Hit the pier again this week, chasing that same energy from last time when the bite was on and the lights were lit up with speckled trout. Brought my buddy Jake along and started the night at the same spot where I’d caught over 20 undersized specks the week before—and one solid 17” keeper.
This time, the early action was quiet. Dead water. No pops. No bait. Felt like casting into a graveyard. But we moved, tried some new rigs, even tied on a couple handmade lures, and slowly—something shifted.
The trout turned on.
One undersized hit led to another. Then Jake hooked up. Then I got my keeper. Then we passed it on to our new pier buddy Anthony, who was nothing but respectful and grateful all night. That’s the kind of energy I love to see out there—folks looking out for each other, trading tips, giving space, sharing light.
Unfortunately… not everyone got that memo.
Midway through the bite, two guys crept in on us. Didn’t say a word. Just started casting over our shoulders, parking their live mullet rigs in the exact lanes we’d been working for hours. You can actually see it on the footage—we’d reel in and they’d cast where we were. No nod, no “mind if I join you?”, just pure disregard. Every time we moved to make space, they moved closer.
I’ve known Jake long enough to know he’s got a long fuse—but once it burns out, it’s done. I wasn’t worried about us. I was worried they might say something they’d regret. And honestly, fishing isn’t supposed to feel like that. We packed it up not because the bite died—but because our patience wasn’t worth the stress.
On the way out, I told a couple young anglers about the spot. Let them have a shot at the fish. I didn’t say anything about the company.
All in all? Still a good night. Trout were there. A few keepers hit the deck. Made a new friend. And learned—again—that sometimes the water’s great, but the people make the difference.
Tight lines,
– M
View this fishing spot on our Fishing Map
This time, the early action was quiet. Dead water. No pops. No bait. Felt like casting into a graveyard. But we moved, tried some new rigs, even tied on a couple handmade lures, and slowly—something shifted.
The trout turned on.
One undersized hit led to another. Then Jake hooked up. Then I got my keeper. Then we passed it on to our new pier buddy Anthony, who was nothing but respectful and grateful all night. That’s the kind of energy I love to see out there—folks looking out for each other, trading tips, giving space, sharing light.
Unfortunately… not everyone got that memo.
Midway through the bite, two guys crept in on us. Didn’t say a word. Just started casting over our shoulders, parking their live mullet rigs in the exact lanes we’d been working for hours. You can actually see it on the footage—we’d reel in and they’d cast where we were. No nod, no “mind if I join you?”, just pure disregard. Every time we moved to make space, they moved closer.
I’ve known Jake long enough to know he’s got a long fuse—but once it burns out, it’s done. I wasn’t worried about us. I was worried they might say something they’d regret. And honestly, fishing isn’t supposed to feel like that. We packed it up not because the bite died—but because our patience wasn’t worth the stress.
On the way out, I told a couple young anglers about the spot. Let them have a shot at the fish. I didn’t say anything about the company.
All in all? Still a good night. Trout were there. A few keepers hit the deck. Made a new friend. And learned—again—that sometimes the water’s great, but the people make the difference.
Tight lines,
– M
View this fishing spot on our Fishing Map
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