Broken line. Broken heart. No going back to undo my error. I knelt on the sand staring blankly at the water before walking back to my bridge spot to grab my gear and head for home.
I was alone and had driven myself, so I was at least 16 at the time. I don’t think I was much older, though, and it was probably one of my first solo outings to the bridge from Clearwater Beach to Sand Key.
I don’t recall much that preceded the big fish, but I’m certain I was fishing with live shrimp from Bonnie’s Bait Shop, and there’s a reasonable chance I had caught a few whiting, hardheads, pinfish, grunt, specks or puppy drum.
I remember far too clearly the block of what I’d guess to have been about 45 minutes between setting the hook into what I’d soon learn was a fabulous bull redfish and the moment my line and heart broke simultaneously.
With no opportunity to weigh or measure the fish, I could only estimate its size, and more than four decades have passed since that day, but I’d guess it was between 25 and 30 pounds. Through the latter part of the fight I got very good looks at the thick-bodied, golden-sided fish, which had a half a dozen or so spots on each side.
I didn’t own any saltwater tackle at the time, so I was fishing with my bass-sized baitcaster, which I’m sure was spooled with 12- or 14-pound test. The first run after I set the hook took almost all my line. I could see my spool when I finally persuaded the fish to turn.
At least two similar runs occurred before I could even think about trying to start working toward the end of the bridge, where I would need to climb the rail, hop down to the ground and ease toward the water’s edge. I had neither a pier net, nor help, so a beach landing would be the only possibility.
Without recapping every moment, it was a back and forth affair, and I had to reach around several streetlight poles, most of them more than once when the fish would surge again.
Eventually the fish wore down enough to be more easily influenced and then dragged along at the surface. That allowed me to get down to the sand and keep the line tight as I moved into landing position.
It seemed like I had won as I pulled the fish closer, and I dropped my guard. I was thumbing the spool with the big fish almost within arm’s reach. I don’t know if the fish saw me or felt the bottom, but it suddenly surged, easily snapped my short line and slipped out of sight.
It still makes me a little sad, both because it would have been such an amazing catch for me at that time and because I’ve always wondered if the fish survived. There were no special regulations for large redfish at that time, and I would have kept it simply because of the likelihood of it not surviving after such an extended battle.
It wasn’t the biggest fish I’ve ever lost while Fishing on Foot. That’s another story for another day. However, it definitely was my hardest and most memorable “big one that got away.”
Fishing on Foot 