FISHING CHRONICLES -BIG JOHN

During the fall, winter and early spring of the 1960’s and 1970’s, nearly all of the shallow water wrecks in the area of the Quicksand’s that lies west of the Marquises Keys, held many giant barracuda, cobia and amberjacks. It was not uncommon to take a total novice angler that had never handled a fly rod in their life and catch any of the aforementioned species on any given day. Amberjacks in the 40-pound class were common and would only win honorable mentions in any of the fishing tournaments of that time. In those days, it would take at least a 50 pound fish or larger to win the fly division in any of the tournaments.

We had perfected the techniques for taking these fish to a science. It consisted of catching a number of blue runners of about 2 to 3 pounds and storing them in your live well. We would proceed to the wreck where we intended to fish. We would anchor directly over the wreck. This would allow the fish to be comfortable with the cover of the wreck immediately beneath them. Therefore they were very aggressive right away. A large blue runner was selected and placed on a relatively small hook (in order to avoid hooking the predator), attached to a heavy line and a stiff rod. The (blue) runner was then dangled in the water and allowed to swim on the surface with only about 6’of line out of the rod tip. The frantic action of the runner at the surface usually drew immediate attention. More and more of the predators gathered at the side of the boat for their turn at the offering. The more predators, the more aggressive the action. After a while, an experienced guide could make any of these fish respond as he would like. It became relatively easy to choose the very fish that you wanted the angler to catch.

When the fish was ready, the anchor, with float attached, was released and the current as well as the wind would cause the boat to drift away from the wreck. It was up to the guide to recognize the proper time to allow the angler to present the lure to the fish. This is critical, as the fish will become more wary, the further away from the wreck that it travels. Also, the greater the distance, the further the fish must travel to get back to the wreck. Therefore, the further that you get from the wreck, and still get the fish to eat the lure, the better your odds of landing the fish.

In December of 1976, while checking out some of the wrecks for potential trophy fish, Jim Anson and I came upon a small wreck in only 12’ of water. I could see several large dark shadows cursing the fringes of my visibility. After anchoring, I prepared a runner and slipped it into the emerald green water. With out hesitation, the shadows turned into missiles and with an explosion of white spray, a large barracuda cut the runner in half. The other half of the runner was simultaneously smashed by several large amberjacks. As this was almost a daily occurrence, the fish had become programmed to the feeding agenda. By now, every predator in the area knew that dinner was on the table.

Jim grabbed the fly rod and took position at the bow of my old 20’ Sea Craft. As the next volunteer runner was hooked on the teasing pole and slipped into the water the action began. With every pass of a fish, the runner was jerked from the water and immediately dropped at the tail of the aggressor. With 10 or more fish vying for the morsel, the action became frantic.

It was not uncommon for barracuda to come crashing into the boat with teeth slashing and anglers and guide running in different directions. I was once pinned in the corner of the transom while a barracuda with teeth chomping was balanced on the gunwale of the boat with its head mere inches from my groin. The fish performed a balancing act for longer than I wanted it to. It then fell into the boat and began flopping and slashing around on the floor while I performed the rapid tippy-toe two-step. After the cuda settled down and I had counted all of my parts, the fish was returned to the water.

On Command, Jim threw the anchor float over the side and we began to work the fish away form the wreck. Suddenly from under the boat, a gigantic AJ of proportions totally unknown in shallow water came blasting the runner. With one smash the giant gulped the large runner and broke the teaser line. “My gosh, did you see that?” I exclaimed as if one wouldn’t see an explosion while setting on a stick of dynamite. As I turned to Jim, I could see his eyes fixed to the foam on the water where the giant had just exploded. His mouth agape, he couldn’t speak. After we regained our composure, we decided to accept the challenge, but we were going to need more distance between the wreck and us. I quickly tied another hook on the teaser line and attached another runner. Dropping the teaser overboard, the runner was met with another explosion and with a resounding snap, the teaser line parted again. This guy not only wanted to play but also was setting new rules for the game. Another runner was prepared and by now we were about a quarter of a mile from the wreck. If we could hook this big boy now, he was ours.

This time I was ready for him. Jim was in the bow and ready to cast when the command was given. The runner hit the water and sure enough we were playing by the same rules. The AJ came crashing from under the boat but I was on a hair trigger guard and the runner cleared the surface just as the water erupted. Dropping the runner at his tail, he swirled and made another pass. Several more passes and he was ready. “NOW” I cried, and Jim slammed the popper into the water and made a long strip of the fly line. As the popper made a loud gurgling and splashing noise, the big boy inhaled it without hesitation. As Jim set the hook, the fish swam around the boat as if looking for another meal. Then as if tiring of the game, he started swimming directly towards the wreck. The normal procedure is to lay back and let the fish swim into the current and fight the drag of the reel as the boat continues to drift away from the wreck. We were so far from the wreck that we couldn’t miss.

It soon became apparent that this fish hadn’t read that part of the book. The line just kept spooling from the big fly reel. With each moment, we expected the fish to turn to the side and start sliding our way. With dogged determination and composure, the fish kept heading directly for the wreck. He had outlasted my patience and spool capacity. I quickly started the motor and began to follow. This ignited a spark and the big AJ began to smoke the reel. As I advanced the throttle, Jim yelled out. “I can see the bottom of the spool”. Just then the line that had spanned from the rod tip to the water, went slack.

There was a popular song in those days called “Big John”. As John is another name for Jack (Amberjack), I called that fish “Big John”. Each day that I was in the area, I would swing by that wreck and sure enough Big John would be at home. I made it a point of hand feeding him two or three runners just to keep him happy. On two more occasions, Big John came out to play with fly fishermen and the results were similar. Big John 3, anglers 0.

Big John became a legend over the next several weeks. However, I now believe that most of the people that we talked to, thought that we were exaggerating the size of the fish, as no other anglers that I know of ever attempted to capture him. Several weeks later, Big John disappeared and was not seen for some time. I was sure that he was gone for good.

In January of 1977, Dr. William Munroe of Hollywood Florida, an old and dear friend of mine, and I were fishing for the MET fishing tournament and needed a large AJ on fly, so we headed west. Anchoring on the wreck, the response of normal sized AJ’s was instantaneous. We began to tease. An AJ of the size to win the tournament began to cooperate. We went through the normal routine and after a decent fight we boated a big AJ. By now the tide had changed and the tide and wind were opposing one another. As we stopped on top of the wreck, I spotted a huge shadow along the bottom. It had to be Big John. I grabbed a runner and impaled it on a teaser hook and dropped it into the water. “Hello”. It was Big John. As I continued to dabble the runner, Big John cursed around and around under the boat. The slick surface and clear water betrayed the drift, or lack thereof. For twenty minuets, we sat right over the end of the wreck. “It would be useless to hook that fish here.” I said to Bill. Big John was just waiting for the game to begin. Finally I said, “What the heck, the worst that can happen is we will loose a fly.”

As I lowered the runner completely into the water, (pressing start on the game) Big John came crashing to the surface. He missed the runner and immediately turned for another pass. “Bill, drop the fly!” I yelled. Bill’s reaction was immediate. As the runner passed the fly, Big John came crashing from under the boat in his normal attack mode. I jerked the runner from the water and with mouth agape, Big John sucked the fly in and cleared the water by nearly four feet. The fly line came tight while the giant was airborne. As the fish felt the now familiar sting of the hook, his tail responded by swimming violently while still in the air. As he hit the water, going away from the boat, the tail left a giser of white spray that soaked both Bill and I. The fish was on top of the wreck and with the speed it was running it soon was beyond the wreck. We were not on the anchor, so I fired up the engine and we sped around and around the small wreck. Then, seemingly without provocation, Big John left the wreck and headed for open water. Something was not right. “Oh no, Bill there must be a shark there or he wouldn’t have left that wreck.” He continued heading for deeper water but must have had a change of mind. We had now been on the fish for an hour, but he appeared to be heading back for the wreck. I told Bill to pressure him up to the limit of the 15# class line that the tippet was made of. Bill complied but the fish showed on signs distress. As the fish began to near the area of the wreck, he began to show signs of apprehension and the relentless pressure began to take its toll. Big John began to tilt slightly to his side and as time passed, turned totally on his side. This meant that he was tiring and would soon be ready to gaff. We were now one hour and 45 minuets into the fight. As he edged closer and closer to the surface, I could get a better idea of his size. Finally, I took the 6’ auto gaff and reached down until my right ear touched the water and mad a blind pass with the gaff. I felt resistance and set the hook. “Oh my gosh.” I had barely penetrated the skin and had no more than 1” of skin at that. The fish had not taken off as he felt the gaff, so I played him gently until Bill could get a second gaff to me. I finally got the second gaff into the back and pulled him to the surface. “This thing could eat the current world record.” I told Bill. We pulled the giant aboard and decided to head for home.

On the way in I ran past a large piece of floating carpet. I stopped and picked it up to cover Big John so that he would not dehydrate and loose weight due to the sun. He was a way to large for my fish box. As we approached the dock near the scale, one of the dockhands asked if we had caught Big John. I stated in the affirmative and he yelled out to the others around the dock that we had caught him. A crowd gathered around and as I removed the smaller AJ from the fish box I heard some of the crowd “Oh” and “Ahhh” a little. We weighed that fish and it tipped the scales at 64#. Just 4# under the current world record set by Steve Chapell, just a couple of years earlier. Everyone seemed somewhat impressed. I then said, “ If that one impresses you, then this one should really impress you.” I got back into the boat and removed the carpeting from over Big John. They were indeed impressed. Big John tipped the scale at an impressive 103 pounds, 12 ounces.

Bill had been a member of the Miami Beach Rod and Reel Club only a short time and had never taken a fish any where near that size before. I told him then that he had no idea of what he had accomplished that day. I made a daring statement at that time and I stand by it today. That record may never be broken. Now that amberjack has become of such commercial significance, we may never again see an amberjack of that size at the surface where it would become susceptible to a fly rod. Big John now hangs on the wall of Bill’s den in Montana and will live in our memories forever.

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FISHING CHRONICLES - SHARK FISHING

If you have read our "Shark Fishing" page, you will probably realize by now, shark fishing in Key West is a little different than most other areas. You might say, a little more "hands on". This particular trip certainly proved no exception to that rule.

While flats fishing with Chuck Broadski, a Miami attorney (now living in Montana), we had noticed a good number of fairly large bull sharks in the area. Rather than hook any permit and risk losing them to the sharks, Chuck suggested that we do some shark fishing. I was not very enthusiastic with the idea, as I prefer to do my shark fishing from the larger boat. However, I did not want to feed the sharks any permit and as the day was still young, I thought we might give it a try.

We quickly caught a small barracuda and hung in from a rope, off of the bow of my 16' flats skiff. As the scent corridor began to form we rigged the 8# spinning outfit for sharks. A 10' shock leader with a 3' trace of #7 wire to a 6/0 hook should do the trick. After cutting a 6" by 2" piece of "cuda" for bait, we didn't have to wait very long for the inevitable to happen. Shortly, we were hooked into a 250# bull shark and the spool diameter on the little spinning reel, began to diminish rapidly. As was standard practice with large fish on light line, I started the motor and began to follow the shark. After a while we began to recover most of the line and soon we were no more that twenty or so feet behind the large brown shadow.

When you trespass within the undefined limits of the shark's territory, especially the bull shark, they will give you a very distinct warning. The pectoral fins will extend downward at a 45 degree angle and the shark will begin to swerve in an exaggerated, left and right swimming mode. We call this action, "attack posture". This usually means that if you don't back off very quickly, you will be eaten.

Sure enough, the large brown shape began its exaggerated darting, left then right. I shouted to Chuck to get ready for the attack. I try to maneuver the boat so that the shark will not be able to catch us, thereby avoiding that crunch that any boat owner hates to hear, the parting of gel coat from the fiberglass, in this case, caused by the teeth of the shark. The shadow started it's large sweep to the right and suddenly accelerated, completing the full circle. Now we were being pursued by the shark.

So far, nothing unusual was happening and I was prepared for the next step, simply accelerate and move away from the shark, then fall in behind it once more and continue the fight.

The water was only about 3' deep and the motor had been trimmed up so that the propeller would not hit bottom or pick up grass. As I advanced the throttle, the propeller picked up air and began to cavitate. I knew that the shark was close behind and I had little time to waste. I began to lower the motor while still under power and expected the prop to grab and the boat to bolt forward. The transom of the boat was very near the water line due to the angle of the motor and its downward thrust. The cavatition of the prop did not stop nor did the boat bolt forward as I had intended. Chuck was in the bow and was looking back at the large brown form as it closed on the little skiff. I looked back to my right, in a field of bubbles formed by the cavatition of the prop, and suddenly the head of the shark broke the surface. It's forward momentum carrying the shark up on the rear deck where I was seated and mere inches from by backside. The jaws were snapping and the body was still swimming, trying to get to me. I was still advancing the throttle and white water was blowing from the prop. The shark began to slide back down the rear deck. I could hear jaws popping and teeth scraping as it's head entered the water. It quickly turned and the line began to smoke from the reel once more. We continued to fight the shark for another 20 or so minuets, avoiding several more attacks until it was brought along side where it promptly bit a large chunk of gel coat from the side of my boat, well above the water line. Chuck was thrilled with the experience and couldn't wait to get back to the dock to tell all that would listen, his views from the bow of the boat, certainly different from those views at the back of the boat.

We continued with the days fishing, often reflecting back on the others actions and reactions to the events of the morning. After returning to the dock, we found that the bracket for the trolling motor had been broken and the trim tab cylinder had been bitten and punctured by the teeth of the shark. The large gash on the port side of the boat would have to be filled and sanded, however there were no real lasting marks of our adventure except in our memories. Memories that belong to Chuck and myself, of "Shark Fishing" in Key West.

Captain Ralph Delph

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FISHING CHRONICLES - A TARPON TAIL

During the hay days of giant tarpon fishing of the late 70's in Homosassa, Florida, it looked like a who's who of the fishing community on any given day on the flats of May and June. Lefty Krey, Carl Navarre, Billy Pate, Al Pflueger and about any other name that one might associate with the fly rod. Everyone had the same interest at heart, to be the first one to break the 200# barrier for tarpon on fly.

I had spent the last several summers in this area and had seen some real monsters in the air. For a tarpon to break the 200# mark, it would have to have a girth of around 43" and a fork length of nearly 7 ½ feet. When a tarpon of these proportions comes out of the water next to your skiff, it is not something that you will soon forget. It was not uncommon to hear stories of these behemoths on a regular basis during these times, and occasionally one of the guys would relate a tale of woe that usually ended with broken rods, lines, tippets and spirits. This meant that the king still lives. Stu Apte, a long time fishing and hunting friend, and I made our annual pilgrimage to Riverside Villas to pay homage to the silver king. Most of those looking for the first 200# tarpon, used 15# tippets and later when I.G.F.A. introduced the 20# tippet, they upgraded. Stu, never one for doing things the easy way, always used 12# tippet. In my opinion, Stu is the master of that line class. We have put a number of records in the book using 12# tippets including a 164# tarpon that stood for many years. I had no reservations about using this class tippet for our quest of the first 200# silver king.

We had spent some time in the white vastness of the area known by the locals as Oklahoma, with only mild success. As the number of boats began to increase, we had decided to relocate to St. Martins, slightly to the north of the Homosassa River mouth. There was only one other boat working the area and if the fish were there, they should be more cooperative.

Soon we spotted a school of backs, forming a familiar "donut" shaped daisy chain in the glass calm water. As I quietly polled the boat towards the school, our polaroid glasses allowed our vision to penetrate the surface glare. As the shapes began to take their familiar forms, we both noticed one particularly large shadow. With the expertise that only comes with years of experience, Stu placed the fly just inside the donut, and slightly ahead of the approaching giant. As the fly began to sink, a smaller fish of perhaps 150#, surged ahead and grabbed the fly. Stu refused the urge to strike and as the smaller fish felt the unnatural drag of the fly line, surged forward, shoving its head through the smooth, reflective surface of the water and with a rattle of its gills, dislodged the fly. We held our breath and to our surprise the school continued their circular course without any reaction to the disturbance. As the giant came around to our side of the circle again, Stu placed the fly in exactly the same position as the first presentation. As the distance between the fly and the fish diminished, I noticed an ever so slight movement of the fly and then another. My eyes were glued to the area and when the two targets merged, and the only thing that I could see was a giant silver head, I yelled to Stu to, "Strike!". As I looked to my right, I noticed that Stu had already perceived my thoughts and was already well back on the rod. Stu was clearing the line that was on the deck as my eyes raced back to the now skyrocketing giant. "Bow!" I exclaimed. My eyes raced back to Stu only to see that he was already yielding the rod to the fish.

For some unexplained reason, every time that one of these giants form Homosassa inhaled a fly, it reminded me of a mule eating a grain of oats. They were just so big. We were now hooked up to the mule and we were about to plow the lower 40.

The fish was fairly aerobatic and the fight stayed somewhat in the general area, however we had asked the other boat for permission to use our motor to follow the giant. When the other boat saw the size to this fish, he graciously consented.

After about 45 minutes, Stu had the fish slowed and it appeared that there was a rhythm to its roll. I told Stu to maintain the pressure and I was going to try to gaff the fish if I had the chance.

I had straight gaffed many sharks up to and over 400# and I was not afraid of a little old tarpon. With gaff in hands, I had only to wail for the old gal to show me her weakness. Sure enough, she started her head towards the surface and as her back broke the surface, I reached across her back and with both arms, drove the gaff home. Instantly I felt the power of this giant as she surged forward and down, taking me down to the gunwale with her. Still holding the gaff, I rotated my body so that my knees were able to lock onto the gunwale. I was upside down, with everything from my waist up, under water, with my arms fully extended, still holding on to the gaff. She was still there. I tried to pass the gaff to Stu, but as I pushed the gaff up towards the surface, the butt of the gaff struck the bottom of the gunwale, allowing the tarpon to roll off of the gaff. As I rolled over and pushed myself back up on the deck, I could see that Stu was already back at war with the giant.

Things quickly settled down and the old gal started rolling with a rhythm once more. Again with my gaff at the ready, I began psyching myself for the battle of brute strength that was about in ensue. As her back showed itself above the water, I thrust the gaff home. Again but even faster, the giant surged forward, taking the gaff and myself into the open water. I felt the water rushing past my face and I could feel the skin on my cheeks rippling through the water as the fish dragged me behind it. Suddenly the fish shot to the surface and began a series of leaps. As I opened my eyes I could see the magnificence of this creature as it dragged me with it and continued to leap in a circle, due to the drag of my body in the water. Finally as the giant settled down, I was able to pull her in close to me where I was able to grab the point of the gaff with one hand and the back side of the gaff with the other. This effectively pinned the fish on the gaff. I was doing a dead man float while waiting for Stu to bring the boat to me.

We were using my skiff and there was a slight difference between Stu's boat and mine. My binnacle control (throttle) was mounted on a sloped face of my console so that when the throttle was brought to the neutral position, the leaver was pointed perpendicular to the console face, or slightly towards the rear of the boat. On Stu's boat, the binnacle was mounted flat on top of the console so that the leaver was pointed exactly vertical when the motor was in neutral.

Stu was concerned that I might be in trouble as my face was under water and brought the boat to his downed comrade with haste. As he approached, he brought the throttle to the vertical position, which would have been the neutral position on his boat, but not mine. As the boat continued forward, Stu, now near the bow, raced back and found the neutral position for my boat. As the stem of the boat started passing over my head, I reached up and with my right hand, fended the boat from running over me. The boat pushed me down and to my left. I felt the fish roll on the gaff but to my horror, I had taken my right hand off of the gaff point, allowing the giant to roll off of the gaff. I quickly reached for the gills of the tarpon but the gloves that I was wearing were covered with slime and the fish was so slick that my fingers failed to penetrate the rear of the gill opening. The giant began to swim slowly and I now tried to get my arms around her girth. My arms fell flat on smooth sides and would not even remotely reach around the girth. I felt the giant slowly slide through my grasp and as the tail slowly slid through my arms, I watched from under water as she slowly swam away.

Stu and I never discussed the weight of that fish until over a year later. While at dinner one night, one of us brought up the subject without mentioning what we thought the giant might have weighed. Stu suggested that each of us take a piece on napkin and write a weight on it and compare the numbers. We each did so and each turned over the napkin at the same time. The numbers were exactly the same, 230#.