Fond Farewell

The Buras marsh is going bye bye, but what’s left of it still holds incredible early spring action.

We pulled up, looked around and found we had Joshua’s Marina almost to ourselves.“That super high river has this area all fouled up,” Pelayo said. “Look at that — water’s even dirty way up here by the marina. Probably pure chocolate milk farther down closer to the coast. It’s pouring out of Red, Tante Phine and Tiger passes, then this brutal southeast wind blows it all in here. Incoming tide ain’t helping much either.”

Pelayo’s expert diagnosis was exactly on the money.

“Then what the heck did y’all get me up at 4:30 for?!” blurted Eddie.

“Fear not!” Pelayo said, while nodding smugly, preparing to pronounce the cure. “This actually simplifies things — takes some of the mystery out of finding the fish. Find the clearest water around here, and we’ll find the fish.

“Not that it’s gonna be very clear anywhere — certainly not speckled trout clean. But we sure ain’t worried about that.

“We’re heading southeast, east of Bayou Grand Liard and west of the Wagon Wheel, to find the few pockets of clear water in what’s left of the marsh around here. This high tide will let us weave our way down through the trenasses until we find some clearish water tucked up in the interior. You’ll see. Have we ever steered you wrong before? Better yet, DON’T answer that!”

Eddie nodded and rolled his eyes. He looked anything but excited.

Alas, with only a handful of trailers in the parking lot, a spanking-new SUV was launching a spanking-new bay boat ahead of us — trying to launch it that is.

The engine “VRRRRRROOOMED!!” and sent up a geyser of spray and bubbles. But despite the unholy racket, the boat remained trailer-bound. Nothing moved, even as water swirled around the half-submerged trailer.

“VRRRROOOOOM!” again — and again nothing. Eddie and I got out and noticed a very sightly bleached blonde with sun hat and sunglasses at the wheel of the SUV and a rather rotund fellow encased in a humongous Saints T-shirt at the boat’s console repeatedly jerking the throttle backwards to create that hellish roar and rumble.

But again, his jerking, and even his pounding on the console with his fist, had absolutely no effect on the boat’s locomotion off the trailer.

“COME ON!”

He stopped punching the console and started punching the air.

“COME ON!” he bellowed hoarsely while motioning with his pudgy fist at the female driver. “COME ON! Back up and hit the brakes! COME ON!!”

His Clemeza-like face was crimson, and he ripped off his LSU cap and started waving it to get the point across to his driver.

But to no avail — her window was up and she didn’t seem to hear.

“FOR God’s SAKE, VICKY!” he yelled “I KNEW I SHOULDA!”

And he jerked the throttle back to neutral, waved his arms crossways as if motioning for her to slap it into forward and pull up. Still no response.

“HEAD up! UP!”

We noticed the blonde looking intently into the rearview mirror, but still nothing. A few silent seconds passed, and — WHOOM! — the SUV finally bucked forward, just as Clemenza took his hands of the wheel and made for the side of the console. The boat bucked forward like a mule stung by a wasp, and all we saw was Clemenza’s fat arms waving overhead as he dissappeared behind some ice chests accompanied by a loud thump and a crazed bellow that sounded like Luciano Pavarotti sitting on a Magnum Rapala.

Ever ride the Aerosmith Rock & Roller Coaster at Disney World? You know how it ZOOMS OFF? But, of course, on that ride you’re holding on for dear life and have a headrest.

Nothing of the sort for our Pavarotti-like friend. The driver stopped and got out, but she didn’t see anybody in the boat?

“Nick?!” she screeched while scurrying over. “Nick where…..!?”

And Nick’s hatless head finally emerged above an ice chest.
He seemed to notice us, and he looked over nodding, grimacing and rubbing his elbows while pointing at the hapless woman.

“Oh, honey!” squealed the blonde as she reached up to help him clamber over the side.

“Just get OUTTA the way!” he growled as he lifted one leg over the gunwale. “Shoo! MOVE!”

“Oh, honey!” she wailed. “I was only trying … !”

“I know what you were TRYING … !”

One foot was on the trailer fender and the next one hit the ground as he stressed the word “TRYING.” His bulk had just cleared the gunwale when his sneaker hit the slippery algae and “WHOOA!” backwards into the shallow water.

“Oh NICK!” The poor woman rushed into the water somehow keeping her balance amidst the slime. “Nick, honey! I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean … .”

Poor Nick was clambering for the fender with one hand and for the woman’ arms with the other — for anything to give him a little leverage as he wallowed around like a beached manatee while bellowing entreaties to the Almighty, all at Pavarotti-decibel level as he thrashed around and covered himself with green slime.

Eddie and I carefully waded into the melee ourselves, and helped Nick upright, then over to his SUV, as his wife wept hysterically. She thanked us profusely, though it was barely audible between her sobs and his hoarse bellows.

They reversed roles, and the boat backed off beautifully the next time, until it backed into the docked shrimp boat with a loud, wooden smack, which brought a sleepy-looking Asian gentleman in a tattered T-shirt out from the cabin rubbing his eyes. He looked at the blonde who was wide-eyed and covering her mouth in horror. But he merely smiled, waved and shuffled back inside.

The day was off to a rollicking start, entertainment-wise, anyway.

We headed southeast down the Buras Canal, hung a right into Bayou Grand Liard and then out to where it peters out just north of Bay Tambour. This is the only area resembling marsh left around here. An eroding marsh is a gut-wrenching thing to watch, especially when you grew up hunting and fishing it, and observe the sad but inexorable process literally week by week. The progress is much too rapid for anything but sorrowful contemplation, especially in this area. But an eroding coastline is actually a good place to fish for reds, puppy drum and sheepshead (in the short run, obviously).

My bass-fishing chums turned me on to this years ago. As a rule, you put a good Louisiana, Mississippi or Alabama bass-fisherperson in our coastal marshes after reds, and after three trips, he’s outfishing us two to one. These weird people grew up really working for their fish. They’re more studious, methodical and patient than those of us who grew up measuring the success of fishing trips in terms of “boxes.”

They always pointed out to us that while casting for reds in Buras or Leeville or Hopedale, they’ll look for the same type of shoreline contours they look for while casting for bass in some reservoir or lake in their regular freshwater fishing areas.

Which is to say, they look for a broken, chopped-up shoreline. This means little crevices for bass meals like crawfish and bream to hide in.

In our marshes it means good places for the reds’ favorite meal (little crabs) to habituate. This isn’t really rocket science. When the water’s clear, you can actually see the little crustaceans scurrying around such areas — not that the reds won’t also suck up the cocahoes and little sand eels that inhabit these areas, especially when mixed up with oysters.

For the best best habitat mix of all, look for broken shoreline studded with oysters. We take advantage of low tides to mark all such areas. Alas, these you’ll find mostly west of Bayou Grand Liard in the Bay Jacques, Chicharas and Tambour areas.

We fish these areas mainly when the water clears up a bit by late April and May, especially on falling tides. This trip meant fishing essentially fresh to brackish water just west of the Wagon Wheel, where millfoil, mats of algae and broken shoreline provided the “structure.”

We found a little trenasse just north of Bay Tambour, and started weaving our way inward; the high tide allowed it. Sure enough, with every hundred yards or so, the water cleared ever so slightly. Finally, Pelayo pointed behind us.

“YES!” he whooped. We could see the top of the prop!

“This is clear?” Eddie gasped.

“We ain’t snorkeling out here, podnuh. See that point!” Pelayo pointed up ahead.

Sure enough, a little current line formed around its broken promenade — the place had redfish written all over it. Depth finder said two feet. Perfect.

Pelayo killed the motor, and we drifted. Forty yards from the point I e-a-s-ed the anchor into weak-tea-colored water.

“Whew!” I said, slapping the air around me. “Thank goodness for this wind. Freakin’ gnats would drive us nuts without it.”

A few were already in my eyes and nostrils, while I ducked behind the console for the tackle box. If the wind were any calmer, they’d smother us.

Eddie and Pelayo were instantly casting their shrimp-tipped chartreuse beetles toward the current lines.

My cork sailed toward shore. Pelayo’s beetle missed my nose by centimeters on the same path. Eddie almost knocked off my hat with his expert cast. We were all pumped, so I held my tongue.

My shrimp-tipped beetle landed almost in the grass. The little strip of grassy shoreline was lapped by small waves. But I only counted two corks — then a big swirl to the right of mine.

“Somebody’s … ?” I started to say.

“THAT’S HIM!!” Pelayo finished my sentence, yelling as he thrust his bowing rod high overhead.

That tell-tale wake formed along the grass as a big red went into action, bulling through the flooded grass until he appeared on the opposite side of the point and screeched off for open water. Then he erupted on the surface — a wild froth of foam and a flash of spotted tail.

“Saw that TAIL?!” Pelayo howled. “Looks like a shovel! Sucker’s gotta go 8 pounds!”

Then I felt a tug. Where’s my cork? Suddenly it popped up, then a huge swirl appeared next to it. The red seemed to be smacking it. Then the cork shot off sideways (guess I had it set a little too deep.) No matter. I set the hook, and the glorious battle was joined, my reel screeching and a big smile on my face.

I finally started gaining on him, and noticed Eddie reeling in something lethargic.

“Think I got a crab, or a pile of grass,” he smirked.

Just then the water exploded and the flounder announced himself, much a like a trout, by hitting the surface and rattling that big open mouth.

“Crab my (expletive)!” Pelayo yelled. “Looks like a nice flounder — always a few up in here, especially around any current-washed area. He’ll be great with the stuffing.”

Indeed, after dumping my 5-pound red in the box, I dipped the net under Eddie’s flounder, the perfect size for stuffing.

“Check this out!” Pelayo was suddenly yelling from the bow. “Even got a few trout in here!”

Sure enough, a nice school speck was rattling its yellow mouth as it thrashed on the surface. Then I hauled in a puppy drum, after a battle identical to that of a red as he plowed through the shallow flats and grassy shoreline.

“Here too!” Eddie had another trout, thrashing the surface, shaking that yellow mouth like a tambourine. I turned back to my cork, popped it again, started retrieving and — WHOA!! It wasn’t moving though.

An oyster? A crab trap?

WHOOOAA!!

Now it’s moving! Yes sir! The reel started screeching and the rod bucking.

“Go ahead!” I whooped. “Ya’ll go RIGHT ahead! Be my guest! Ya’ll can HAVE them specks! Look at this sucker! See that!? THAT, folks, is what ya call a fighting fish!”

He was churning the water in his frenzy , slicing it with his wake. My spool was whining. I tightened the drag a bit. He was getting a little close to an old crab trap. Closer … closer … tighter! Horse him away now! Ahhhh! There! Got him back in the open. Running for the middle of what used to be Yankee Pond like a berserk missile.

I raised my rod like it was Old Glory over Iwo Jima. The sun was out. The breeze delightful. The gnats at bay. My line attached to a monster red in shallow water. Man, this is what it’s all about. I finally started gaining on him as Eddie unhooked his second trout and Pelayo set the hook on his third with a savage jerk and a hearty whoop.

Fish a high tide around here as much for the fishing as for safety. Lots of eroded marsh around here. It’s easy to find yourself grounded with a demolished prop during low tide. Those old maps show you where the old bayous and bays lie. In fact , you’d never know it, but we were catching fish right here because it was the old mouth of something called little Spanish Pass. That’s what made for the ledges, the current and, of course, the fish.

In brief, we had a blast and came in with a beautiful “box-a-mixed.” We fished two more eroded points, both with 2-foot depths, both washed with a slight current and both surrounded by what passes for clear water this time of year in this marsh.

With 11 reds, four flounder, four drum and four specks we didn’t come close to three-man limits, but back at the marina, we were still high-fiving — and excitedly planning the next week’s trip to the same place.