I stored the john boat in with the newsprint. Once the press began at midnight, l’d trailer to the swamp and fish ’til 8 or 9 a.m. A stout 6-foot leader wearing one of Jack’s weedless number 4 or 6 popping bugs drew lots of action. The nighttime sounds and strikes were invigorating! You never knew what was going to blast that bug. day or night, bass bugging the sawgrsss and hyacinth lined canal edges was thrilling. I really got into Jack’s giant, weedless streamers. Jack would “bug” and l’d “streamer” along behind him.
Highlighting these exploits in my weekly outdoor column occasionally caused some of the paper’s advertisers and suppliers to ask to go along. I needed a larger boat. A classic well-used 18-foot Purdue-Dean bonefish skiff caught my eye. Hauling advertising managers and agency executives from giant super markets, airlines and banks to the Keys and Everglades was amusing. They loved it.
“We don’t get treated like this at the Miami herald ” they’d chuckle. After landing a couple of fish on lures I’d hand ’em the fly rod. A four-pound largemouth or a six or eight pound barracuda attached to the 9 weight really got their attention.
Another lucky break came when I met an Ohio boy who’d just graduated from the University af Miami. He was trying to get a foothold in guiding. He lived in Islamorada and had lots of spare time. This was Rick Ruoff. I’d work all night then drive down and meet Rick at sunup to prowl the Keys. We’d get a few bonefish on spinning gear or catch same muttons snd grouper on live bait and plug rods. When the tides were right, the 9 weights came out.
Once after l’d been up all night working on a couple af nightclub reviews, I fell asleep in Rick’s boat as he wound over to Flamingo in Everglades National Park. Redfish were everywhere, following stingrays and feeding in the ray muds. We had a pretty good morning. “I think you’ve got a new Met Tournament leader here,” Rick nodded at my best 9 ib., 2 oz. redfish. ”Ill put it in the livewell and weigh it at Bud ‘N Mary’s. Just as we were leaving I blindly tossed into a fresh mud left by a passing ray.
An unusually large head and dark body appeared and went, “GULP.” Zeeeeeeeeeeeee, went my trusty Medalist reel.
“Whatinhellizat?” I shouted to the tall captain who was suddenly very quiet behind me.
“I think it’s a dusky shark,” he mumbied. “Sure looks like one. Probably about 60 pounds.” By now things were happening very fast. The shark was screaming off the shallow flat, totally ignoring pressure from the 9 weight. “Can we chase him so at least I can get my fly line back? That’s only 12-lb leader to the fly so he won’t be around long,” I added. Funny thing was, the shark just continued running, somehow not shredding my nothing leader. Rick finally idled up to the shark, which was still pulling me all over the front deck of the old Willie Roberts skiff. “Wanna gaff him and weigh him in with the redfish” I jokingly asked. Long silence, then this hoarse response from the helm: “Don’t have a gaff!”
“What the hell kind of big time Keys guide are you that you don’t have a gaff in your boat?” I barked, still somewhat joking. I knew that hoisting any shark into a small skiff would be a dangerous stunt.
I heard frantic rummaging in the console drawers that was followed by a tap on the shoulder. Rick passed up a miniature hand gaff built for perhaps a blue runner or mangrove snapper.
“This is great, just perfect,” I laughed.
“Why don’t you make up a tail rope. I’ll lead the shark by the boat, you loop his tail. Then I’11 drop the fly rod and gaff him in the nose. hre’ii stretch him out and maybe get him inside before he bests hell out of us.”
