Issue link: https://www.e-digitaleditions.com/i/116174
The first redfish was huge, leading a group of four around an oyster corner, maybe 15 feet out at two o'clock. Scott and I saw them at the same time, and I pushed the gold-tinseled fly to the right, off my right shoulder – an awkward forehand screwball that plinked in front of the school. It wobbled, fluttered and tried to sink before two of them charged upward, one vacuumed it in, and I managed to snatch it free – all in about three seconds. "You're kidding me!" I said. "That's okay, hit em' again," said Scott. "You high-sticked him." "Yeah, I know," I said, disgusted. In less than 45 minutes from the moment Scott Owens had pulled up to the waterway dock at Cabin Bluff, we'd poled two flats, found a school of pigs, and I'd shanked the first taker. Turns out I'd get a lot more shots. Four hours and a sore arm later, as we ate the dessert out of our box lunches and drifted over a foot of clear water, our conversation went something like: Scott: "No, I think that last one makes nine landed, then there was the one that broke off, plus the black drum. No, wait a minute." Me: "Well I pulled at least five fish off, and spooked how many . . . fifteen?" Scott: "Counting the schools? Yeah, probably a lot more than fifteen. How many do you think we threw at?" Me: "Dude, I've really lost count. Let's just call it a bunch seen, plenty caught and lost. More than I ever deserved." R ecovering from the sensory overload of our arrival at Cabin Bluff (pines, pigs, deer, river bluff, live oak canopy, food, fires, did I mention food?), I had stepped onto Scott's Hell's Bay skiff earlier that morning very full and relaxed. Replete even. But it just felt as if there was much more to come – like we would almost certainly find fish, and his service and capabilities immediately matched the quality of the place from where we'd launched. Patient, energetic, nothing amiss, clean, organized, first class and legitimate. The ride to those Georgia/Florida flats was short and easy. The weather was chilly, calm and grew warmer as the day emerged. We fished to single reds, huge schools of ten-pounders, cruising black drum and pairs of sheepshead. Clouds of fish pushed and kicked up wakes all around us. I caught a trout by accident, and plenty of big spottails on purpose. Two black drum on flies was a first for me. Scott was ever easy with my casting and strip-striking – which has always Top and right: The author coaxed this big red from a huge school of ten-pounders. • Above: Black drum cruise the same flats and will occassionally take a crab fly. • Opposite: Captain Scott Owens shares a few tales as he idles into the shallows. S P O R T I N G C 102 L A S S I C S