, definitely a keeper, that when netted it was unceremoniously pitched into the big cooler.  Shortly Brad connected and we iced down another trout.  Bradley had a solid strike, a spec that he landed, but it proved to be below the minimum length so back into the water with it.  We iced down another and seemed to have drifted out of the fish, so we made a slow circle back, near to our original starting point.

During this move the boat was still sluggish, so I gave it more gas and as we started our drift, Bradley cast out and was rewarded by his cork slowly going under.  “Bradley, let it go under, slowly take up your slack, now hit him,” I instructed, and his bowed rod and line peeling off his reel, gave tentative identification to the fish, probably a nice red. Several years before when Bradley hooked his first big red, he was afraid it was going to pull him into the water, but not this time because he successfully brought the fish, a keeper red, to the boat and it was added to the cooler.  This spot slowed so we prepared to move to another proven spot about a half mile away.

Bringing the boat to plane, I was now certain something was wrong with the motor, it bogged down and barely got the boat up on top, but reaching the new spot OK, we started our drift.  Soon we had boated 3 more keepers and as the fishing slowed we decided to circle back and drift through this spot again.

Attempting to start the motor, grind, grind, nothing happened.  No ignition.  Grind, grind again, nothing as Jim said, “It seems like it’s broke.  You have plenty of gas?”  Looking at the gauge, I replied, “Three fourths.”  Brad added, “Dad, does this boat always ride so low in the water?”  “No,” I exclaimed, kneeling down and opening an inspection plate, I spied our problem.  The entire bilge area was full of water, that’s why it was sluggish.  Obviously the bilge pumps had shorted out but the motor should have started.  Trying again, grind, grind, nothing.

Facing my “party” I told them, “Boys, it looks like were stuck.  Get on the life jackets and Bradley tie a rag onto the end of your rod and put it into the rear rod holder,” and the “crew” complied with the orders.  We were less than 2 miles from my canal house, but the channels had some 10, foot plus holes, so wading and pulling the boat back was out of the question and swimming the boat through and under the railroad bridge was virtually impossible so we’ll have to sit and await a rescuer.

Now the story gets real strange.  We had been the only boat in Jones Lake, but in the distance there was one boat heading our way. It turned out to be a nice, bay/offshore fishing boat, 23, feet long with a 225 on the back end, a nice rig, and nice to see him!  Pulling up beside us, the driver said, not even asking if we need help, “I’m here to pull you all in.”  “That is fine with me.” I replied, as I tossed him a line, then adding, “Getting under the bridge is going to present us some problems.”  He said, “If all of you all can keep it from banging into the supports, I believe we can sneak through OK.”  Never having seen this man or his boat before, I wondered how he knew about the bridge?

We putted up Highlands Bayou and, with no damage, manhandled the boat, riding low in the water, through the bridge, the flotation keeping it up.  Asking the Good Samaritan if he would tow us on to Louis’ Bait Camp to use the ramp and load up there, he gladly complied.  Calling Layla on my cell phone, I told her we had a problem and asked her to hook up the trailer to the Suburban and come on down to Louis’.

Once we were tied up to a pier at Louis’, I offered to pay the man for his help, “No,” he replied, “I broke down a couple of weeks ago and was pulled in from 20 miles offshore, and I’m returning the favor. I knew someone needed help and I’m more than glad to offer it.”  Wow!  How did he know we needed help, kinda’ spooky wasn’t it?

We loaded the boat onto the trailer, took it to the local boat shop, and two weeks and $720.00 later, it ran like new.  The leak in the bilge area was caused by a worn water line going into the live well and a loose fitting had allowed the water into the gas tank.  From then on I used the live well for storage and closed the valve to its water intake.

Having pulled in several boats, once finding an empty boat and even saving 3 men from drowning in a sinking fishing boat, this was different, me getting pulled in, but it all ended well because we did have enough fish for a big fish fry that night!  However, it has passed through my mind that I never saw the man or his boat again!

With no wind, calm seas and high humidity everything was real close and if you live along the Gulf of Mexico, you know exactly what that means! At sunup, as we reached the end of the Galveston Jetties, we set our course to 150 on the compass. Earlier we had stopped by our friendly, ex German submariner’s to buy some cigar minnows and were told by him that the shrimp boats could be found about 20 miles out on a course of 150. The breeze created by Bob Baugh’s boat cruising along at 35, was refreshing to Bob, Brad and I and 18 miles out, sure enough, we sighted the first shrimp boat.

Bob pulled alongside of the shrimper and the mandatory swap, beer for some chum, was made. Beer is the legal tender of choice out on the Gulf and can be a barter item for shrimp, chum and even ice. The trade made we baited up our medium weight rods, loaded with 20 pound line, a 3 foot, light wire leader and red reels, with cigar minnows purchased from our German friend, tossed out a couple of handfuls of chum, small fish culled from the boat’s night of shrimping and awaited the inevitable strikes!

They strikes weren’t long in coming. All three of us got almost simultaneous strikes, and the race was on, 3 kingfish, roaring away at full speed, the reels nearly smoking as the fish pulled out line. We gained a little line, then the kings took off again and two of the kings decided to battle it out on the top. Many splashes later we gaffed two, but kept one in the water because we only had 2 gaffs and gaffing the last one, we whacked all 3 with our “kingfish persuader”, admired the 3, 20 pounders and into the cooler with them.

We repeated this scenario two more times, long runs, splashes on top and grudging fights alongside the boat and added two more kings, 20 pounders like the first three, to our cooler, then Bob said that a person could eat just so much kingfish and we should leave these fish alone. Because, this past week, he’d heard about a new rig, 50 miles out, in about 150 foot of water, that should have some amberjack around it.

Bob figured out our new course and we headed out, the slick seas letting us make the 30, mile run in just under and hour. Soon we saw the rig on the horizon, Bob’s calculations were right on, so we pulled up to it and trolled around it a couple of times with no luck. Next, we pulled up to the rig and tied on, then let our cigar minnows out to drift in the current, then, not 5 minutes later, I had a savage strike, the fish heading south, then jumping several times. The fish, later identified as a 25 pound barracuda, put up a savage fight all the way to the boat and, trying not to hurt the fish too much, we slid the gaff into the point of its chin and hefted it aboard, a nice catch, but no eating for this one. Barracuda in southern climes, many times carry a disease, cigutera that they contract from other fish that eat the shellfish on tropical reefs, so we’d take no chances with this one.

No amberjack at this stop, so we caught several more toothy, barracudas, then with the seas still flat, we untied from the rig and headed back in. As usual, not a mile from the end of the jetties, we picked up a race, with a sleek, 30 foot inboard with, obviously, 2 big diesel engines and built for speed. Full bore we were racing when we spied a crew boat heading our way. Both little boats veered to the right, but both boats caught the edge of the crew boat’s wake, a 4, foot wave and both, slammed into it. It’s a wonder both boats weren’t destroyed, but Brad and I were tossed around the fishing area of Bob’s boat and going down, my watch, a Rolex, hit a sharp object cutting my wrist and breaking the watch band. Rolex bands aren’t cheap, even back then in the 80’s, and $200.00 later, with a new watch, band, I was ready for whatever the Gulf could bring my way, I thought.

Back in the 90’s, before the low railroad bridge across Highlands Bayou was raised, Bayou Vista’s outlet to Jones Lake and Galveston Bay had probably only 5 feet of clearance above low tide.  This prevented large boats from passing under it, so by necessity, I became a two boat fisherman.  Owning a 20, foot boat that wouldn’t make it under the bridge, it was trailered and used for offshore fishing and fishing around the Galveston Jetties, but I needed something that would make it under the low bridge.

That something turned out to be a 13, foot Boston Whaler.  This particular boat had no motor, no steering controls and was on a worn out trailer.  A new galvanized, trailer fixed one of the problems and the other was fixed with a new 20 horsepower, manual steering, motor, I even added a trolling motor.  My steering position was near the transom, on a small cooler, that also served as a bait bucket.  Maybe this was a little light on safety issues, but with me alone, the boat would run over thirty and it would be great for fishing in Jones Lake.

Here I am, perched on the bait box/cooler, scanning for birds working.

So what was one of the first things I did with my Whaler?   Roy Collins a former Galveston Bay fishing guide, and I trailered it to the base of the Texas City Dike, put in there and went screaming of to the northeast to drift around Dollar Point in Galveston Bay.  Definitely this was big water, not the best place for a 13, footer, even a Whaler!

There were probably a dozen other large boats drifting in the Dollar Reef area.  Never having drifted in the Whaler before, I mistimed and misdirected my first drift and before I knew it was drifting into a 23 footer.  Yanking the starter cord, nothing happened.  Yank, yank, yank, still nothing.  Roy grabbed the side of the big boat to hold us off, while the  owner was giving me some very clear instructions, “Keep that, blankety, blank little thing away from my boat.  Watch it, don’t drift into my engine, blankety, blank, blank!”

Clearing the 23 footer, I saw we were about to drift into some fishing lines from another big boat, 21 footer!  Yank, yank, yank, the motor still wouldn’t start.  More instructions from the other boat owner, “Blankety, blank, blank, keep out of our lines. Blankety , blank, don’t you know what you are doing, blankety, blank!”  This was very embarrassing!  Yank, yank and then I remembered, Viola, turn on the motor’s on/off switch, which I did, yank, put, put, put, put, put, it started and, feeling very embarrassed, we eased away from the fishing lines!

Getting control of our drifts, we began catching some real nice speckled trout, when a small rainsquall popped up south of us and was heading our way. We really didn’t pay much attention to the squall and kept on fishing and catching fish. Then it started to rain, better said, “Then the bottom fell out!”

Blinding rain and the next thing I knew, water was up around my ankles, the gas tank was afloat and the rain was still pouring down!  At the time I didn’t have a two-way drain plug that would have let the water drain out, so the water kept rising and we both started bailing.  Pouring the shrimp out of the 33, quart cooler, also my seat, we finally made headway in our foundering boat.

Ankle deep, the rain stopped.  Starting the engine, I pulled the drain plug and gunned the engine.  We jumped up on a plane and the boat drained.  Whew, that was close!  Reinserting the plug and we went screaming back to our trailer, and thinking to myself, No more big water for this little boat, but I will say one thing about the little Whaler, it didn’t sink.  Whalers are made with positive flotation and as their advertisement shows, you can cut one in half and it won’t sink!

That afternoon, I bought and installed a two-way drain plug!

Being in college, this was way before the time we even thought about owning a boat, in fact, fishing boats back then, were few and far between. Our choices were wading, renting a skiff, but we didn’t even have an outboard motor, or rock hopping on the Galveston Jetties. The following is a story about one of the rock hopping days.

It was a beautiful summer day on the beach in Galveston, the girls out in force with their 1950’s, “skimpy” bathing suits, nothing like now a days Bikinis, light wind from the southeast and no waves crashing on or over Galveston’s South Jetty. However, this trip, Bobby Baldwin and I didn’t have eyes for the girls, but we had walked out the concrete walkway then, holding on to our rod and reels and carrying our live shrimp in a bait bucket along with one tackle box, literally climbed out on the slick, rocks of the jetty, ending up a hundred yards past the topping.

This was to be our fishing spot and our target for the morning would be speckled trout. Both of us were armed with six foot, popping rods, direct drive reels spooled with fifteen pound braided line, both reels having the luxury of a star drag system and later in the morning, mine would be tested severely! We were both using popping corks with a two to three foot, leader, the bait of choice was live shrimp. We’d cast along the rocks and slowly reel in while popping the corks, the pop simulating the sound a trout makes while feeding on the surface, hopefully attracting other fish to the shrimp.

Casting our baits out, it was no time until both corks went under, setting the hooks, mine came back hookless, but Bobby was fast into a Spanish mackerel and obviously, my leader was cut by another’s sharp teeth! Swinging his mackerel up on to the rocks, in our haste to get to fishing, we both remembered we’d left the net in the car, so for the morning we practiced swing and catch the fish. This proved much easier said then done, since a three, pound trout doesn’t swing very good, let alone they’re slimy and hard to hold on to!

Threading the mackerel on to the stringer, it dawned on us there was no place to tie it off, our choices being a cleft between two of the massive stones used to construct the jetty, or loop it around the tackle box that was wedged in securely, we chose the tackle box. Wouldn’t you know it, after I rehooked and cast out, I had a big strike, with the fish wallowing and splashing on the surface, quickly identifying it as a big trout, I tried my best to land it, but as I swung it up out of the water, it didn’t swing very good, the hook dislodged and, plop, back into the deep with it. Smaller trout, along with the occasional mackerel, were no problem, but how do you tell a big fish not to eat your shrimp?

We’d caught maybe a dozen trout and two mackerel, when I cast out and had a huge strike, really a pole bender! All I could do was hold on as the reel’s star drag was zinging as the unknown fish took out line. Zzzz, zzzz, zzzz, the star drag was singing as the fish headed down the jetty for parts unknown. Finally the end of my line was reached, pop, it gave way, leaving me with an empty reel and unbowed rod. That was some fish!

With me with no line and since I drove, I called it a day and Bobby followed suit. The fishing and catching was fun, the rock hopping proved to be dangerous because a friend, not two weeks later, slipped and fell, cut his leg, that required ten stitches to close. This one event brought our rock hopping to an early end!

Years later, I finally figured out what kind of fish was probably on the end of my line. After catching many kingfish on light tackle, I bet it was a fifteen pounder that stripped me. It was too fast for a shark, they fight more doggedly; not a tarpon, no jumps; not a big redfish, no head shaking and not a king size speckled trout, no wallowing; had to be a king!