Hooked on Mullet

FRED GARTH

For the past 25 years, Fred D. Garth’s articles have appeared in numerous books, magazines and newspapers around the world. Read his blog at: GuyHarveyMagazine.com. I hate to admit it, but I’ve been fishing in the Gulf of Mexico Robert would wheeze out, “What did Fred say?” for more than 350 dog years, better known in human My dad would lie right through his tobacco-stained terms as a half century. By now, you’d think I’d have learned teeth. “Fred said he wanted to go.” everything about catching Gulf fish. But, as a wise man once “Okay,” Robert would say. “I’ll go, too.” said, “The more you know, the more you realize how much He was sneaky old dude, but we were young and you don’t know.” Actually, I just made that up. But, you know gullible, so I can’t give him too much credit. Soon we’d be what I mean. in the boat zipping across the bay as the orange orb rose

Some of my first recollections in life were of my father above the pine trees. His trick worked for decades. Like I dragging me out of bed before sunrise to go fishing. said, dumb runs in the family. There’d be four or five of us sub-teens and teens with just This back-story is meant to explain that one fish I’ve swim trunks and maybe a T-shirt. No shoes, no sunscreen, never caught in the Gulf of Mexico is a mullet. Oh, I’ve no water, no food—just fishing until 10 o’clock in the tossed a cast net over many a mullet and snagged them in morning for bluefish, gill nets before those were Spanish mackerel and the …When I reeled it in outlawed. I even skewered occasional king mackerel close, I realized I’d caught a few mullet with a pole or bonita. Of course, we spear once and impressed all hated bonita because my first ever mullet on a a girl so much that she they fought like a world- married me. I’m sure it was record king but were hook and line. the mullet-spearing that inedible. Catching bonita hooked her. Or maybe that was our early lesson in life’s disappointments. I brought the fish onto the boat, cleaned them and grilled

As I grew into teenhood, when sleeping late became them right on the spot for her. more important than eating or breathing, my dad began But, in all those years, I’ve never caught a mullet on a pulling a trick on me that he’d used on my five older rod and reel. The only time I’ve ever seen one caught on a brothers. None of us ever caught on. We’re not a very bright hook and line was years ago when some local folks were family. Rusty hooks in the tackle box, so to speak. Anyway, using worms and tiny hooks that the mullet would suck in. he’d slip in a 5am and blow a puff of cheap Dutch Master’s They also caught ’em on a balled up piece of bread. We were cigar smoke in my face. It’s a gnarly alarm clock, but quite always told that their mouth was too small to bite a hook. effective. Then he’d lean over and whisper, “Ya wanna Au contraire, mon frere. A full-grown mullet’s mouth go fishing?” I’d pull the sheet over my head and say, “Ask is plenty big enough for a hook, as I found out this past Robert.” (My cousin, who was sleeping three feet away.) My December. I was on my semi-regular morning jog on the dad would step over to the other single bed—more of an white sandy shores of Perdido Key when I noticed pelicans army cot really—and hit Robert with the death cloud. crashing into a dark circle of fish about 100 feet in diameter.

“Y’all wanna go fishing?” he’d ask. The water was crystal-clear and the school of fish was close

enough for me to shore cast. Considering I was running anyway, I picked up the pace and jogged directly home for my fishing rod. Well, rods. I wasn’t sure what species they were, but I kinda figured they were Spanish mackerel or bluefish, so I grabbed a lightweight spinning rod and tied on a red-beaded Clarkspoon. I have learned that the Clarkspoon is the most reliable lure ever for Gulf fishing. I also brought my 6-wt. fly rod with a chartreuse Clouser minnow and a topwater popper.

When I caught the first fish, it fought like a blue, and even looked like one in the water. But, when I reeled it in close, I realized I’d caught my first ever mullet on a hook and line. I tossed the spoon again and caught a fatter one, which I figured HAD to be a bluefish. But, low and behold, it was another mullet. That one was obviously a female because her belly was bulging out with roe.

In 30 minutes, I’d gone from jogging—which I rank on my “Enjoyment Scale” somewhere between stepping on a rusty nail and hitting my fingernail with a hammer—to an absolutely beautiful fishing experience. I was wading in three feet of clear water, walking among this giant school of fish and just having a blast. The fact that I was supposed to be at work just heightened my bliss. I switched to the fly rod but couldn’t sell the Clouser minnow to the mullet. Then I noticed that the fish were striking the surface, so I tied on the topwater popper fly, thinking there was NO WAY in hell a mullet would hit a topwater lure. To my teenage-girl-like, giddy delight, I got crashed on my first cast. The dang mullet loved that topwater popper. They fought the good fight and spit the hook a few times, but I won the battle plenty of times, and landed enough for breakfast.

When I got home, I cleaned them and cooked them on the spot for the same woman I impressed with my mullet-spearing prowess 30 years before. Thank goodness, she still loves eating freshly caught mullet, and I’m pretty sure she still loves me, too. Of course, if she had to choose between the two, it’s probably a toss-up.