We were down at our beach house in Jamaica Beach, on the west end of Galveston Island, and one Sunday afternoon in late April of 1969, Norman Shelter and I decided to take a run out to the Galveston Jetties to try and hook up with some white, sea trout or sand trout, Cynoscion arenarius. These are fine eating fish but because of their soft texture they are difficult to freeze. The best way to try and keep them for any length of time is to freeze them in water and be sure to squeeze the air out.

It was a strange day, not much wind, light out of the southeast, but huge swells rolling over the ends of the north and south jetties. Within the jetties, they served their purpose well and broke the big swells, but as Norman and I rounded the end of the north jetty, it was gut check time. We could’v gone through the boat cut, but decided that the shortest way to the fish was to go around the end. We raced up the side of two big swells and then sped down the front of the next one and we were safely into the calm water.

Anchoring up, we bated our lines with fresh, dead shrimp and cast back toward the jetty. We were fishing with six and a half foot, popping rods, red, Ambasseuder reels, loaded with fifteen pound line, on the bottom, about thirty-five feet down, right among the rocks. Both of our casts were met with solid strikes and after short battles, we boated two nice, sand trout, two pounders. Good fish, since the bigger ones like this were usually caught miles, off shore. Both fish had a mouth full of teeth, no spots like speckled trout and a pretty, a bluish hue covering their heads.

This was repeated over and over until out eighty-eight quart cooler was full of fish (and ice). Then, Norman said the famous last words, “I’ll make one more cast.” He cast out toward the open gulf and the bait had no more hit the water than he was greeted with a savage, strike! The fury of the strike hurled the king mackerel ten feet or more out of the water. Then the king ran!

Wrasslin’ with the anchor, it finally pulled loose and I started the motor. As I came about, the king, a nice one, forty pounds or more, hit the end of the line, spooling Norman. The line gave a popping sound as it separated from the reel.

Since our cooler was full and our anchor was up, we headed back to the yacht basin. Going back we smartly chose to use the boat cut!

Early April 1970 offered some beautiful Gulf coast weather. Light winds and warm days had raised the water temperature to over seventy degrees, the speckled trout, or specs, had spawned and now had moved onto the sand/shell flats prowling for food and it was mine and Jim Buck, my Brother-In-Law’s, plan to intercept some of these monsters.

Our ambush point was the sand flats, on the south side of the spoil banks of the Intercoastal Waterway, just west of Greens Cut, but not as far as Karankawa Reef where the sand flats turned into mud/shell. Two months earlier, on a warm February afternoon, the mud had offered us some good fishing, but now the specs had changed to their spring and early summer pattern.

Jim and I were using live shrimp under a popping cork, but weren’t blind casting and drifting. Our targets were the slicks made by the specs gorging and regurgitating bits of their prey. The oil released will pop to the surface as a pail or washtub size, shiny, oily slick and the trout will be under the slicks. A telltale sign produced by the slicks is a distinctive water melon, smell and many times we’d pick up the odor before we found the slick.

We were idling along in my new seventeen foot, deep vee, cross wind to a light southeast breeze, and sure enough, Jim said, “I smell ‘em” as I also picked up the unmistakable scent of watermelon. Scanning the immediate area, we both saw slicks popping to the surface less than a hundred feet to our left and cutting the outboard, we looped short casts between two of them and were both rewarded with solid strikes. After a few short runs, a boat circling battle ensued and we let the specs tire before slipping nets under them and claiming a brace of fine three pound, trout!

Pictured is my new, 17′, deep vee. It was so new I hadn’t even applied the state required registration decals.

Restarting the motor, we continued looking and sniffing and came upon a tub size slick to our front. Jim shot a cast toward it, popped his cork once, a spec smashed the shrimp and headed off across the bay. Rod tip held high, Jim’s fish began the first of three circles of the boat, each being closer, until laying on its side, I easily slipped the net under it and hefted a nice five pounder aboard. Jim had been fishing for specs for the past four years and this was his best one to date. He was happy and, smiling, told me, “I’ll drive the boat and you catch the next one!”

Within fifteen minutes we both caught the scent and as I cast toward the emerging slick, I remarked to Jim, “I’ll bet this’l be a nice one.” No sooner as the shrimp hit the water, there was a smashing strike! The fish headed “south” and all I could do was hold on. Finally, stopping the run, I was surprised when the fish headed back towards the boat. Most times a good spec will begin circling, conserving its energy, then really put up a scrap beside the boat, but not this one.

Reeling madly and barely keeping pressure on the fish, it rolled a short distance from the boat, revealing a flash of silver and we both remarked, “That’s some spec!” It made several short runs and stirred the water to “a froth” around the boat, but finally tired as Jim netted it and held it up for both of us to admire. We guessed that it weighed over six pounds.

We had already filleted the other three fish and belatedly decided to, at least, take a picture of the big ‘un!

We had four very nice specs in the cooler and called it a day. We loaded the boat and drove to Red’s, 7 Seas Grocery, to weigh my big fish. Red, the owner, was holding court with several of his friends, and even though it was before lunch, he and his pals were well into the sauce. Declining his offer to join into the festivities, I asked if we could weigh a big trout that I had just caught? “By all means,” he replied.

Showing off the big fish, it brought “ooohs and ahs” from the group and placing it onto his meat scales, the meter stopped at seven pounds and two ounces. This was a “best” for me for the next twenty-one years!

The following story about “The End Of The Line” was written by Tammarrah Pledger, Associate Editor of the Goldthwaite Eagle newspaper and appeared in the April 8th edition.

“Mills County Man Has First Book Published

Local man Jon Bryan said he started writing for his children. Now that he’s had a book published, however, everyone can enjoy his work. “The End of the Line,” is Bryan’s first published book, although he’s been writing in various forms for many years, he said.€ƒ

Born and raised in Houston, Bryan earned a business degree from the University of Houston in 1959. He is a fifth-generation Texan, and spent his business career in the computer industry. “Most of the jobs I’ve had have entailed a lot of writing,” Bryan told The Eagle. So, although he didn’t go to school for writing, per say, he always did the writing needed for his jobs, and many times for his coworkers, too.

Although this is Bryan’s first published book, he has been published other places. He is a staff writer for “Water and Woods,” an online magazine, and has also had articles published here in The Eagle, as well as the “Buckmasters” Web site and magazine. Bryan also has other book projects in the works, he said. He said his children told him they wanted him to record all his wild stories and events of his life, which is what got him started on the path to writing books. In 2005, he began by editing a book by his Great Uncle, Lee Wallace, “A Waif Of The Times”, copyrighted in 1946. During the editing thought to him self, Hey, I can do this too! This started his second career as a writer.

“The End of the Line,” Bryan said is a compilation of true stories that happened to him. “Half of the people (in the book) are still alive,” he joked. In his own words, Bryan said the book “Is more than a collection of fishing stories. Famous people turn up unexpectedly, times change, equipment changes, techniques change, smugglers are captured and arrested, and the reader is subjected to some of the worst and most dangerous weather boaters can encounter.”

Of the writing experience in general, Bryan had this to say: “Over the past nine months, I have been involved in one of the most rewarding projects that I have ever tackled – having a book published! It became a full-time job. Where do you find the time to be active in your church? Where do you find the time to take part in your Grandchildren’s sports? Where do you find time to hunt and fish? Where do you find time to play senior softball? Where do you find time to do all the chores around the ranch?” He continued, “Managing and balancing everything was a challenge. But now, seeing my name on the cover, re-reading some of the stories and holding the book in my hands, it was all worth it!”

“The End of the Line,” published by RoseDog Publishing out of Pittsburgh, Pa., hit shelves in late January of this year. Bryan said it is all so new, so he hasn’t received much feedback just yet. He has a few copies of his own, and copies are available through RoseDog, he noted.

Currently, Bryan is working on other book projects. He said that the next to be ready, a compilation of all of his hunting experiences is “Why It Is Called Hunting”. Other books he’s working on include one about storms and extreme weather events he’s experienced, and one about his family’s history and genealogy.

When he’s not writing, Bryan finds time to be active in his church, he said, as well a his grandchildren’s athletics, his blog Outdoor Odyssey, hunting and fishing, and senior softball where his team has won National Championships in 2002, 2003, and 2008. He is a member of the Texas Senior Softball Hall of Fame, and the Softball Players Association Hall of Fame. He and his wife, Layla, have owned property in Mills County since 1992, he said, and they retired to the Texas Hill Country in 2005.”

The period of my life from 1960 to 1964 was spent finishing up my Army Reserve duty, working three jobs and welcoming my first child, Brad. All of this left precious little time for any outdoor activities. However, several times during this period I did have the opportunity to spend a Saturday hunting or fishing in the Trinity River bottoms, between Dayton and Liberty, Texas.

We would enter “The Bottoms”, as we called it, at a remote place near Dayton, at the Kennefic Fire Tower, then proceed down seven miles of probably the worst road in the United States. This road was always flooded, mud axel deep on a jeep, deceiving ruts that covered bogs and the home of the largest mosquitoes on the Gulf Coast.

In March of 1964, my Dad and I, along with our redneck, friend from Philadelphia, Mississippi, John Henley, braved the bad road with John’s Jeep and hauled a twelve foot aluminum boat into the oxbow lake. Surprisingly, going into “The Bottoms” we only got stuck twice, no problem with a big winch and a lot of cable!

John took out for an afternoon of squirrel hunting, while my Dad and I hefted the boat into the lake for a go at some bass. We would meet at twilight to head back to civilization. This oxbow lake was, in reality, an old river channel that always had water in it but the depth varied according to rain and subsequent flooding of the Trinity River. The river hadn’t flooded this year so the lake was “down” a little.

We both were “armed” with six foot, bait casting rods and red, Ambassaduer casting reels loaded with fifteen, pound line. My bait of choice was a yellow, Piggy Boat spinner and my Dad was using one of his favorites, a Pico Perch, a swimming bait with a tantalizing wiggling action. The action was hot and heavy and during our afternoons fishing, I don’t believe we changed our lures one time!

After we launched the boat, for silences sake before casting, we paddled up the lake for a hundred yards. My first cast was met with a solid strike and the fish, a two-pound, bass, took to the air, spending more time jumping than in the water. My Dad’s second cast was a duplicate of mine, so within five minutes, we had already boated two bass! The bass kept hitting and within an hour we had a good mess for supper and started culling the fish, only keeping the good ones. Several times during the afternoon we heard John’s .22 crack, so we knew that he too was scoring on some squirrels.

Casting into a likely spot, just as the spinner hit the surface, I had a savage strike, but didn’t get the hooks set. My Dad sped up his retrieve so he could cast into the likely spot, but with the change of pace of his retrieve, he had a big strike too. Feeling the hooks, the fish, a three- foot, alligator gar, went airborne immediately! Several short runs and five or six jumps later the gar tired and as my Dad kept the pressure on, I was able to grab it behind the head. Long nose pliers made getting the Pico Perch out of the gars mouth easy, but looking at the teeth, I couldn’t do it fast enough!

As the afternoon wore down, we started rowing back to the Jeep, casting to fishey looking spots. My Dad had a heavy strike and unlike the bass and gar, the fish didn’t take to the air. It made a long run down the middle of the channel, we both wondered, what kind of fish was this? My Dad said, “This ones fighting like a red or a big drum!” Another long run and a wallow at the boat only told us that it was a big fish. Neither one of us could identify it. As the fish tired, Daddy grabbed it by the lower jaw, or lip, and held on. The long noses helped retrieve his lure, we slipped a stringer through both lips and then tied it down.

We guessed the fish was a fresh water drum, but, back at the Jeep, John correctly identified it as a buffalo, Ictiobus bubalus and said that they were quite bony. (No, he didn’t know the scientific name.) Before we released the buffalo, we weighed it and it pulled the hand scales down to the max, twelve pounds. The fish must have weighed fifteen or better?

We had a good mess of bass, good memories of the gar and buffalo, and John had a bag full of “tree rats”, so this afternoon’s fishing/hunting trip could be called a success, however, the drive out still awaited us! It was “a piece of cake”, we only got stuck three times and winching out in the dark wasn’t so bad after all!

Along the upper Texas coast, in early March of 1991, spring had sprung. Water temperatures were up above seventy and the pelagic species of fish, namely big, king mackerel had moved in to the near shore waters, almost up to the beach. Kings traditionally spawn in late summer, but I’ve heard that the big fish spawn early. I don’t know, but I do know that several of my friends had caught a couple of fifty pounders right off the end of the Galveston jetties this past weekend.

Unpredictable March is a tough one to plan offshore trips for, but the Wednesday morning after my friends big catch, the wind wasn’t too bad, ten to twelve out of the southeast, some gusts to fifteen, temps in the mid seventies, but it was cloudy. It was one of those mornings that seemed cold, but if you put a jacket on, you started sweating.

My Bayou Vista neighbor, Carl Parkinson and I braved these conditions in my deep vee, twenty-four footer, with two one twenties and right after sun up, as soon as we slid past the end of the jetties, we put out two lines. Both rigs were stout, six foot boat rods, medium weight Penn Senator reels, both loaded with sixty pound line, just the ticket for big kings. For bait we used jigs, one with a green plastic, tail and the other with yellow feathers.

We circled around the end of the south jetty and about a hundred yards out from the rocks, began trolling back toward the beachfront. Our first hit wasn’t the screaming run of a big king, but more like trying to stop a Greyhound bus. The bus turned out to be a twenty-pound, jack crevalle that Carl landed, but even on the medium/heavy tackle, it put up a bruising fight. The jack is one of the pelagic species that isn’t good table fare, so we released the fish and continued trolling.

Our second hit, again on the yellow tail, took off for the Yucatan and peeled off a blazing fifty yards of line. Again, Carl grabbed the rod and held on! From the long run, we figured that it was a big, king and as it grudgingly yielded to the pressure, we saw the silver flash that identified it. After a couple of short runs and several splashes around the boat, we gaffed it, whacked it on the head with a billy and put the thirty pounder into the big cooler.

The fishing slowed, we kept trolling within sight of the jetties and around 10:00 AM Carl said he believed that he’d had enough. Coming about, the lines slackened, and right then, the line with the green tail was hit by something. Carl grabbed the rod, didn’t set the hook, just bowed back and let nature take its course. Setting the engines in neutral we started drifting and it seemed to me, we were being pulled, by the big, fish. Carl said, “Jon, I can’t stop this thing and it’s taken almost half of the line. Better chase it!”

Putting the engines back into gear, we eased forward with Carl keeping pressure on the fish. Carl said, “You’d better speed up.” I did, and the line went limp. No fish! What happened?

It was a big, big fish that Carl couldn’t stop. From all appearances, it was hooked very good. Surging the engines forward, did this create a little slack and the hook fell out? Was the fish just holding the bait in its mouth and spit it out when the tension eased off? Did the hook just pull out? Maybe it was one of those Russian subs?

We’ll never know, but we’ll always wonder, what was that?

This is the second part of “Business Trip” and it covers the fishing excursion. The action was hot and heavy and some good pictures were taken!

The Captain gave us instructions about how to apply the hook to the whitebait. He said to hook them just above the pelvic fin and that hook placement makes them spin around on the bottom and, in turn, excites the predators into striking. We baited up and looped casts into the area behind the boat.

My first strike was solid, the fish made a nice run, then headed towards the boat. Another shorter run and, keeping the line tight, I reached over and grabbed the nice bonita by the tail and lifted it into the boat. Before tossing the fish back into the water, our host posed with me as I held it up.

We only caught one more bonita, but the kingfish moved in and supplied us top flight, action. With our medium/light tackle, their initial runs were spectacular and they battled us all the way in, until subdued with a coup de grace, a billy to the knoggin.

We fished for over three hours and the action was constant. On one cast of mine, as the bait floated toward the bottom, my rod was jarred with a heavy strike. My first thought was another king, and I braced myself for its characteristic long first run. But to my surprise the fish came straight up, out of the water in a beautiful arc.

The fish was identified as a barracuda and I started getting ample instructions about landing it. The instructions were interspersed by how good it was going to taste! After several more jumps, the mate gaffed it, careful to apply the gaff in the barracuda’s head area. It was bonked on the head with a billy and into the cooler with it. For me, I will have no part in eating that fish!

We took this picture of the barracuda as we were unloading our catch. The two smaller ‘cudas, pictured, are under twenty-eight inches and supposedly free from ciguatera. The one I caught was over thirty-six inches and, I imagined, full of the disease.

Cruising back into the dock area, we counted up the fish we kept, ten kings and three ‘cudas, a good mornings outing! As the ‘cudas were being cleaned, I commented to our host that I still would have no part in eating one!

This is the first of a two part story about a business trip that my business partner and I took in February of 1996.

We had opened our computer related, business in early 1994 and by the end of February 1996 it was rolling along very well. One of our suppliers in Florida invited us down to get to know them better and to try some mid winter, off shore, fishing. The last part really interested us and we took them up on their offer!

In the afternoon, we flew into Tampa and early the next morning, met our hosts for breakfast and drove on down to meet our Captain and get loaded up for the day’s trip. First thing on our agenda was catching bait for the day. The Captain had his fish finder on as we cruised along a sandy shore, the finder flashed showing bait fish, we stopped and began chumming and several times the Captain tossed out his cast net and we helped him pick out the bait, he called “whitebait”, but they were really a type of sardine.

We cruised on out under the big bridge that spans Clearwater Channel and headed on a course west/southwest for about an hour and anchored in fifty feet of water. The Captain said we were over scattered rocks and as we cast out he said we could expect to catch different kinds of grouper, kingfish, barracuda and maybe even, an amberjack. We could catch all of these species out of Galveston and Freeport, but the barracuda were an added treat.
Barracuda are pretty rare out of our Texas ports and if we caught one, which wasn’t very often, we would throw it right back into the water because of the chance to acquire ciguatera. This is a disease that is prevalent in the tropic zones, not deadly, but has no cure and causes extreme diarrhea!

Grouper, amberjack, snappers and barracuda feed on reef dwellers that feed on the coral that carries the disease, which is then transferred to the flesh of the predators. Cooking or freezing will not eliminate ciguatera! Fish shorter that twenty-eight inches are supposed to be free of the malady?

We were told that we would keep all the barracuda that we caught and I didn’t want any part of that.

Part two will be posted on February 24.

A cold February afternoon in 1959, just before I entered the U.S. Army, my Dad and I met Dub Middleton, a neighbor and a good fishing friend, at a nondescript, bait camp, near Matagorda, Texas. The camp was about a mile up from where the Colorado River emptied into the Gulf of Mexico. We were going to fish for speckled trout at night, under some bright, flood lights, a first for my growing obsession with trout fishing.

This old picture shows some of the specs we caught that night

The principle was simple, the reflection of the lights on the water drew small fish and shrimp in to feed on the minute sea life and the abundance of small bait drew the larger predators, the specks. The action could be fast and furious, and it turned out to be!

Starting about 8:30 PM, the three of us beat the water to a froth and our effort yielded only 4 small specks that were thrown back. After 2 plus hours with little luck, Dub and I choose to take a nap on the couches inside the bait camp. After midnight, my Dad woke us both up exclaiming, “Get up quick and come see all the fish!”

“All the fish” was right. The tide was coming in bringing with it stained, almost sandy, water. In the reflection of the large lights, the water was dimpled by hundreds of specks slashing through the thousands of bait fish being carried in with the tide!

Savoring the spectacle for maybe 5 seconds, our primal instincts kicked in, and we began casting into the melee. Using a Tony Acetta #7, silver spoon, with a yellow buck tail attached, almost every one of my casts resulted in a solid strike, a spirited fight and a nice speck flopping on the dock.

This action continued for nearly 30 minutes. Then, the tide changed heading back out to the Gulf, with the water movement, the bait and predator fish followed. As hot as the action was, it was all over now. Nothing remained except for us to clean and ice down the fish, collect our tackle, bid adieu to the camp operator and start our two-hour drive back to West University, a Houston suburb.

At the time, my family didn’t have a freezer, so all of our friends and relatives enjoyed the fish we happily gave to them

When I retired my kids asked me to record some of the wild adventures that I have taken part in. Little did I know that this would lead me to blogging, get me very involved in genealogy and best, get me a book published!

Over the past nine months I have been involved in one of the most rewarding projects that I have ever tackled – having a book published! It became a full time job. Where do you find the time to be active in your church? Where do you find the time to take part in your Grandchildren’s sports? Where do you find time to hunt and fish? Where do you find time to play Senior Softball? Where do you find the time to do all the chores around the ranch?

When I was working, I had assistants that took care of my calendar management. I handled my time management and it never crossed my mind that these things would be so important after I retired. Somehow it all worked out and today, on my blog, Randy, my Son, and I put up all of the “about” information, the necessary links to [Rosedog Books], the publisher and set me up on Twitter and Facebook. On the left side of the page, click on the book, “The End Of The Line”, to find out a little about the book, the author and how to acquire it.

It has been a fun thing! Managing and balancing everything was a challenge. But now, seeing my name on the cover, re-reading some of the stories and holding the book in my hands, it was all worth it!

I’ve got more in the works; an unnamed book about my family’s history from way back to the present; another unnamed one about the storms, tornadoes and miscellaneous violent weather that I have encountered over the years, and one that is almost ready for publishing, “Why It Is Called Hunting”.

How enjoyable this has been and I don’t have a job to get into the way!

During the summer of 1999, I played in a “Pink Ribbon” golf tournament and during the silent bidding, was able to acquire a four day stay in Cabo San Lucas, Baja Del Sur, Mexico.  Having visited Mazatlan and its fabulous fishing and with Mazatlan being only a ferry ride across the Gulf of California to the tip of the Baja and Cabo, I was eagerly looking forward to sampling the fishing there too.  So, in January of 2000, off we went to Cabo San Lucas.

Because of the opulence of the condo, a large, two, bedroom, two bath, job, we asked a Senior Softball friend, Chuck Thompson and his Wife, Linda to go with us.  Our fancy condo was right beside a fancier club and golf course.  The package included reduced fees for golf and use of the excellent dining facilities, but the fishing still had my interest!

The first day of our visit found Chuck and I patrolling the harbor looking for just the right boat and guide.  For our guide we chose a young man, Juan, who spoke excellent English, and his twenty-two, foot, panga.  A panga is a long, slender, outboard powered, shallow draft, sea worthy craft used in Mexico for both inshore and offshore fishing.  Juan told us that yellow fin tuna were hitting regularly and towards midday we had a good chance for a striped marlin hook up.  We booked him for the next day.

The ladies opted to shop and not go out with us so at 7:00 AM, Chuck and I met our guide and we headed out of the harbor.  As soon as we cleared the “hole in the rock”, one of the main attractions of Cabo, we started fishing.  Using Juan’s gear, seven foot rods, Ambassaduer 7000 reels loaded with thirty pound line, we started free lining with six to seven inch, caballitos for bait. As we started, Juan cautioned us with. “Watch for the seals!”

Soon, both of us were rewarded with solid strikes, the fish took off heading south and our fifteen minute fights with the unknown sluggers, probably twelve to fifteen pound, yellow fins, was rewarded with the silver/green battlers thrashing around the panga.  Juan yelled, “Seal, free spool your reels!”  We did, but too late as the seals clipped off then come up for the kill.  It’s important if we see another to free spool your reels because the yellow fins can out swim the seals and escape.”

My next strike produced a twelve pound, yellow fin, pictured, but it seemed the more action we had, the more the seals gathered around us.  We kept moving in the general area of the harbor mouth and kept feeding the seals.

We moved several miles out and started drifting, no yellow fins, but no seals either.  Chuck heaved a cast out and had a monumental backlash, and as he was clearing it, wouldn’t you know it, a striped marlin hit the bait, went airborne and started his run, hit the snarl in the line and pop, broke off!  At least we saw the fish as it cleared the water.

We caught four yellow fins, twelve to fifteen pounds, gave two to Juan, and took two back to the “fancier” club for special preparation by the chef.  Our supper of fresh yellow fin, tuna with a California white wine was a highlight of our trip to Cabo!