If It Swims

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.

Straight Off the Plane, Straight Into the Glades

After a full serving of airport nonsense—weather delays, shifting plans, and whatever it is airlines do when they forget how time works—Luke and Bret touched down in South Florida around 11AM. Originally, they were supposed to be boots-on-the-ground the night before at 10PM. Instead, they landed jet-lagged and fish-starved, with zero interest in checking into a hotel.

Taco Bell. Gas station coffee. First cast by noon.

They veered off 41, rolled down a dusty side road, and started chucking tiny soft plastics on light spinning gear. Think crappie-sized swimbaits behind jig heads—simple, twitchy, and just deadly enough.

And the fish wasted no time.

Mayan cichlids (Mayaheros urophthalmus) were hyper-aggressive—so much so that when a few massive Florida bass showed up in one of the ditches, they couldn’t even get a clean shot at a bait. The Mayans were faster, meaner, and absolutely everywhere.

Double-ups on warmouth (Lepomis gulosus). Double-ups on Mayans. The kind of numbers day that makes you forget you’ve been awake since the night before at DFW..

Then, out of nowhere, Bret stuck a walking catfish (Clarias batrachus)—because of course he did. A literal invasive air-breather showed up like it got lost on its way to a roadside puddle. The only thing missing was a soundtrack cue.

Big alligators kept a close watch.
The sun never let up—not a single cloud, not a hint of wind, just full-beam, skin-toasting stillness.
A couple of birders wandered by, quietly counting feathers while soft plastics were getting hammered five feet away.
And somewhere in the middle of it all, National Park officers stopped by for a license check (they were polite, and yes, everything was in order).

All of it soundtracked by the static punch of The Shark, a South Florida alt-rock station that runs on Alice in Chains, Nirvana, Soundgarden, and just enough late-’90s angst to glue it all together. A perfect blend of Bret and Luke’s musical leanings—and somehow, the perfect score for ditch fishing on no sleep.

The luggage was still baking in the rental. The hotel was just a name on a reservation screen.

Bret hit the shores of Lake Grapevine on a crisp morning, rods ready and spirits high. The goal? Some solid runs from channel catfish and maybe a hefty carp or two. While the big fish stayed elusive, the smaller ones kept the lines busy all morning.

First up were the carp. Small, scrappy, and plentiful, they tugged at the line just enough to keep Bret on his toes. Each one shimmered golden in the sunlight, their scales flashing hints of copper and orange, but none carried the heft he was hoping for.

The channel catfish were next. Though they came in modest sizes, these sleek silver fighters still had enough kick to make the catches worthwhile.

Bluegills and a longear sunfish also joined the party. The bluegill sparkled with their signature hues, while one longear stretched just a bit longer than its companions—another highlight in a morning of variety.

But the real wildcard of the day wasn’t a fish at all. Midway through the outing, Bret spotted a skunk ambling along the shoreline. With its unmistakable black-and-white markings, the little creature casually explored the underbrush, adding a touch of nature’s unpredictability to the fishing trip. Luckily, the skunk seemed more interested in foraging than causing a stink, and it eventually wandered off without incident.

Though there were no trophy catches to boast about, it was one of those mornings where the experience itself made it all worthwhile. Between the constant action, the array of species, and the wildlife encounter, Lake Grapevine once again proved why it’s such a beloved spot for anglers.

As the saying goes, “If it swims, it’s fair game”—and this trip certainly delivered on that promise, even if the biggest fighters were taking the day off.

The Texas coastline set the stage for a picture-perfect morning of fly fishing, with Dave armed and ready to sight fish for redfish. As the first light of dawn broke across the horizon, the water transformed into a mirror reflecting fiery oranges and golds. Towering clouds stretched across the sky, their dramatic shapes casting shifting shadows on the shallow flats. For any angler, it was the kind of moment that reminds you why you love the sport.

Dave’s approach was all about precision. With a fly rod in hand, he scouted the flats under the morning’s soft light, searching for the subtle movements that signal a cruising redfish. The sight fishing game demanded focus, patience, and just the right amount of finesse. The payoff came quickly—Dave spotted the telltale ripple of a redfish tail breaking the surface, its silhouette barely visible beneath the glassy water.

A smooth cast, a few quick strips, and the first red took the fly. It wasn’t a monster, but its scales shimmered golden in the rising sun, like a treasure pulled straight from the sea. The fight was spirited, the fish darting through the shallows before Dave brought it in for a quick release.

As the morning progressed, the action heated up. Dave locked onto several more reds, their shadows gliding just beneath the surface. Each encounter was a delicate dance, matching the fly’s presentation to the fish’s movement. One standout catch was a textbook-perfect redfish, bold and sturdy with a striking black tail spot. It hammered the fly with a sudden burst of energy, testing both rod and angler before finally coming aboard. With the lush coastal marshlands behind him, Dave held up the fish for a quick photo, the kind of trophy moment every fly angler lives for.

This wasn’t just fishing—it was an artful pursuit, combining the thrill of the chase with the serenity of a coastal sunrise. Between the breathtaking clouds, the challenge of sight fishing, and the undeniable beauty of the redfish, the Texas coast once again delivered a morning to remember.