His Majesty Tom Woodward Reports on 8/2/01:

The trip started ceremoniously on Friday afternoon June 15, 2001at Stewart's Electric Motor Works, where FB's clan was throwing a shindig.  Great barbecue, frozen smoothies, door prizes, a live reggae band -- the works.  The list of invitees included yours truly, McRon, Bone (who had arrived in town the night before), Cliff, and my momma.  So we had free eats and a good excuse for a pre-game team meeting.  We all convened in FB's office for a look at the Pine Island chart hanging on the wall.  Sure was a nice way to talk the talk and kick off the big trip.

Come Saturday morning, we were gassed up and on the road by 10-something, with a full complement of CD's and a Playmate loaded with fried chicken and leftover barbecue.  God, did we have lots of stuff.  But the new Drift looked really cool behind FB's white Dodge SUV -- a jolly good rig she was.  Anyway, before long we realized the A/C was blowing some distinctly un-conditioned air, which is cause for concern around Florida in the month of June.  First Butthead Hat Award candidate -- FB, for supplying a vehicle with an A/C unit on the fritz.  We sweated our asses off the whole way, even with the windows open; lemme tell ya, heat can really drain a body over the course of five hours.

Finally, we drove over the Jug Creek bridge and onto Bokeelia Island.  As we did, we looked over and saw John and Mitch standing by their boat at the Surfsong docks.  FB honked the horn and I yelled out.  By the time we drove the remaining minute or so, parked the truck and walked to the boat slips, they were putt-putting out of the cove and toward the creek.  As we had from the bridge, we attempted to hail them.  No avail.  We'd see them when we'd see them, I figured, and that was cool with me.  A lot cooler than FB's truck had been.

We were stoked.  We were pumped. We were on our way to the Honey Hole after months of preparation.  And we were about to turn around and head to the emergency room some five minutes later. 

Okay, so we're loaded up and putt-putting under the Jug Creek bridge and past Four Winds Marina.  Not a single wet line yet.  Ol' FB decides, probably at my request, to go forward and grab a couple of beers out of the cooler.  Having never done this before in the new Drift, he misjudged the ratio of walking room/ass width as he passed the console and its fully-loaded rod holders.  Voila! Picture a guy with a new Rattle Trap impaled, both trebles, on his belt loop.  The beers would have to wait.  Since FB has no eyes in the back of his head, and fumbling with hooks near his own backside was awkward, I had him take the wheel and I went to work with pliers.  To my partner's credit, he suggested just cutting the belt loop off.  To my shame, I assured him I could salvage lure, pants and belt loop.  As FB steered and DriftWood II idled, I started doing surgery and bending down barbs.  One hook out.  Cool.  The other one was more stubborn, so I responded in kind. Just...one...more...pull...and...

WHAM!  The hook gave way, driving home into my left middle finger, just in front of and angling under the nail.  We're talking up to the bend of the hook.  And down to the bone.  I stared in disbelief, feeling disgust more than pain.  I want to fish, dammit.  Obviously, there was no way to push the hook through and cut the barb off (with outstanding wire cutters, which I highly recommend at all times, we did cut the hook off the lure). What next?  Ol' Wood here gets the bright idea to do the "quick jerk" technique, snatching the hook out like you're removing a band-aid. Quickly.  I want to fish, dammit.  So FB grabs the pliers, clamps down on the bend of the hook, and...three...two...one... OWWWWWWWWWWWW!  As my whole arm lurched forward, that word could be heard for at least a mile or two, I'm convinced.  Remarkably, no profanity. 

I had been in la-la land for a few minutes and had attempted to drive the boat into the mangroves (Paul had gone forward to get ice for my finger; when he turned around, I was slumped over and nobody was driving).  Even so, after reviving, I drove back to Surfsong completely soaked in sweat and feeling woozy.  We asked Janette about an emergency room, which turned out to be in Cape Coral some 25 minutes away.  In all, I was in and out of the emergency room, on a Saturday night, in an hour.  I had a big gauze bandage on my birdie finger, a political statement which remained there until morning, but no stitches.  I could fish the next day!  In the a.m., we took a picture of me with my bandage, flipping off the camera, and the Butthead Hat.

As we tended to my stupidity, Mitch and John caught roughly 20 snook.  That could have been us. 

We roared off into the night, there was a good breeze from the east.  We headed for the mouth of the Caloosahatchee River, then upstream past some shrimpers to a sizeable oyster bar, where we disembarked.  Sounds pristine, but there was a big ol' condo nearby lighting up the sky.  Fortunately, once we were wading the bar and casting, we were facing the other way.  Capt. Hobby stayed in the boat at first, rigging a rod.  So me and FB hopped out, in the dark, onto a bar we knew nothing about.  Capt. Hobby sort of motioned "that way" with his arm and off we went.  On FB's first cast, he nailed about a 5 lb. jack on a DOA shrimp.  I got its twin about two casts later on the same lure.  This was followed by a couple of other hits, and I think I got a ladyfish, but no snook. 

Our next spot was an elaborate dock complex at a large condominium.  It's an outgoing tide spot, which had just started when we arrived.  The deal was to use the trolling motor, sidle up to the pilings and flip a Terror Eyz underhanded against the dock (but don't hit the dock!).  Hobby wasn't impressed with the action, so we headed off to the Sanibel Causeway.  By now, it's almost time for the really, really early risers to start heading out.  As it was, we had the bridge to ourselves.

The idea at the causeway channel was to point the boat, using the trolling motor, into the current and slow our drift backwards along the wooden bulkheads.  The lures were heavy jigs or Terror Eyz again.  It took me a while to get the feel down in the current, and since Hobby said fish will also hit in the middle of the bridge channel, I wasted some time trying that.  I say wasted because both Pauls had broken off big snook by the second drift, and I had nuthin' but envy.  Big fish, snook and tarpon, were blasting intermittently on the surface under the lights.  We'd hang the bottom occasionally, forcing an interruption in the drift to retrieve the jig (sometimes the rocks were victorious), but no one else was around and it was a great atmosphere.  Once I started jigging along the pilings, I got a small snook on a Terror Eyz (right about the time Hobby said almost all the snook were large there -- just my luck).  Then I hung a big damn fish and Hobby headed out into the current and away from the bridge -- this technique is crucial to success around structure, we learned. Great fight on my big tarpon rod.  I'm thinking huge snook.  So we get this thing out in the open and to the boat, and...it's an 18-lb black drum.  Just my luck.  Oh, well, great fight and a big damn fish.  I would have guessed 25 lbs., but the Boga doesn't lie. Oh, Butthead Hat Report Number 3.  So FB catches that first jack at the bar, I snap a photo, and...whirrrrrrr...my auto rewind kicks in.  No more film.  No more extra film.  No more camera.  So, you guessed it, no pictures of anything but one jack.  Which sorta rhymes with jackass.  Like the photographer.

After a while and a slowing of action at the bridge, we go back to the condo/dock complex.  The current is stronger now, and we return to our Terror Eyz-bouncing technique.  Wham!  I latch into one, Hobby hauls butt away from the pilings, and we land an 8 lb. snook.  Beautiful fish.  No camera.  Nice release.  After that, we each take turns hooking a big snook (much bigger than 8 lbs.), getting it away from the dock and into the clear, then losing it to a busted leader.  No shit.  Three big snook lost because of sawed-through leaders.  As Cliff would say, my achin' back.

By the time we left the condo the second time, the sun was up and we greeted the day.  We motored to a nearby channel behind an island and casually looked for rolling tarpon, which were absent.  Then we headed back up the Caloosahatchee to the oyster bar and nearby condo complex, next to which was a long, L-shaped canal (sea wall on one side, mangroves on the other).  It was pretty fishy-looking, as long as you faced away from the condos.  Anyway, we saw a nice school of big drum along the mangroves, which ignored our Gamblers, but I managed to catch a couple of nice little snook out from under the roots on our ace lure. 

From there, we tried other shorelines nearby, then along the inside of Redfish Pass (where Hobby pointed out the famous snook-drift technique at that storied location), and then some oyster bars on open flats inside Sanibel Island.  We saw some reds near the end of the day and had some hits, but no other conquests.  All in all, Hobby was probably guiding us for 10 or 11 hours, if I recall, and was hardworking, gracious and mellow.  We really liked him.  A couple more big snook would have been nice, but we had our chances.  I think Paul and I agree that we'd like to do the nighttime thing with Capt. Hobby again, especially if we can time the incoming tide at that oyster bar better.  One trip with Paul Hobby satisfies a lot of big water/big fish jonesing for FB and me, allowing us to concentrate on backwater mangrove fishing in our regular haunts for the balance of a trip.

Whew.  So that's Monday morning, June 18.  Four snook, a big drum, a few jacks, and several monster snook lost.  What a night.  We headed home, rehashed it at length, relaxed and watched a lot of tv.  I think we napped some, too.  It was glorious.

This past trip, FB and I actually did go out in my boat past midnight one time, intent on fishing the long piers off the north end of the island, but we aborted.  As we were heading out Shell Cut, across from the big fish house near Silver Tarpon Lodge, we hit a pretty strong headwind.  Not good conditions for fishing those piers.  It gets damn rough out there. So we anchored in Shell Cut, listened to small fish pop all around during the incoming tide, and caught diddly squat.  On our way in, we stopped and troll-motored the cove around Surfsong, casting at lighted docks.  In fact, I caught two small snook doing that.

My thoughts on night fishing are this:  We'll do Jug Creek for sure.  We'll also keep trying to hit those long, lighted piers (probably have to try this about 4 in the morning, long after the seabreeze has subsided), and...per your vicarious jones...maybe the big oyster bars out the back end of the creek .  They're not far from home, and we know how to navigate that part of the creek well, too.  All we need is a spotlight that works.  Also, we should plan for a high rising tide:  One, because it's a good tide for oyster bars and, two, because that side of the creek gets damn shallow near low tide. 

Other than that, we'll go hook some big'uns with Capt. Hobby, and concentrate on fishing our own spots during fairly normal hours.  I don't recall the bugs being bad at all with Hobby at night, but like I said, it was pretty breezy most nights.  And, yes, Hobby said night fishing GREATLY increases your chances of hooking snook.  He was bumming as the sunrise approached.  Even so, I did catch those two snook in the canal well after daybreak.

And, yes, we probably thought those jacks were snook.  But only briefly. You can always tell a jack 'cause they start shaking their heads.  Kinda like me when I stuck that hook in my finger.