We’re not exactly sure what time Dave got in from Austin. He was supposed to arrive late the night before, but his airport experience wasn’t any smoother than ours. We finally all crossed paths at the hotel breakfast buffet—where the three of us did our patriotic duty by attempting to singlehandedly spike the GDP of coffee-producing nations.
After roughly two gallons of caffeine, we loaded up and drove west on Alligator Alley, light spinning gear in hand, ready for another mixed-bag blitz.
Only… the fish weren’t.
The morning bite was quiet. We picked off a few Mayan cichlids, and Dave and Bret each pulled a spotted sunfish (Lepomis punctatus), with Bret getting his on a fly rod just to flex. And then—because Florida is allergic to predictability—Bret somehow landed a pleco (Pterygoplichthys sp.) on a jig. A full-blown armored catfish. Not snagged. A legit eat. The kind of thing you might tell someone at a bar, and they’d slowly back away from you.
As we pushed further west, the fishing got even tougher. Long stretches of sun-glared water with no takes, no signs, no action. Just gar-shaped silhouettes turning up their noses and sunfish that had clearly read ahead in the script.
So, we made a call.
We dropped south to Highway 41 and started working our way back east. And almost immediately, the switch flipped.
Fish. Everywhere.
More Mayans. A surge of Florida gar—though Bret was the only one to actually land one. The rest just cruised by like toothy ghosts, teasing, following, vanishing.
Luke and Bret each picked up a surprise ladyfish (Elops saurus) in a ditch we didn’t even realize had salt in it. Because of course it did. It’s Florida—everything is brackish, especially the rules.
Dave closed strong with a perfect Oscar (Astronotus ocellatus)—the same fish you used to stare at in your dentist’s office as a kid, now eating jigs under a stretch of mangroves like it belonged there..
The bite was back on, but so were the gators.
They were everywhere again. Big ones. Watching.
One particularly bold beast tried to grab a hooked Mayan at the bank. We took the hint and backed off. This isn’t a show. We’re not here to feed reptiles, no matter how many teeth they bring to the table.
By sunset, the cooler weather had burned off, the water was glass, and the day had gone full IFITSWIMS:
- One hard-earned species list.
- One unexplainable armored catfish.
- A few dodged gator incidents.
- And the knowledge that some ditches contain secrets. Salty, scaled secrets.