Tag: bridge fishing

Biggest One that Got Away

The biggest fish I’ve ever hooked bit while I was fishing alone from a bridge.

In a recent post about my most heartbreaking lost fish — a bull redfish that I hooked from a bridge when I was around 16 — I noted I had once lost a fish that was substantially larger than that one.

Completely unlike the big redfish, which I was very close to landing when it surged and broke my line, I genuinely never had a chance at catching this fish.

I actually never glimpsed the fish, but I assume it was a big shark. Officially that was what I was after, although when a buddy and I put out our “shark rods” we usually only caught stingrays or overzealous sail cats, and when I think about it now, I don’t know how I would have landed even a small shark had I hooked one that day. I suppose that was a “cross that bridge when I come to it” concept.

My “shark rod” when I was growing up was a deep sea outfit I had inherited from my grandpa.

Like the lost redfish day, I was fishing alone and from a bridge. I’d guess I was 17 or 18 years old. This time it was the bridge over Johns Pass, between Madeira Beach and Treasure Island, along Florida’s Gulf Coast. My “shark rod” was my late Grandpa’s old custom boat rod and Penn Senator 114H he had used for deep sea fishing, spooled with 50-pound test, I think.

A simple bottom rig and big hook was almost certainly baited with a pinfish, grunt or chunk of ladyfish I had caught with my other rod. The shark rod was always something I put out if I caught suitable bait and was out there “just in case.” It was never central to the primary quest, which might be why I didn’t have a landing plan.

I don’t remember any other catches from that day or even how I was fishing with the primary rod, and only know I caught something because I never bought fish for cut bait, and I wouldn’t have bothered putting out squid or shrimp on the big rod.

Here’s what I do remember.

At some point my big reel’s clicker abruptly started singing, and line was spinning off the spool. I grabbed the rod, braced myself, and was ready to set the hook when I put the reel in gear. As it turned out, no hookset was needed or possible. The instant my thumb slid the lever to engage the reel, the fish hooked itself and nearly pulled the rod from my hands.

It’s good that the drag wasn’t locked down, or I probably could not have held on. I don’t know that hooking the fish slowed it at all. I was too frantic to turn off the clicker so the reel continued screaming at the giant fish raced away and burned line off the big reel.

Short story short, because it happened quickly, and there really aren’t other details to tell: I kept gradually tightening the drag as much as I could without the rod being yanked from me, and the fish kept peeling line. I don’t think it ever slowed significantly, and in fairly short order it took all my line. Again, it was good that the line wasn’t attached too securely because there’s no way I could have held on and kept myself on the bridge!

I don’t recall what happened after the fish was gone. I suspect that was enough excitement and that I packed up and went home. As hooked on fishing as I’ve always been, though, I might have just gone back to fishing with the other rod as if that hadn’t happened.

I suppose because I never had a chance, that memory doesn’t sting like the lost bull redfish. It was just a thrilling few minutes that were unlike any others in a lifetime of fishing.

BIG One that Got Away

My hardest and most memorable big fish that got away.

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.”