Weeks of heavy rain had already stained much of Florida panhandle waters darker than a good cup of tea, and now Tropical Storm Cindy had just scraped past the Florida panhandle, brewing up even nastier conditions. Scouting for a photo shoot later in the week, I’d done something which is rare for me—I actually got on the water shortly after dawn, hoping to cover the two miles of open water before the predicted 20- to 30-knot south winds trailing the storm fully kicked in.
As I finally approached my target area, a green tower boat roared past, coming off plane along the shoreline I intended to fish a third of a mile to the east. Kayakers have to get used to losing races such as this; I turned to search an alternative flat that had been productive in the past, while I kept a wary eye on the guide boat, hoping his game plan didn’t include running down the shoreline I now occupied. Given the conditions, I was surprised to see his four customers all soaking bait in a hole off the deep side of the boat rather than working the shore.
A strong south wind, remnant swells from the storm and a new moon high tide had joined forces to shove more water onto the shoreline than I’d ever seen. Mullet were joyfully leaping in areas that are generally dry dirt; I could barely make out the grassy bottom on flats I normally struggle to access even in a kayak, and the tide was still coming in. Working an easy downwind drift, I directed my casts at the flooded spartina grass edge. It took just minutes to release three redfish and half a dozen trout, enough fish to justify coming back with a photographer and videographer the following week. Not wanting to blow out the area, I stashed my rod and pedaled west to check out another shoreline.
The green guide boat, obviously unsuccessful, zipped past me once again, stopping this time adjacent to an 8-foot-deep hole between two islands. I chose to fish the opposite, shallow grass north of the island, and hooked up almost immediately. While I shot redfish selfies literally 75 yards away on the back side of the island, the four occupants slouched over their still-unbent rods. The young captain lounged with his feet up on the console, totally oblivious to how close his paying customers were to falling asleep out of boredom.
I have no idea what the guide was thinking, but I didn’t have to guess the thoughts going through his fishless clients’ minds. I’m not shy about exchanging information or assistance with guides I know (I once paddled up to an offshore guide in a 32 SeaCraft whose clients had landed one bonito all morning and asked if they had cooler space for a 57-pound wahoo that wouldn’t fit in my bag). But this guy appeared to have more interest in simply killing a 4-hour charter and getting paid rather than actually catching fish, so I just waved to his guests as I headed back to the truck. The captain was too busy texting to ever notice me.
Now I’m sure those deep holes have produced for the captain in the past on low outgoing tides, but they weren’t going to hold fish on an ultra-tall new moon high tide.
Too many anglers fail to alter their tactics to address varying conditions—they simply go where they always go and do what they always do. Consistently successful anglers assess conditions and have a plan before they launch. Where, when and how are particularly vital for kayakers, as we don’t have the luxury of cranking up the Yamaha and relocating to distant waters.
Putting a fishing plan together ain’t rocket science. Three readily available pieces of information are essentially all one needs—a tide chart, a wind forecast and a map.
The tide chart largely determines how deep the water will be and the general location of the fish, and when they’ll be there. The wind forecast tells me which shoreline to favor or avoid, and how best to set up a quiet approach and drift. The map tells me where favorable tide and wind conditions will intersect, as well as launch options. Given that knowledge, I can then pre-rig my rods to match the expected conditions, so there’s no lost time once I’m in the water.
Let’s break it down. The higher the tide, the closer the entire food chain moves to shore or shallow bars. Redfish, trout, snook, flounder, pompano—they all take advantage of rising water to hunt flats that are off-limits when the water is low. On low incoming tides, look for them staging in nearby potholes or channels. Conversely, outgoing tides flush fish and forage from the shallows. Predators concentrate along channels and dropoffs to intercept bait forced off the grassflats. Google Earth can be very helpful in ascertaining those features in unfamiliar water.
In addition to kayakers’ comfort and safety, wind speed and direction determines whether tide height will be reinforced or diminished. Strong winds or tall swells emanating from the Atlantic or Gulf slam more water inside passes. Wind blowing off the shore squeezes water out of the bays. Pretty basic stuff.
Water depth and wind play a significant part in lure selection. For instance, ultra-shallow water limits selection to either a topwater plug or possibly a weedless soft-plastic. But two feet of water on those same flats allows a full range of preferred suspending plugs and soft-plastic options.
Wind also plays a part in choosing a particular grassflat or shoreline. Conventional wisdom says to avoid the windy side of estuaries, but up to a point—8 to 10 knots—I prefer to fish in the wind. Waves sweep water and bait along shorelines, and the slight turbidity they create makes it more difficult for fish to detect kayaks approaching quietly with the wind. Bigger fish in particular seem less wary when the water is stirred up. I’ve caught some of my biggest snook and trout in 30-knot slop, as long as I can get out of the boat and wade-fish. And as a major bonus, I always have the water to myself when the wind howls.
