Author: BB

Day 4 started how it had to:
Coffee, first.
Then the slow, sandy process of breaking down camp, stuffing damp gear back into trucks, and brushing off the kind of beach grime that doesn’t rinse out until the second or third shower.

With everything packed, the plan was set—roll out caravan-style to the ICW, squeeze in one last fishing session, and then hit the road. One last stop for bait along the way at the same ditch system behind the dunes, where the marsh drains toward the Intracoastal, and then onward.

They reached a little spillway where everything—marsh, ditches, and tide—funnels into one tight outlet. When the water moves, it’s a fish magnet.
But the tide wasn’t right.

Still, the crew picked at it:

• Dave caught a rat red
• Bret stuck a small black drum
• Gary picked off a couple of gaftop—because of course he did

After that, it turned into a half-hearted shot at an alligator gar, which were cruising slow and smug through the brackish water. They love saltwater more than they should, and while none came to hand, they were there—big, ancient, and uninterested.

The clouds finally started to roll in, but it didn’t matter. The heat was still locked in, the air was still thick, and after four days of wind, sun, redfish, sharks, and digging strangers out of the sand, the crew was cooked. Done.

Everyone split off separately, headed home in different directions, weaving down a dirt road past wild boar and washboard ruts.
The plan: shower second, clean the truck first.
Priorities intact.

By Day 3, the rhythm was set:
Morning coffee, lines in, redfish, small sharks, and someone wandering too far into the soft stuff with a 2WD rental. The usual.

One thing broke the pattern early: Gary caught a black drum (Pogonias cromis)—a first for the trip, and a welcome change from the nonstop reds and sharks. Not the anyone needs a break from reds and sharks.

As expected, the bait bucket was running low again.
Bret and Dave made a plan to hit the marsh ditch behind the beach—same area as yesterday, just quicker this time.
No detours.
No lingering.
Grab bait and get back before the shark rod screams again.

They executed it perfectly.
Net in, bait caught, back in the truck. The plan worked.
Almost.

Because just as they were leaving the beach, Gary heard the truck fade out—and the shark rod went off again.
Same rig, same bait, same spot.

Another bull shark, this one between four and five feet, and another clean fight brought all the way to the sand, solo.
He beached it, got the photos, and released it safely again. No drama. Just a repeat performance while the rest of camp was out chasing baitfish.

When Bret and Dave rolled back in, Gary’s face said everything before he even opened his mouth. “You’re not gonna believe this…”
They believed it. They just weren’t thrilled about it.

The wind was still blowing. The heat was still on.
But the humidity finally backed off, just enough to make the day bearable—though it was still too hot to sleep once the sun went down.

Dinner was Yakisoba, cooked up by Gary, because even if he’s going to keep stealing the shark rod spotlight, he can at least feed the crew right.

Three days in, and the scorecard was filling up.
Redfish, gaftop, black drum, sharpnose, and two solo bull sharks landed by the guy who stayed behind.

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.

The morning started slow—in the best way possible.
Coffee brewing, wind howling, Gary’s rooftop tent catching the first soft light of a coastal sunrise. It was all sand, caffeine, and early chatter while rods leaned idle and cast nets dripped beside camp chairs.

Everyone was in place now: Bret, Gary, and Dave.
Three anglers, a full stretch of Texas beach just shy of the Louisiana line, and an ugly shoreline still half-recovering from whatever storm last swept the sand off.

As the sun started climbing, Bret put the drone to work, flying baits past the breakers—way easier than casting, especially with the wind blowing your hat off every ten minutes. The bait menu was simple: whatever could be caught on-site. Finger mullet, pinfish, shrimp, all netted from the same muddy shallows they were fishing into.

And the fish showed up.

It wasn’t anything huge, but it was steady:

• Sandbar sharks (Carcharhinus plumbeus)
• Blacktips (Carcharhinus limbatus)
• Atlantic sharpnose (Rhizoprionodon terraenovae)
• A couple Redfish
• And the always-unwelcome gafftopsail catfish (Bagre marinus)

The sharks were all small, but active enough to keep the rods bent and the sand stuck in your boots. Same gear as Day 0: long surf spinning rods, big baitrunner setups in the mix, and one oversized pit reel that would get its real workout the following day.

Bret made fajitas for dinner. They were exactly what you want after a day spent fighting wind and sharks the size of your leg. The beach lit up orange as the sun dropped and the wind didn’t.

And in between bites and fish, the crew spent an unreasonable amount of time pulling other people out of the sand.
Four cars and trucks pulled that day alone.
A few of them were front-wheel-drive Hondas—which says everything you need to know about coastal decision-making under the influence of optimism and 2WD.

The fish weren’t big. The beach was still ugly. But camp was dialed, the rods stayed busy, and the rescue tally was already climbing.

The trip started near Sabine Pass, on a lonely, windswept stretch of sand just yards from the Texas–Louisiana border. Bret got there first—solo—and set up camp to hold the line for Gary and Dave, who’d be rolling in later.

The drive down was smooth. Camp went up, rods went out, and a sandwich was made. There’s something about setting up alone on a coast that still feels like it’s trying to shake off the last hurricane—quiet, gritty, and full of wind.

And the beach? A wreck.
At some point in the last year, a storm had ripped through and washed all the sand away, leaving behind a strange, sticky mix of mud and clay. Ugly, uneven, and soft in all the wrong places. The kind of surface that looks driveable until it isn’t.

Which is probably what happened when the first pickup rolled up and asked for help. A 2WD, predictably sunk. Bret already had his rooftop tent deployed and didn’t want to break camp, but he had traction boards on the Tundra—not his first time watching the coast eat a vehicle. He lined them up and helped get the truck back to safety.

It wouldn’t be the last stuck vehicle that week. Not by a long shot.

Once the sun dropped, things for real quiet.
Using a rod rigged for shark, and bait flown out by drone, Bret landed a bull red (Sciaenops ocellatus) just after sunset. Not a small one, either. Full shoulders. Solid fight.

He was completely alone out there.
No other camps. No other anglers.
Just sand in his face, a bull red in the sand, and the Milky Way hanging faint over the Gulf.

Sometime well after dark, Gary’s headlights showed up on the horizon.
Camp got a little louder. Day 0 was done.

The real fishing hadn’t even started yet.