F
Field Ethos
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By Vincent Bini
Failure while afield is never fun. The frustration, anger, or outright rage varies from person to person, but the feeling is universal.
One of my most memorable failures happened on a flat in Key West. What started as a routine day chasing tarpon quickly spiraled into mental anguish, a trip to the ER, and a story I’ll never forget.
Like any good tarpon trip, the night before was spent hunched over the vise, cranking out fresh flies. I had a good feeling about a few new color patterns—especially a purple-and-pink combo that, in my mind, was destined for greatness. After tying up a half-dozen, I squared away my leaders and gear, making sure everything was dialed in for the morning.
We launched before sunrise, easing out through Garrison Bight as the first light painted the horizon. The plan was simple: hit a few flats west of town and see if we could find some early-season fish. Tarpon were around, but the full run was still a few weeks out. We had a couple of shots early on, but if you know anything about tarpon fishing, just getting a shot can be a victory.
Deploying the Secret Weapon
By midday, we moved to a spot that usually fired on a particular tide. We idled into position, killed the motor, and started our drift. I took the bow while my buddy, for some ungodly reason, decided to dunk a pinfish. I’ve never been a fan of live bait—or bait in general—but that’s another rant for another time.
I stripped out my line and waited. And waited. A few drifts passed, and while we saw a handful of fish, the opportunities were slim. We repositioned the skiff for a slightly different approach, and that did the trick. The fish were showing, but after half a dozen perfect presentations, they turned their noses up every time.
I swapped my fly for that fresh purple-and-pink creation from the night before. My buddy muttered something about “a cold day in hell,” but I wasn’t listening—especially not to a guy soaking live bait.
It was getting late, so we called for one final drift. We set up, and like clockwork, three tarpon materialized off the bow, 30 feet out. I made the cast—money. The fly landed in the zone. They didn’t even flinch. I stripped it all the way in, and just as I was about to lift it from the water, my buddy called my name.
I turned my head for half a second.
That’s when a giant tarpon pounced on my fly.
The fish, well over a hundred pounds, erupted through the surface like a launched missile, going airborne at eye level. I instinctively bowed, but it was already too late—the hook popped free.
I can’t prove it, but I’m pretty sure they heard me screaming on Duval Street. I’m not entirely positive what I screamed, but I’m absolutely certain it was laced with some of the most colorful words one could hear.
Shark Bait & the ER
Lost in my own misery, I almost forgot my buddy had called for me. When I turned to the stern, I was met with the kind of scene that belongs in a comedic horror film.
Somehow, in the short time I was focused on my heartbreak, my bait-fishing pal had hooked a 2- to 3-foot blacktip shark. And instead of, you know, using pliers like a sane person, he decided to remove the tuna hook by hand.
Now he was standing there, one hand clamped around the shark’s head, the other inside its mouth. How—or why—the shark hadn’t started thrashing was a miracle. But that miracle was the only thing keeping his fingers attached.
I jumped to the back, jammed my pliers into the shark’s jaw, and pried it open. He yanked his mangled hand free and tossed the shark overboard. Since I was the only one with a shirt, I sacrificed my favorite one to wrap his bleeding hand before gunning it back to the dock. A little history on my buddy: before this, and a few times following this incident, I had to remove his digits from many a snapper’s mouth.
At the ER, he got about 20 stitches and, apparently, a newfound sense of clarity. On the ride home, I tried to process what had just happened. I wanted to understand why he thought this was a good idea.
All I got from him was:
“I’m a statistic now.”
And I’m all in.
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