F
Field Ethos
Guest
By Vincent Bini
Sometimes I wish I’d been born earlier. Not because I romanticize the past—I know it wasn’t all glossy black water and cooperative tarpon—but because there was a time when the fish were many and the anglers were few. I missed that window by just enough to know what I lost.
I’ve watched the fishing world transform in real time. Social media, GoPros, instant everything. You get a peek into someone’s life from thousands of miles away, in real time, while the guy standing next to you is doing the same thing on his phone. That instant-gratification culture misses the now. Back then, you waited for the next magazine issue—or headed to the newsstand to “preview” it before buying. That anticipation was part of the experience. It made the actual fishing feel like a payoff.
That’s why I still struggle with taking photos and videos. I feel like I’m focusing more on getting the shot than living the moment. Having kids changed that. I want to be present—but I also don’t want to lose the memory. Not just for me, but for them. Or, let’s be honest, for blackmail later. Or worse—if my mind ever slips and that’s all I have left.
I missed a lot of chances to photograph great catches. I only regret it now because I don’t just want to revisit those moments—I want to share them with my kids. The next best thing is to tell them the stories. The wonderful ones. The incredibly stupid ones. And better yet, take them on the adventures myself.
One of the strongest memories I have took place in the early ’90s in Homosassa. I was on a trip with my best friend and his dad. Late spring. The goal was big tarpon and redfish, with the possibility of cobia following rays on the flats. I was all in before they finished the sentence.
We hooked the boat to a 1991 Ford Taurus wagon and hit the road. It was my first trip to Homosassa, so all I knew was what I’d read and what I’d heard from Keys guides we knew. A good number of them were heading up there too, which pushed my excitement to new levels.
I loved talking to guides back then—constantly picking their brains. “What tide?” “How deep?” I never had a bad encounter. Maybe they could tell I’d done my homework. Maybe they saw the fire. Or maybe they just felt sorry for me.
It was a long drive, especially for two teenage boys raging with excitement. We got a late start and the trip dragged deep into the night.
About an hour out, we started getting on my buddy’s dad’s nerves. The man had the patience of Job, but even that has limits. As we wound through dark back roads, the car suddenly swerved—followed by a thud.
“What the hell was that?” my buddy blurted.
“It was a possum,” his dad said. “I just missed it.”
We looked back at the boat, now splattered with blood.
“You absolutely did not miss it,” my buddy said. “You massacred it.”
The dad felt bad enough and just wanted to move on. My buddy, being my buddy, wasn’t having it. His dad let loose before finishing with:
“And that boat better be clean, or we are not fishing.”
Naturally, we laughed uncontrollably.
We arrived, rinsed the carnage off the boat, unloaded, and settled into the hotel—Homosassa River Retreat, if memory serves. It was dark, but what I could see made me fall in love with the place immediately.
The next morning, we met the Keys guides for breakfast. My buddy and I went to work extracting intel. The most important advice:
“Be careful. The rocks here will rip off your lower unit.”
With full bellies and a chart marked with X’s and shorthand notes—no GPS, no Google—we headed out.
The river water was glossy black, reflecting the mangroves like a mirror. That water still gets me. It feels like slipping into another dimension. Once in the Gulf, we headed south toward an area known for big reds. Looking west, we saw silhouettes of guides and anglers lined up, waiting for their shot at monsters. We didn’t join them—we were still green and didn’t want to interfere. They were working. We were learning.
We had a great day. Found plenty of big reds. I sight-cast to my personal best—a fish I still haven’t topped more than 35 years later. We saw cobia riding rays in gin-clear water, though none would eat.
That night, we cleaned up and headed to dinner at a well-known local spot—one of those places where guides and anglers naturally congregate. On the walk over, we ran into a legend. My buddy’s dad noticed he was holding a can of cranberry juice.
“No cocktail tonight?” he asked.
“I drank the vodka in the room,” the guide said. “I’m adding the mixer now.”
I was 15 and probably shouldn’t have understood that—but I did, and laughed anyway.
Inside, the place was packed. Just when I thought I’d peaked, Billy Pate walked in. I didn’t introduce myself. I never do. It was enough to be in the same room.
I overheard stories about the fishing in the ’70s and ’80s—numbers I couldn’t comprehend. I had no frame of reference, but sitting there at 15, surrounded by the people who’d actually lived it, I felt the edges of something I’d never quite reach. A version of this sport that was already gone. More fish. Fewer people. No cameras pointed at everything.
We fished a few more days. No tarpon—but that didn’t matter. The conversations alone were worth the trip.
I think about that a lot now. I witnessed incredible advancements in this sport. I also just missed the best of it. And standing in that restaurant at 15, I didn’t know enough yet to feel the weight of that.
I’d trade the internet for those numbers in a heartbeat.
So yeah—despite all the progress, all the technology, all the ways fishing has gotten easier and louder and more documented than ever—when it comes to more fish and fewer people:
I missed the boat.
The post Missed The Boat appeared first on Field Ethos.
Continue reading...
Sometimes I wish I’d been born earlier. Not because I romanticize the past—I know it wasn’t all glossy black water and cooperative tarpon—but because there was a time when the fish were many and the anglers were few. I missed that window by just enough to know what I lost.
I’ve watched the fishing world transform in real time. Social media, GoPros, instant everything. You get a peek into someone’s life from thousands of miles away, in real time, while the guy standing next to you is doing the same thing on his phone. That instant-gratification culture misses the now. Back then, you waited for the next magazine issue—or headed to the newsstand to “preview” it before buying. That anticipation was part of the experience. It made the actual fishing feel like a payoff.
That’s why I still struggle with taking photos and videos. I feel like I’m focusing more on getting the shot than living the moment. Having kids changed that. I want to be present—but I also don’t want to lose the memory. Not just for me, but for them. Or, let’s be honest, for blackmail later. Or worse—if my mind ever slips and that’s all I have left.
I missed a lot of chances to photograph great catches. I only regret it now because I don’t just want to revisit those moments—I want to share them with my kids. The next best thing is to tell them the stories. The wonderful ones. The incredibly stupid ones. And better yet, take them on the adventures myself.
One of the strongest memories I have took place in the early ’90s in Homosassa. I was on a trip with my best friend and his dad. Late spring. The goal was big tarpon and redfish, with the possibility of cobia following rays on the flats. I was all in before they finished the sentence.
We hooked the boat to a 1991 Ford Taurus wagon and hit the road. It was my first trip to Homosassa, so all I knew was what I’d read and what I’d heard from Keys guides we knew. A good number of them were heading up there too, which pushed my excitement to new levels.
I loved talking to guides back then—constantly picking their brains. “What tide?” “How deep?” I never had a bad encounter. Maybe they could tell I’d done my homework. Maybe they saw the fire. Or maybe they just felt sorry for me.
Bumps in the Road
It was a long drive, especially for two teenage boys raging with excitement. We got a late start and the trip dragged deep into the night.
About an hour out, we started getting on my buddy’s dad’s nerves. The man had the patience of Job, but even that has limits. As we wound through dark back roads, the car suddenly swerved—followed by a thud.
“What the hell was that?” my buddy blurted.
“It was a possum,” his dad said. “I just missed it.”
We looked back at the boat, now splattered with blood.
“You absolutely did not miss it,” my buddy said. “You massacred it.”
The dad felt bad enough and just wanted to move on. My buddy, being my buddy, wasn’t having it. His dad let loose before finishing with:
“And that boat better be clean, or we are not fishing.”
Naturally, we laughed uncontrollably.
We arrived, rinsed the carnage off the boat, unloaded, and settled into the hotel—Homosassa River Retreat, if memory serves. It was dark, but what I could see made me fall in love with the place immediately.
The next morning, we met the Keys guides for breakfast. My buddy and I went to work extracting intel. The most important advice:
“Be careful. The rocks here will rip off your lower unit.”
The Boat
With full bellies and a chart marked with X’s and shorthand notes—no GPS, no Google—we headed out.
The river water was glossy black, reflecting the mangroves like a mirror. That water still gets me. It feels like slipping into another dimension. Once in the Gulf, we headed south toward an area known for big reds. Looking west, we saw silhouettes of guides and anglers lined up, waiting for their shot at monsters. We didn’t join them—we were still green and didn’t want to interfere. They were working. We were learning.
We had a great day. Found plenty of big reds. I sight-cast to my personal best—a fish I still haven’t topped more than 35 years later. We saw cobia riding rays in gin-clear water, though none would eat.
That night, we cleaned up and headed to dinner at a well-known local spot—one of those places where guides and anglers naturally congregate. On the walk over, we ran into a legend. My buddy’s dad noticed he was holding a can of cranberry juice.
“No cocktail tonight?” he asked.
“I drank the vodka in the room,” the guide said. “I’m adding the mixer now.”
I was 15 and probably shouldn’t have understood that—but I did, and laughed anyway.
Inside, the place was packed. Just when I thought I’d peaked, Billy Pate walked in. I didn’t introduce myself. I never do. It was enough to be in the same room.
I overheard stories about the fishing in the ’70s and ’80s—numbers I couldn’t comprehend. I had no frame of reference, but sitting there at 15, surrounded by the people who’d actually lived it, I felt the edges of something I’d never quite reach. A version of this sport that was already gone. More fish. Fewer people. No cameras pointed at everything.
We fished a few more days. No tarpon—but that didn’t matter. The conversations alone were worth the trip.
I think about that a lot now. I witnessed incredible advancements in this sport. I also just missed the best of it. And standing in that restaurant at 15, I didn’t know enough yet to feel the weight of that.
I’d trade the internet for those numbers in a heartbeat.
So yeah—despite all the progress, all the technology, all the ways fishing has gotten easier and louder and more documented than ever—when it comes to more fish and fewer people:
I missed the boat.
The post Missed The Boat appeared first on Field Ethos.
Continue reading...
