The magenta bands of color from the carolina sunrise let me know that the weather may turn a little iffy later today. Regardless, I had somehow convinced my boss that me going fishing would help me focus on selling, and ultimately increase my margins. Then he could make more money for another set of custom ping irons. That in itself was a great pitch! Of course on my approved day off, the weather had to be a larger challenge than my employer. Thanks to the weatherman, I would have to be on my toes. Little did I know what was in store for me in the spartina grass behind Lee Island! I idled the whaler out of the marina docks and cruised past liveoaks behind shell beds. The air had a early spring chill to it, but my standard "grande black" kept me feeling cozy. As the sun rose higher, the water turned from black to an emerald silty green. The water rushing in from the waterway against the marker pilings let me know the tide was still rising. Storm clouds began to show as the sun lit up the sky. I decided to first catch some fresh bait in the creek. The solid 20 knot blow delegated my fly rod to the rod rack, and I opted to roll with the punches and drown small pogies and finger mullet on my 8 lb spinning rod. I rounded the contour of the creek, killed the motor, and drifted to a submerged sandbar that has produced bait in the past. Seeing small mullet pushing against the tide on the edges of the channel, and bunker "pops" in the middle of the ditch, I readied my cast net. As the boat's drift slowed, I tossed the net towards a slapping pogie. Somehow the net managed to open up into the wind and claim the day's bait: 4 peanut bunker, 3 finger mullet, a small blue crab, and and oyster. (Yes, the oyster was released after generous revival.) Since the boat began to drift towards some pilings, I hastily dumped the finfish and crab into the livewell, cranked the motor, and continued out the creek. With the large coffee accelerating my consiousness and full daylight showing, I decided to stay close to home in case the weather report was actually right, and a spring thunderstorm band rolled thru. The whaler, my bait, and I reached the waterway, punched the boat up on plane and headed south to a grass bed next to a submerged oyster bar rumored to have some early season reds. A very unreliable source swore the puppy drum had been tailing in this grass at dead high tide. After a short ride, I rounded a creek point, slowed the boat to safely cross a sandbar, and looked for the structure. I followed what I thought was the channel towards the grass and WHAM! My lower unit nailed a submerged piling, the outboard kicked on the transom and made an awful noise not mentioned in the owner's manual. I began to drift into the spartina, and decided to let the boat just rest on the grass while the tide continued its flow. At that moment, the clouds above dumped rain so thick, it would have been drier in the livewell with that damn crab! Soaked and shivering I checked what was left of the lower unit, and realized I should have been in the office at this moment to avoid the chilling shower and hundreds of dollars from the shadetree mechanic that keeps the outboard running. Or so I thought. I sat on the bow, and sighed while the rain backed off and decided to give me a break. I wrung the rainwater from my ball cap and took deep breaths. The boat had remained still against the grass like a laid up tarpon facing into the current at the edge of a flat. I sat still and quiet, staring into the creek, listening to the slackening rain. Some time passed and the tide reached dead high. I decided I should try to manuever the boat to deeper water since the ebb would soon begin and leave me high and dry. Before moving the boat, I unbuckled my tackle duffle and searched for my cell phone. "I hope my wife paid that seatow membership renewal," I thought to myself. Then I heard it. I stopped rummaging thru fly boxes and pliers and froze. I felt my ears were twitching like a lab on point, waiting for command. There it was again. A loud, grotesque sucking noise followed by swirling water. Slowly and deliberately I traced the source of the rooting noise. Yep, there it was, just like my unreliable source predicted. Tails in the spartina on a dead high tide. Several individual fish were nose down in the grass no more than 20 feet from the gunnel of the whaler. But, but, the tails did not have spots. They were not blue edged broad redfish tails. What in the ...?? The tails were forked! Silver forked tails rooting in the North Carolina marsh confirmed with my own eyes. Was I in the twilight zone? Hot shot executives pay thousands of dollars and travel unmentionable hundreds of miles for a shot at these fish. No way - not this far north! Rembering and article from a Florida fishing magazine, I realized I may actually have a chance at catching one of these fish! Yes, that pesky crab in my baitwell is candy to these...should I finally print it...permit. Catlike, I slid from the bow of the boat towards the stern. I picked up my 8 pound spinning from the undergunnel racks, was thrilled that it was already rigged with 30 pound flouro, eased the crab carapace onto the circle hook and prepared for my one shot at a real flats glamour species. Nothing at that moment mattered except successfully performing an accurate cast to a rubber-mouthed permit. I did not think of my destroyed lower unit. I forgot about the seatow membership renewal and the inability to find my cell phone. Thunder - who cares? That's just clouds bumping around. I sidearm cast that magic crab about 10 feet in front of the lead fish. I kept tension on the line, but not taught. Then he ate. I counted to 4, watched the mono begin to follow the fish, pointed my rod at the fish and began to reel. The fish was on! Pinch me - a permit in North Carolina waters had created the sensational noise my reel was making! Upon realizing something was awry (like a small sharp shaft of steel has lodged itself in its mouth), the fish accelerated and headed towards the channel. The other dozen or so fish in the rooting school blew out of that grass in terror. I whooped and hollered like a fine southern gentleman as MY PERMIT tore yard after yard of mono from my spinning outfit. I applied additional pressure to the reel, and began to pump and wind the swimming silver trash can lid with fins back towards the boat. He flaunted his well documented power and graciously steered clear from the oysters. Not knowing if I should tail this fish (this is obviuosly the first permit I have caught in NC waters), I grabbed my boga grip and decided to try to lip this guy. Gradually tiring out, the permit got closer and closer to the boat, never not using his broad sides against the rod pressure. I was impressed by the size and detail of his huge black eyes. They stared me down like an angry boxer, realizing he was caught. I leaned over the gunnel and forcefully snapped the boga grip around his lower lip. He kicked his tail one last time as his silver body felt the foreign sensation of air. Smiling, I glanced at the boga grip. He weighed just under seventeen pounds. Not a monster by outdoor media standards, but heck- in North Carolina this fish is a trophy's trophy! The circle hook popped from the corner of the permit's mouth, and in his presence I told him, "Thank you." I realized his forked tail is nature's perfect handle, faced him into the falling current and let the cool water rush thru his mouth and over his gills. Maybe because the water was so cool or perhaps he was just ready to go, the permit quickly regained his strength and swam to the channel, towards the inlet. I imagined he was rejoining his school. Again, the rain began to pour, dimpling the water. Today the whaler is in the shop. Parts have been ordered and the repair estimate may force me to pawn some vintage fishing equipment I have aquired over time. No, our membership with seatow was not current. Yes, it is now. I know this lengthy report is unbelievable. I still wonder if I actually caught a permit north of Biscayne Bay - heck - north of Charleston! We at knotwork felt obligated to pass this report along. Look at your calendar - Happy April 1. Thanks for your interest!
Upon realizing something was awry (like a small sharp shaft of steel has lodged itself in its mouth), the fish accelerated and headed towards the channel. The other dozen or so fish in the rooting school blew out of that grass in terror. I whooped and hollered like a fine southern gentleman as MY PERMIT tore yard after yard of mono from my spinning outfit. I applied additional pressure to the reel, and began to pump and wind the swimming silver trash can lid with fins back towards the boat. He flaunted his well documented power and graciously steered clear from the oysters.
The Knotwork Crew
