The Armchair Outfitter

The sun sinks into Little Lagoon at the end of another day in paradise, Gulf Shores, AL.

Natural Born Killers

The Spanish mackerel, Scomberomorus maculatus, is a migratory pelagic carnivore. He swims in schools, and he is most comfortable when surrounded by fish of roughly the same size. When feeding on schooling baitfish, he is a wrecking machine. His thin, hydrodynamically efficient body tapers from a snapping mouth full of razor-sharp teeth to a thin, sickle-shaped tail. His spiny dorsal fin folds into a groove on his back to decrease any resistance to his passage through the water. His tiny smooth scales and a slick coating of slime eliminate any drag on his reflective silver body. His yellow-olive spots resemble the camouflage pattern on a fighter plane.

In the early fall, the Spanish mackerel passes though our little corner of the world on his annual migration. Depending on the water temperature, September normally finds him in large schools near our shores. His revels sometimes bring him so close to the beach that he is within the reach of surfcasters. More often, he is found in mass within a few hundred yards of the surf zone engaged in his favorite activity: shredding schools of baitfish.

I recently had my first experience with a school of breaching Spanish mackerel, and I have to say that it is not a spectacle for those of a delicate constitution. Mackerel boil the surface of the ocean on all sides, slashing down on the fleeing baitfish like vengeance itself. Seagulls float on the surface and circle overhead to feed on the dead and the dying. It is a gory spectacle of carnage. Preparing to cast into that melee made me uneasy. As it turned out, my fears were well founded. Before we had eased our way over the treacherous sandbars at Little Lagoon Pass into the Gulf, Marty had hooked into a bull redfish that effected its escape by straightening a 35 pound test wire snap. Marty was crestfallen;I was too shocked by the mere thought of such a fish to display any reaction at all. The lost fish proved a harbinger of things to come. We encountered the first school of the murderous Spanish just out of the pass.

Fast Fish and Loose Fish

We intended to troll through the fish with king rigs, but we cut the engine in response to shouts of protest from some kayak fishermen. Figuring there were plenty of mackerel for everyone, we started drifting with the school. We used the motor to make minor course corrections and to sprint after the fish when they sounded. Casting into the school with either a 1 oz. Gotcha lure or a silver spoon produced an immediate, rod bending strike on nearly every cast. Countless fish tail-walked along the surface and threw the baits back in our faces. I had a couple of cutoffs fishing 25 pound test Momoi Diamond Line. Ladyfish struck with their initial gut wrenching surges followed by aerial acrobatics to rival any billfish. One Spanish mackerel yanked the rear treble free from a Gotcha right at boatside. Anyone who’s ever fished these sturdy steel lures can attest to the line pull that would be required to accomplish such a feat. A man with stout pliers would have a tough time duplicating it.

A nick in my line sent an $8.00 Bomber Long-A plug farther into the Gulf than I could ever have cast it were it still encumbered by the weight of the line. We threw everything we had, and they broke off or destroyed all of it. We wound up with only five keepers. Marty landed the biggest of the day, a 4 3/4 pounder that fought so gamely that I thought he had a small tarpon. In trying to net the fish, I fouled a treble hook in the outside of the net. The length of the fish prevented me from simply turning the net inside out, so the fish and I were at an impasse. I shouted my predicament to Marty and decided that victory comes to he who dares. I yanked net, lure, and fish over the side in a thrashing, seething mess, and relief flooded Marty’s face. Snapping at my ankles and wrists, the bloodthirsty beast fought all the way into the fish box. In the end we didn’t run out of fish; we ran out of tackle.

You Should Have Been Here Last Week

Armed with about $40 worth of new tackle each, we set out again the following weekend. Darrell was along this time, and Marty and I regaled him with tales of busted gear and bruised egos. The conditions were identical to the preceding weekend when we’d had success. Identical, that is, except for the absence of the fish. They had already moved to the next layover on their migration route. Darrell caught a nice straggler, and we wound up with three smallish bluefish, but the great shoals of baitfish and their merciless predators had vanished.

With fish in the cooler, we ran in toward the beach and dropped anchor in about two feet of water. I gave a couple of good hauls on the line to dig the flukes well into the soft sand. Satisfied that the anchor was set, we piled over the side and into the shallow water. I was glad to have bagged my wallet in a Ziploc before leaving on this adventure. We waded in and walked about fifty yards up the beach headed for Hooters. Once across the beach road, we went around back and washed off the sand with a hose the staff uses to wash down the parking lot. A cook stepping outside to smoke had a good laugh. We may not have looked the part, but I felt quite piratical. After pitchers and buffalo shrimp, we waded back to our vessel. Relieved to find her intact and unmolested, Marty firewalled the throttle for home. Even with the high tide, we had to disembark in the water and walk her over the sandbar. As my friend Marty says, “It’s a hard damn life, but somebody’s gotta live it.”