A Taste of Summer

Trout of a Lifetime

Any fisherman will tell you that angling is for the sport, the camaraderie, the fun. They all say that competition is secondary. Sure, many fishing trips involve friendly wagering for "first," "biggest," "most." But that day, several summers ago, it was for blood. I was "in the zone" -- catching everything in the water. It was pure luck. We all knew that, yet no one could explain it away. Every nervous, tiny twitch of my terrified live bait made my smile that much bigger, and the frowns of my competitors that much heavier.

I was a total nimrod back then on that trip to Rockport. I had been talked into going saltwater fishing only rather recently by my longtime pal Chris Winslow. Diane, his wife, my bud, and the queen of "Los Tres Pendejos y la Reina" Fishing Team, was almost always the one with first, biggest, most. I was stealing her flame on this voyage; tensions were running high.

The mammoth sow trout hit my 6" finger mullet like a Jackie Chan power punch. With my drag screaming and fishing rod throbbing, it was fishing frenzy at its best. We were anchored up next to Mystery Reef 15 that summer afternoon in Aransas Bay, and I didn't have a clue what to do. As Cap'n Winslow barked orders and untangled the line from around the motor, the fang-toothed behemoth began to tire. When the fish got close enough for me to see it, I was amazed to discover that it was a huge, glittering, angry, 28" speckled trout. With my heart pounding, hands trembling, and the erudite assistance of Cap'n Cboy, we secured the fish. "You just caught the trout of a lifetime, you peckerwood," Winslow explained. For all I knew they were all that big.

I laid my pole down and just sat there to recover. Soon, visions of that fish in a sauté skillet drifted into view -- golden brown fillets of sweet, succulent flesh, awash in a puddle of garlic, mushrooms, capers, white wine, parsley, lemon, and butter. Yummmm. I was glad I had lugged the necessary accoutrements with me to Rockport, and even with the challenge of cooking with an electric stove, I knew it would be delicious.

At dockside we realized that nobody had a camera, so I traipsed next door to the home of a lovable longshoreman friend of ours, Francis Ordner. Francis is a curmudgeon of the first order, full of piss and vinegar, but one of the most loyal of buddies. He had a camera, so we staged the requisite photo of "the trout of a lifetime." The roll hadn't been entirely exposed yet, so an agreement was reached that on the next trip down, I could get the picture.

Vivisection of the fish into its usable culinary components was the next step. Winslow fillets fish like a pathologist performs an autopsy, with precise slices yielding maximum yield and zero bones. Most importantly, he cuts open the stomach to analyze what the fish had been dining on. This one was empty -- no wonder it slashed the bait with such fury.

Once we had all relaxed and spiffed-up, had sucked down more than our share of cooling beverages, and the fish with aforementioned sauce was laid to rest on the plate, we were in heaven. The thrill of the catch matched perfectly with the incredible taste of speckled trout mere minutes from the water to our table. This is what bay fishing at the middle Texas coast was supposed to be all about. Great times coupled with fresh, great eats. There was one small glitch to the whole experience. A major faux pas on the part of Francis led to the photo being accidentally exposed prior to development. The photo-evidence of my first trout of a lifetime was destroyed and forever lost.

These days, with several years' experience and a few more inches under my belt, I'm not near the nimrod I once was. I'd be more inclined to release a fish that large to fight someone else another day and make more speckled trout and just keep a picture to remember her by. And I always take a camera on board with me whenever I hit the briny depths. I never miss the opportunity to chastise and harangue that salty dog Francis for botching the picture of me with my monster trout.