Canine perils, wind, snook add spice to early going

Saturday morning’s light winds spurred us to trek to the south end of the island, launch from Isla Blanca Park and paddle out into the Gulf.

I took a turn around the sea buoy in still-rolly seas, and surfed back in for a photo start.

Early afternoon brought with it the predicted cold front and the wind shifted to the north. We paddled with a stiff 20-knot breeze on the nose, but still found time to pick-up a trio of trout and one big jack crevalle.

By about 2 p.m., along “condo row,” we decided refreshments might be in order. A dockside stop at the Palm Street Bar and Grill, a cold beer and burger later, and we were ready for the last 2-mile sprint back to the Brown Pelican.

Along the way, I nearly got eaten by a pair of highly territorial Doberman pinschers. Apparently territory, for these dogs, includes some version of an exclusive economic zone extending seaward from their back yard.

More than 7.5 miles down. About 34 left on this leg, some 380 to Sabine Pass. Sat. afternoon found us readying gear and packing provisions.

That done, we settled-in to watch the sunset from the back porch of the inn with cold beers and the splendid company of Chris de Diesbach, our hostess.

“If you were to book a fishing guide down here, who would you get?” Chris asked me in her (to my ears charmingly posh) British accent.

“Capt. Eric Glass,” I answered without hesitation. Eric is passionate about fishing, has a background in biology and a searching interest into the “why” of things, and ties some mean flies. He also shares my passion for snook.

Chris broke into a big grin: “I just love him,” she said. “He’s my favorite fishing guide on the island.” I called Eric on his cell phone and invited him over.

It was campfire camaraderie at its best. Chris and Yves brought out the trout we had caught and cleaned for them and shared them around the table. A few fishing lies probably got passed around the table.

Sunday morning dawned blustery and cold with a small craft advisory in effect. Kayaks being the smallest of craft, we took the warning to heart and instead ran some last-minute errands.

Sunday afternoon Ryan Schmidt, fishing and marine manager at the Buda Cabela’s store, called and said he was on his way down. By late afternoon the wind had moderated, the sun was shining and it was too late to launch for Port Mansfield.

What to do ….Well, go snook fishing, of course.

Ryan and I see each other at the Buda store about once a week, and our conversations always turn to fishing the coast. I’d told him about our successes on the Brownsville Ship Channel; now I could show him the top-secret kayak launch and a few of my honey holes.

As events transpired, we scratched-out a redfish, a trout and 113 ladyfish. Skipjack are fun on a fly rod, no doubt, but even I can have too much of a good thing.

Ken landed his first-ever Texas snook and 3-pound jack crevalle. Both fell to a brand-new Norton shrimp tail in the salty chicken color scheme. Ken became the first person ever to catch fish on that lure.

We watched the moon rise over the mouth of the Rio Grande and began paddling back to the launch site. The water in the channel was slick calm, and lights from jack-up rigs in for yard work; from workboats and tank farms and breakers’ yards, colored the water in festive reflections.

I was struck again by the contradictions of this place … the ugly, raw industry juxtaposed against resilient nature. The gonging, hissing rumble of construction and demolition versus the laughing of the gulls and the “scrawk!” of an annoyed Great Blue Heron.

Just west of the shrimp boat basin, Ken noticed a line of what he thought were pelicans moving across the channel. Then, first one, then three more stood up and scrambled up the bank into the mesquite.

Illegal immigrants, illegally immigrating. After the initial surprise at seeing a human in 45 feet of 70-degree water on a moonlit night, my next reaction was awe. Man, I thought, they must really want to be in this country.

This morning when we woke the thermometer hovered at 39 degrees and the wind was out of the northwest – the other wrong direction. But today we don’t have a choice. We have to paddle.

A little more than 35 miles up and across to Port Mansfield, and we want to do some fishing on the way … it’s time to go.