If It Swims

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.