The morning kicked off with Bret casting lures into the surf, looking for something different. It wasn’t different.
It was gaftop (Bagre marinus)—again.
But for whatever reason, they were smashing topwater, and for a few casts, it was actually kind of fun. Messy, loud, and completely absurd.
The rest of the day started to fall into the now-familiar rhythm:
- Redfish here and there
- Small sharks hitting drone baits
- Cast nets flying
- And yes, more vehicles stuck in the sand (and pulled out by the increasingly road-weary crew)
Then, somewhere around mid-day, Bret and Dave headed into the marsh behind camp—just past the dunes, toward the ICW. The goal: refill the bait supply with whatever they could scoop from the ditches. Shrimp, mullet, pinfish—whatever moved.
Back at camp, it happened.
The big shark rod went off.
Hard.
Gary, alone on the beach, heard the bait clicker start screaming. One of those runs where the reel sounds like it’s trying to leave the rod.
He jumped into action. What followed was a solo fight that lasted over 30 minutes, dragging up and down the surfline before he finally got the fish beached.
A bull shark (Carcharhinus leucas), five to six feet long.
Clean hook. Brutal pull. Perfect release.
A guy who’d been walking the beach wandered over and jumped in to help with the release.
We thanked him properly—with a few IFITSWIMS stickers and the knowledge that he’d just been part of something better than whatever his original beach plans were.
When Bret and Dave returned from the marsh, Gary’s face said it all before he said a word.
Photos were passed around.
Baits were reset.
The beach had officially come alive.