This type of fishing isn’t sophisticated, but it’s a blast and always produces a feast.
The whoops, roars and racket on Doc’s balcony for the post-Endymion party rattled the very tray as I carried the bowl of fresh-caught sheepshead ceviche to the serving table from the kitchen.
“And plenty, PLENTY more where this came from!” I proclaimed to Doc’s guests, who ignored me en masse, being more interested in the balcony goings-on. Most of the din seemed to come from the balcony itself, rather than from Bourbon Street below.
Hmmm?
But Artie and Eddie were NOT smiling as they barged off the balcony and stopped to dig into the ceviche, while storming past me toward the booze table.
“We’re still ON for tomorrow, right?” I asked. “The sheepshead are spawning big-time, stacked up around the shallow West Delta rigs. Puppy drum, reds and a few white trout on the bottom. No early morning call, and a short haul out Red Pass to the first structures. Heck, a shorter boat ride than Oak River from Delacroix! We’ll fish mid-day, and we got Doc’s houseboat for the night. Easy trip, and no bleary-eyed ride home. And needless to add — we’ll mop up, as usual in this area this time of year. A guaranteed meat haul!”
They also ignored me. I could tell they were riled at each other. Even odder, Trisha, still on the balcony, seemed to have her blouse fully buttoned! And she was into her third Pete’s Special?
“Ready for another Pete’s Special?” Pelayo asked as she ducked into the den.
“Will you EVER learn?” she laughed. “RAINBOWS! Got it? They’re called RAINBOWS nowadays — have been for decades!”
“Yeah, where ya been, Pelayo?” Priscilla added while hoisting hers. “The name Pete’s Special went out with Mr. Bingle and Morgus the Magnificent — it ain’t dere no more! And here Hom-Boy-Da,” she looked over and approached. “Let me help you with that.”
Whatever they’re called nowadays, their effects on Priscilla were magical. Not a cross word had escaped her lips all evening.
“You missed a button, Pris,” I said pointing with my chin at her blouse as she took the tray.
“Ooops!” she laughed while arranging the ceviche and crackers on the table. “I sure did! It gets exciting on the balcony! But no problemo. Button won’t stay that way for long! Shoulda taken Trisha’s advice and worn a pullover tonight. Much easier for balcony work!
“Besides — burrrrrr” she leaned over and nuzzled her face into my chest. “It’s getting chilly out there! That cold front came through just in time.”
She arched her eyebrows, winked, took a long sip from her Rainbow, and shimmied her shoulders to accentuate the view through the missed button. Then she turned around and sashayed back onto the balcony, her hips swaying to accentuate the assets encased by her painted-on jeans.
Every male in the room seemed riveted. Most of the females glowered.
“Haven’t seen her this frisky since after the Ole Miss game in ’80 at Eddie’s Tigerland apartment,” Pelayo remarked.
“Right,” I nodded. “Who can forget her performance on Zachary’s mechanical bull that night?”
“YEAH right!” came a bellow from behind. We turned to see Eddie snarling at Artie as they headed back for the balcony with fresh drinks. “Buy out his contract?! You gotta be outcha freakin’ mind!”
“I’m telling ya Eddie: LSU ain’t going nowhere under Miles!” yelled Artie. “Mark my words! Buying out his contract would save all LSU fans a lotta grief! Get him outta here! LSU needs a winning coach. Miles has let us down too many times!”
Ah! So THAT was the cause of the balcony racket. Priscilla’s assets, bared and jiggling in all their glory, were upstaged by the mere mention of Les Miles among some diehard Tiger fans. (What a difference one year makes. And what a pile of rotten egg on so many know-it-all faces!)
“Yeah and how ‘bout that Endymion Grand Marshall, Artie!” Pelayo winked at me, ran over and grabbed Artie by the shoulder. “Who the heck came up with Anderson Cooper — that pinko-poofter!!”
“Yeah, man,” now Artie laughed. “First time I missed the Endymion Ball in years. Who knew Walton & Johnson’s Mr. Kenneth picked the Grand Marshall?!”
“On top of that,” added Eddie. “Cooper made a lot of friends down here reporting on the BP oil spill. He cranked out the hysteria big time. Helped a lotta people make a killing on bogus claims, had Nungesser on many times tear-squeezing. All that stuff counts.”
Pelayo’s quick thinking yanked Les Miles from center-stage and quickly restored comity.
But Artie and Eddie bugged out of the fishing trip.
“Nah, we’ll make it the week after Mardi Gras. Too much going on right now.”
“I’ll go!” Trisha squealed after overhearing.
“Me TOO!” chirped Priscilla while sticking her head in from the balcony.
Of course; the female of the species is always the most practical. Oh, you’ll often get them to tag along on fishing trips, but mostly (not exclusively, I realize) for the practicality of getting a tan on the bow, socializing and such. Women (wives, in particular) calculate the expense of a fishing trip nowadays and they want a RETURN. Plus they want ACTION — more catching than fishing. Which is exactly what they get on these late-winter, shallow-rig meat-hauls. No hocus pocus. No dilettantism. Instead we always — but always — come home with “boxes,” like back when “Rainbows” were known as “Pete’s Specials.”
On her way to freshen her drink, Priscilla turned to my wife, “Coming Shirley?”
“Heck no!”
Shirley laughed. “I’m sleeping in. Then making Lundi Gras with Artie, Eddie, Chris, Cindy, Lori and the gang. Y’all have a glamorous time in gorgeous Venice tomorrow night! Don’t worry ‘bout me. I’ll be just fine! See y’all back here Mardi Gras Day!”
Hmmmm, I thought. And she seemed to hear the plans? So here’s a fishing trip and out-of-town sleepover with two gals (albeit, her friends) and Shirley gives an enthusiastic go-ahead?
These meat-hauls have become a tradition with us. Now’s when we hit the shallow West Delta 24 structures. Call these three big double rigs and the dozens of surrounding well jackets the “Sandy Point Rigs” if you prefer. It’s all the same. They’re easy to get to, easy to fish and, in late winter, crammed with fish — ravenous, spawning xheepshead swarming around every piling, white trout, puppy drum (legal, state water) reds, and channel mullet scattered on the bottom a scant 15-25 feet down.
These rigs lie right off the mouth of Red Pass, which isn’t 15 minutes from Venice itself, including the slow rumble out of the marina. And as mentioned, these rigs have another appeal: They’re in state waters. They’re inside that magic three-mile boundary. Check out WD24 on a map, and you’ll see. But if you want to be ABSOLUTELY sure, simply look at the little identification on the rig or well-jacket itself when you rumble up. When it reads “SL,” that means “state lease.” Means you’re home free with the reds. (The “Green Monster” marks the boundary of state/fed waters, and we fish safely inside. It’s an easy marker.)
The reds at Sandy Point are perfectly sized, too. You’ll latch into some bulls for sure, but most range from 5 to 10 pounds — ideal grilling size, on the half-shell or off. And winter’s the time to nail them out here, generally from October through March.
As soon as that water heats up though, for whatever reason, you’ll have a hard time hooking a red out here — heck, you’ll have a hard time hooking ANYTHING out here! Which is why we almost always have these rigs all to ourselves in late winter (except for the commercial sheepshead fishermen.) Most people hit these structures during peak trout season in spring/summer and forsake them all year long.
Big mistake.
In summer, you want to go out a bit farther to the WD 29-30s for mangroves, Spanish and pompano. You want to get out in over 30- to 40-foot depths in summer. But now, you want to fish the shallower rigs in West Delta, the ones standing in 15- to 22-foot depths — at least in our experience.
Sure, this is “rig-fishing.” But not boat-ride wise or tackle-wise. Heck, you fish deeper water on the inside — Oak River, the Buras Canal and Hospital Bay, for instance. So we use much the same tackle at Sandy Point we’d use at those places — medium spinning gear. But we tie the jig heads — anywhere from 1/4- to 1/2-ounce, depending on currents — to the tip of a 20-pound mono leader, about 3 feet long. These fish are serious battlers out here, especially the sheepshead. You don’t want them breaking off every third cast when they rub a barnacle.
Next morning, we cruised out of Red Pass and met gentle ripples. Even a brisk — 10- to 12-knot — wind leaves WD 24 fishable, if that wind is east or northeast. A south or southeast wind means a warm front. That warm air meets the frigid river water around Venice, and you’ll be socked in with fog. Not today.
“Coulda come out in a flatboat,” Pelayo remarked.
In minutes, we were rumbling up to the first rig.
“Check ’em out,” Pelayo pointed at the next rig. “They’re mopping up.”
Indeed they were, commercial fishermen, that is, hauling sheepshead in hand over fist, one after another, with slaughter poles, with thick bamboo rods. Just dipping the line a few feet underwater next to a piling, then — WHAM! — jerking them out and overhead into the back of the boat. We’ve seen that a lot out here the past few years. That’s how THICK the sheepshead are out here this time of year. They’re spawning. It’s like getting on a bed of bluegill — but 4-pound bluegill. After April, the spawn dies down, and you’ll catch sheepshead at shallow rigs more sporadically, if at all, and you might even need live shrimp, not that anyone would stoop to such a thing.
“No thanks,” Pelayo told Trisha. “I’m captain today. I’ll catch up with y’all back at the houseboat. Plenty time for paaw-tying.”
“And two double beds!” Trisha added while looking mischievously out of the corner of her eye. She’d just offered Pelayo a Bloody Mary from her jug when I heard a “PLING!” and turned to see Priscilla laughing, covering her mouth as her shrimp-tipped (I’d tipped them) double shad rigs bounced off the pilings and into the roiled waters. Then she flipped the bail.
“Get ready!” I counseled and she smiled sweetly.
I recalled that the normally witchy Scarlett O’Hara was all smiles one morning too. Humm?
That’s another thing about this place. Don’t let dirty water bother you out here. Usually it’s just on the surface this time of year. The current might be cranking and the water muddy for maybe 2, 3 or 5 feet down, then it dies — or switches direction. You never know.
Pelayo and I baited up our plain 3/8-ounce jig heads with shrimp, and cast out. I was just flipping the bail when…
“OOOH! OOOH!”
Now Priscilla erupted from the bow, her face in half-laugh, half-grimace mode as she grabbed the rod a foot above the reel and cranked away spastically. She was a sight.
Then Pelayo grunted from beside me, and his rod dipped till the tip was in the water. I was looking behind me at the tumult and into the second reel-crank when — WHAM! — a vicious strike almost jerked the pole from my grip. But sheepshead don’t really strike. They nibble.
“Looks like the reds are here!” I yelled. “Look at this sucker go!”
I held the rod high, the line ripping off as the berserk red went on its classic run. A sheepshead fights doggedly back and forth, a drum just as doggedly, but he likes to hug the bottom. A red TAKES OFF!
And don’t we love it! Nothing like it. He’d smashed a very exotic bait, too — a green sparkle beetle tipped with shrimp! That’s all you need to get in on the action out here.
“AAAHH!… Almost got ’em! Almost!” more female shrieks behind me as I started gaining a little line. Priscilla’s fish finally hit the surface and churned it to a froth, splattering us all.
“Ahhh! Ahhh! Look! It’s TWO!” she yelled.
What a brawl. They were going crazy. A sheepshead in shallow water is one thing. In the marsh, he can’t give a full account of himself. He tugs back and forth, from side to side as you haul him in over the shallow marsh. Out here, he goes absolutely berserk.
“Just grab the leader, Pris!” Pelayo was shouting from the bow as he did the very thing to swing aboard his own sheepshead. “We ain’t gonna be babysitting y’all all day!”
So Priscilla actually reached her manicured hand down into the froth, grabbed the heavy mono atop the shad rig and swung aboard the flopping, thrashing duo with a happy shriek. No time for landing nets with this type of constant-action fishing.
“Those things go 3-4 pounds apiece,” I said with a low whistle as the fish flopped on the deck.
Priscilla was grinning ear to ear. “OK, now what?”
“OK — OK!” Pelayo said while swinging his sheepshead aboard. “I’ll take him off. Those suckers have thick spines. We’ll do the unhooking honors for you gals today, don’t worry!”
“Thanks!” Priscilla squealed while chugging from her Bloody Mary. “True gentlemen!”
Fifteen minutes and five sheepshead later, Trisha’s shrimp-tipped bait somehow made it past them to the bottom, and a drum grabbed it, as often happens out here this time of year. And it was off to the races.
After boating my red, I cast away from the rig, let it hit bottom, and started bouncing it back. It took four bounces. WHAM! The pole bent. He was fighting, but not like the others.
“Think the white trout are here too!” I beamed.
Shortly I was swinging a chunky one aboard.
Pelayo caught three more in short order, simply casting away from the rig and “walking” his shrimp-tipped beetle back.
“Man, remember when dese and bull croaker were the mainstays of rig fishing?” he remarked while holding the fish up. “What happened?”
“Shut up and fish!” Trisha giggled after a long slurp from her Bloody Mary.
Pelayo dropped his close to the rig and quickly came out with another sheepshead, as did Priscilla with her shrimp-sweetened shad rigs. The fishing was non-stop and the box quickly filled in only two stops, mostly sheepshead, as usual.
The sheepshead are spawning this time of year. So they’re ravenous and stacked up around shallow rigs and wellheads from Black Bay down through Breton Sound, East Bay, West Bay, Sandy Point, Grand Isle blocks, Bay Marchand blocks (Fourchon Rigs) to Ship Shoal and out of Calcasieu. So load the boat with the kids, the wives, the sisters-in-law, the aunts, your wives’ girlfriends — whatever. Pile them in and prepare for a blast of a fishing trip.
And a chunk of market shrimp on a jighead dropped near a rig-leg is the only hocus-pocus required for instant and constant action.
