Giant Tarpon

Fort Lauderdale does not share a top spot on the list of greatest Florida tarpon and snook fishing spots. This city is better known for bikini-watching and swank nightlife. So no, the environment is hardly as pristine as the Ten Thousand Islands, and there are no dazzling Keys-like tropical flats. But there is a beach, and a parade of sorts every fall, when migrating predators and local anglers square off in the annual Battle of the Titans. It is a no-holds-barred, blue-collar game of bait and bravado. Highly technical it is not.

Did someone say mullet run?

It’s a ritual for me. Come mid-October, the mullet have been migrating south for several weeks. Hungry predators arrive from the north in droves, following the weary baitfish. As far as baitfish numbers, every season is different, ranging from bleak to blizzard. In a past, particularly memorable fall, schools of both black and silver mullet had been pouring south for days on end. But when the influx stopped, the tarpon kept coming. I worked at the local pier part-time, a fortuitous situation that gave me access to two large aerated bait tanks. On the morning in question, a castnet-wielding friend filled both to overflowing with several hundred silver mullet.

A formidable nor’easter had just started blowing. It continued to gain momentum and by early afternoon, reached a level of screeching intensity that made the usual fishing impossible. I watched as the surf became a maelstrom of seaweed-choked chocolate. At one point, I was ready to reel up and quit. That is, until my mullet-netting friend approached.

“Seen anything?”

I told him I hadn’t, just as three monster tarpon rolled directly in front of us. I didn’t think anything could live in this froth. However, I guess we all live and learn.

We headed for the bait tank at a run. By now, the waves were crashing so loudly that we couldn’t hear each other talk but neither of us had any trouble seeing two giant holes open up the second those baits hit the water. The rest, so to speak, is history. By mid-afternoon, several of our friends had spotted our cars in the parking lot, so stopped by to join in the action. It didn’t take us long to deplete the bait tank.

Sunset Explosion! Photo by David Wimberly

What sticks in my mind most is that no one else was out there. In the teeth of that near gale, we had the pier, and the fish, to ourselves. Since the mullet had quit pouring through hours earlier, the only palpable evidence of tarpon was their swirls as they rose to our baits. All told, we managed to jump more than a hundred and drag at least a dozen to the beach for release. And a couple of those super herring nearly cleaned a buddy’s 6/0 reel before breaking 50-pound-test line at the reel.

Pretty hot stuff, and to think that the fuel behind this inferno starts as a tiny spark in a nondescript New England backwater. The bait run pushes through the Mid-Atlantic States while steadily gaining momentum. By the time it reaches South Florida, it can swell to epic proportions. Few events in nature rival the fall bait run for sheer magnitude. Once upon a time, the mullet schools were so vast that they passed unbroken for several weeks running. Though yesterday’s abundance is gone now bait stocks show a twinkling of promise in recent seasons.

While most saltwater fishermen are familiar with the migration, not nearly as many realize that this southbound interstate shoreline march only represents the tip of the iceberg. Mullet inhabit shallow inshore waters, and every fall, some of these resident fish head for the ocean en masse. I frequently witness the phenomenon in the canal behind my home and while it’s evident throughout their entire range, it’s especially noticeable in Central Florida’s Indian River.