Late June isn’t the best of times for fishing in Baffin Bay, south-southwest of Corpus Christi, but, in 2005, my cousin, George Pyland, and I had decided on making one last fishing expedition (before we got too old). Before day break when we launched his boat on the upper end of Padre Island the wind was howling out of the south and the forecast was for it to howl even more during the day. Not a very good sign since we faced a long ride across open water both going and coming.

Surviving the long ride, on the way we had decided to start fishing on a reef around the mouth of Baffin Bay, we pulled up, just off of the Intercoastal Waterway and anchored on the reef’s south side. With the high wind, the water was cloudy, but we still had high hopes for a successful trip.

We were using standard popping cork outfits; seven and a half foot, medium action, graphite rods, Shimano reels loaded with twelve pound line, a small, popping cork, three feet of ten pound leader, anchored by a small treble hook. Our bait for the day was live shrimp hooked under the horn, which is my favorite bait for specs.

We cast our rigs out, popped the cork once and, on cue, both corks went under, two hard strikes! Both fish took off for parts unknown, wallowed on the top like all good specs are prone to do, then relenting to the pressure of the rod and reel’s drag, came in toward the boat to continue their fight. After a trip around the boat doing the “West Bay Shuffle”, I netted both trout, two and a half pounders!

For some reason, for the next fifteen minutes, our casts were met with no strikes. Then the action picked up and we started catching trout. The action was steady and as soon as the water stopped moving on the tide change, we had our limit, twenty of ‘em. Except for the first two we caught, all the fish were all one and a half to two pounds, a good mess of specs! We had planned to go on into Baffin Bay, now since we couldn’t fish there, we opted to take the long ride back.

After our long bumpy, ride back to the launch ramp I filleted the fish. Then, we shook hands, hugged, climbed into our trucks and headed home. All the way back home I thought to myself, I’m not too old to try this again! Anyway, we almost made it into Baffin Bay.

In Church this past Sunday I sat beside Roy Varley and his wife, Linda. Roy is a former business executive and both of them had some comments about my book, “[The End Of The Line]”. Roy said, “When I got the book I finished it in two sessions and I liked it!” Then he added, “When are you going to write one about your quail hunting?” At this, Linda, chimed in, “I read it too and I liked it!”

More good news! On Monday, June 7, I took the book to Hastings Book Store in Brownwood and they stepped up for five copies. This isn’t much for a Tom Clancey or James Lee Burke, but it’s a start for me since Hastings is a state wide book store. It would be neat if they took it State wide!

We always tried not to take ciceros, beginners, out offshore fishing with us. Several times we relented and each of these times we were burned. This trip was one of those.

The summer of 1982 was one for the books. Very nice weather, so nice you could plan an offshore trip for the next weekend and, sure enough, the weather would turn out to be nice! Early Monday in mid June, we’d planned to take off from work on Friday afternoon and fish around the oil rigs east of Galveston. These rigs, near the Heald Banks, had been consistent fish producers for us for several weeks.

The fishermen, Dewey Stringer, Max, Clem and I, reported for duty at Dewey’s boat sling at the Galveston Yacht Basin. Clem, a business associate of ours, was a cicero and had never been offshore fishing before. We figured that the three of us could help (control) him and make this baptism successful.

Passing the first rig, seven miles out from the end of the North Jetty, we circled the rig but the water didn’t look right, we didn’t see any signs of bait or fish activity, so we motored on. The next rig, over ten miles out, we pulled up close to it on the down current side and let out three lines. We were using six and a half foot, popping rods, black Ambassaduer reels packed with fifteen pound, monofilament, along with a three foot, steel leader and two hooks with the eye on one threaded through the other, a fish getter! Attached to the hooks was a six inch, frozen, cigar minnow that we’d purchased at the Yacht Basin. The frozen bait gave us the weight needed for short casts, they quickly thawed out and became excellent baits for king mackerel (kingfish) or cobia.

Drifting away from the rig, we had two solid strikes. Clem picked up one rod and was welcomed to catching a kingfish. His fish ran and took out line for a good fifty yards, made another shorter run, and with more instruction, Clem brought the fish up to be gaffed. We gaffed it, flopped it into the cooler and his only remark was, “It sure pulled hard!”

Max boated the other king, a nice one over thirty pounds, we rebaited, resumed our drift and soon had another strike. Clem grabbed this rod too and held on! Another long run, two shorter ones, gaffing the king and flopping it in the box, Clem, under his breath said, “This could be like work!”

Here’s Max’s big king and the rigging we were using.

No more strikes so we headed on out. After about twenty miles we pulled up to a working rig and tied up to it. Soon, the cook came out, started up a conversation with us and told of some nice tarpon and cobia that he’d seen lolling around the rig. This got our attention and we put out four lines.

Strike, strike, and thinking that it might be a tarpon, Dewey and I picked up the rods, but the long runs identified the fish as kings. Another strike and Clem picked up the rod, the line started out and a six foot, tarpon cleared the water. Dewey and I were working our fish toward the boat. Clem yelled, “How do I fight this thing?” Max was up talking with the cook as the tarpon cleared the water again and headed south. One more jump and it was all over as the hook came sailing back toward us.

Prior to the late 1990’s tarpon were extremely rare in the northern Gulf, but we told Clem not to worry; we’d all lost tarpon, that they’re very hard to hook, have tough mouths and their aerobatics make them difficult to land. We didn’t tell him that the first thing he should have done when one hits a bait was to really sock the hook to it, then give the fish some slack when it jumped and then hold on!

We were very slow learners about taking ciceros out with us!

All the way down to our wade fishing spot in Trinity bay, the radio had been blaring with the strains of Elvis’ new song, “Don’t Be Cruel”. This latest release, of the very talented newcomer from Mississippi, seemed to be on every station and was and destined to be one of his hallmarks.

Somehow, through all the music, we, my Dad and I, finally arrived at our spot beside Crawley’s Bait Camp. Going down to the water, we walked through the yard of the bay house beside Crawley’s. In this same house, fourteen years earlier, my Brother, Harvey, told us that he was going into the Navy and I first experienced the tug of a speckled trout, in “[Trinity Bay – A Bigger Pull]”.

We walked out beside the, now, rickety, old pier, past its end and finally reaching the edge of Beazley’s Reef began casting out. Our rigs were pretty much standard, six foot, fiber glass, popping rods, direct drive reels and fifteen pound braided line. At the end of the line we attached popping corks, a three foot, leader and a small treble hook on the end of the leader. For bait we were using live shrimp, just purchased at Crawley’s. This is a proven rig that I have used successfully for over fifty years, catching all types of salt water, fish!

The tide was coming in, the water for mid June was cool and not five minutes after our first cast, both of our corks went under and for the next three hours, we were into some memorable trout fishing! The specs were all between one and two pounds, good eatin’ size and, after throwing the small ones back, we counted up our stringers, thirty fish. A good number to quit on since, this afternoon, my girl friend of three years, was flying home from vacationing with her relatives in Pass Christianne, Mississippi. I wanted to get back to our home in West University and get ready for my big date. We stopped fishing and set to the filleting of our catch.

Time for the big date and the minute I picked her up, I knew there was a problem. Talking it out, I found out that during her stay, Elvis and his entourage, body guards included, checked into the same motel and she had a couple of dates with him. She added that she thought it would be a good time to break up anyway.

End of story, no, but two years later, at ROTC camp at Ft. Hood, Elvis was there in Basic Training, in one of my friends Training Company. Elvis was a model trooper and I saw him many times from a distance, but we never met. To this day, hearing “Don’t Be Cruel” brings back memories and still ticks me off!

After, as it turned out, a very eventful trip off shore (visit the Honey Hole) with Bobby Baldwin, his brother and father-in-law, I was to meet Bobby and one of his friends from Beaumont at their boat shed on Bolivar peninsula and head back out with them for another go at some kingfish. To top it all off, my ex-wife and I were to spend the weekend at their family’s beach house.

When I arrived at the boat shed, no Bobby. His friend, Joe, was waiting for me and said, “Bobby was purty sick, but he told me to tell you to take the boat on out and catch some fish.” What a surprise to me because I’d never taken a big, boat out anywhere, let alone, offshore. Well, there has to be a first time for everything!

Joe and I cranked it up, it started and purred as we backed out of the shed and putted out into the Intercoastal Waterway. Trying to remember everything Tom had said coming in from my last trip with them, I opened up the big engine and we cruised on out into Galveston Channel and around the South Jetty. We agreed that we’d stop at the special place and try for some speckled trout. Fiddling around there for an hour, we caught two, two pounders, then pulled up the anchor and headed south, out toward the twelve mile, oil rig.

Really being ciceros and having no experience with a big boat or offshore fishing, just as we left the spot on the jetty, we put out two lines for trolling, one with a green feather jig and another with a blue. Unknown to me at the time, there’s a small hump on the Gulf’s bottom, probably an old wreck or some other type of structure, six miles of the end of the jetty. Trolling over the hump, both lines were hit and two kings took off. We did our best and finally gaffed both fish. We had caught two, by our estimate, fifteen pound, kingfish.

Not even knowing to turn around and troll back across the hump, that we didn’t even know was there, we doggedly kept trolling south, toward the rig, now visible just over the horizon. We trolled around the rig for an hour with no luck and since it was past lunch time, I told Joe that we were heading back in.

We must have trolled back across the hump, because one of lines was smashed by something big! Putting the engine in neutral, I grabbed the rod, this big fish took line out like there was no drag on the reel! The fish continued the battle, but stayed deep, taking more line. Finally I started gaining on it, and as it wallowed on the surface, we both gawked at the biggest red snapper we’d ever seen! Gaffing it, hauling it aboard, it was huge and we guessed it weighed at least twenty pounds.

We iced the snapper in our cooler and headed in, past the end of the South Jetty, up the Galveston Channel and turned into the Intercoastal Waterway. The engine had been running for almost six hours and, when we left this morning, we’d never thought to fill the gas tank. Luckily for us we didn’t run out! But misfortune reared its ugly head as I was putting the boat into the slip, I turned off the engine and our drift, that I thought would take us on into the slip, stopped cold. The tide was going out. I didn’t even know about tides then!

Trying to start the engine, all I got was one click. The engine that had been running for almost six hours wouldn’t start. The starter chose this time to quit working. Luckily, a man outside of the shed threw us a line and we tugged the big twenty-three foot boat back into the stall. What if we’d gotten the click when we were offshore? I didn’t even know how to use the ship to shore radio!

On meat market scales the snapper weighed twenty-two pounds!

On Friday, May 7, in [More About My Book], I posted remarks from two people who had read “[The End Of The Line]”. This past week I’ve run into three more folks that have read it. Listing them and their remarks out, it seems that they liked the book and the stories.

Rocky Gonzales, former Marine, retired missionary and currently a master plumber, said, “Jon, I didn’t know you were an officer until I read the book and there were a lot of good stories in it!”

Steve Bridges, owner and editor of The Goldthwaite Eagle, our weekly, local newspaper said, “I liked the book, especially all the parts about fishing with your family. I’m a big family guy too!”

Dayton House, a Preacher and youth worker said, “If you love fishing, you’ll like this book!”

Now I know that I’m getting to be a liberal because all of these comments make me feel good.

In May of 1980, I decided to make an afternoon trip to one of the creeks feeding into Lake Conroe for a go at some bass. Having been given some brief instructions about getting to the spot, along with the possibility of catching some fish, I left work early and headed out. Going the “back way” from my home in Cypress, Texas this was a less than one hour, trip. Heading up FM 149, now freeway and four lanes all the way to Texas 105, and going through Montgomery, I continued north on 149 for two or three miles, crossed the first bridge and exited the road.

There was no launch ramp, just two ruts leading toward the water. Huffing and puffing my twelve-foot, aluminum boat, electric motor, battery, paddle, rod and tackle box, I, with wet feet, unceremoniously launched it. This is the same one that, in Georgia, I caught the twelve pound, bass out of a year earlier. Push polling with the paddle, finally paddling, I got the boat into deeper water, cranked up the electric motor, headed under the bridge and started casting. My bait of choice was a dark green, Lucky 13, a proven top water plug.

Outside of the creek channel, there was a big hydrilla, a very intrusive moss, laden flat, a likely looking spot, with a few lily pads thrown in and I headed toward it. Pick a spot in the moss, cast out, let the 13 sit until the rings disappeared, then twitch it and repeat if necessary. My second cast, after the rings settled, abruptly, a nice bass came out of the water and, on the way back into the water, clamped down on the Lucky 13. Having caught a lot of bass in the past, I’d never seen this before, a reverse blow-up! After several jumps, I reached down and lipped it, a nice, four pounder. Throwing it back, I kept on casting and twitching.

Casting into another opening, letting the rings settle, twitching the plug twice, another bass, a twin of the first, exploded into the 13 and the fight was on. Landing it and throwing it back, I continued casting for the next hour, with no luck. Heading back towards the “launch ramp”, I figured that with the lake up this would remain a good spot through June or until the water level dropped.

Getting home, I told Randy about the spot and gave him better instructions about finding it. He went up there the next weekend with a friend and was using a jig around the bridge pilings and caught a spinning rod and reel. It was a nice expensive, outfit that we cleaned up and used it in salt water for the next twenty years!

Now, for the rest of the story, Lake Conroe was once considered one of the top five bass fishing spots in the nation. We did fish this spot for the next year with some success, but then, to control the hydrilla, the State of Texas introduced grass carp, white amur, supposedly these fish were sterile, but they weren’t! Within a year and a half the carp had eaten up our fishing spot. By 1996 the carp, without any vegetation to eat, died out, vegetation rebloomed and the bass fishing improved with it. Now the State, the lake front property owners, various interested national organizations, fishing clubs and the San Jacinto River Authority are working together to control the hydrilla and other harmful plants and the fishing should improve.