Need a laugh? Beaufort County fishing tales to help you through coronavirus pandemic
I don’t know about y’all but for me “antsy” doesn’t even come close to describing how I feel since COVID-19 has keep me sheltered in place for weeks now.
Tempers have shortened, anxiety is rampant and, with no real end in sight, I figured maybe a healthy dose of humor might be just what the doctor ordered.
With that said, I started thinking back at some of the funnier incidents I have had out on the water so, if nothing else, maybe I can coax a chuckle or two for all of you who are fed up with being homebound, unable to hang with friends or just plain stressed out.
I need to start with my pseudo-nephew, Captain Byron Sewell.
Why pseudo? He is actually the son of my first cousin, but since he was a little tyke, I have spent hundreds of hours mentoring him on fishing of very sort.
On this occasion, I took him to Georgia’s Ogeechee River for his first experience catching shad on hook and line. After an hour or so of fishing, I decided to pull up to the shoreline for a quick break when Byron notices a fishing line dangling in the fast-moving water tied to a tree limb.
Locals down there use this method to catch catfish but more often than not, they never take these rigs down when they are done fishing and that really gets my goat.
Byron was standing on the bow as I pulled up to the shoreline and seeing one of these lines he grabs it, curious to see if a fish was on it. Concentrating on fighting the current, I finally see Byron with line in hand and before I could warn him a hook might be on the end, the current slides the line through his hand until the hook starts to dig into his hand.
What does he do? As the current pulls us further away and his arm is stretched to the max, he doesn’t let go but instead jumps headlong into the chilly water. I was laughing so hard it took me two tries to get him back in the boat because tears of laughter fogged my vision. Lesson learned, I guess.
Back before there were fancy electronics like GPS, I used charts, compasses and parallel rules to figure out where I was.
The boat was called the Gulf Screamer, owned Vic Johnson, the late owner of Island Events Magazine.
To say the least, Vic was quite the character. That boat had an unknown history before he bought it, and after the first two trips, he took it in for a checkup because water in the cockpit refused to drain.
A day or so later he gets a call from the boatyard asking him to stop by because they had an issue. Arriving, he was put through the ringer because when they flushed out the drains, marijuana poured out.
Luckily for him, the bank cleared him or wrongdoing because the boat had been seized after being caught sneaking in tons of weed.
On another Gulf Screamer adventure, Vic and I headed to the Gulf Stream. The fishing that day was incredible as we filled every fish box, every cooler, even large garbage bags with mahi, wahoo and such.
When fishing is that good, it clouds your judgment and, instead of heading in when we should have, we fished until late in the day. Using nothing but a handheld transistor radio as a radio directional finder along with a compass, we headed in.
Finally sighting land, none of our regular landmarks were there. Our decision to fish longer had pushed us further north so, simply put, we had no idea where we were.
Pulling up just outside of the surf line, I jumped overboard, swam to the beach and ran up to a house where they appeared to be having a party. Filthy, stinky and covered with fish blood, I crashed the party and shouted out, “Can anyone tell me where I am?”
Dead silence until one totally lit man responds, “I’ll drink to that!”
As it turned out, it was Fripp Island.
We almost made it back to Hilton Head Island, but ran out of fuel halfway through Port Royal Sound, where we stayed until the pre-dawn hours.
Cell phones weren’t around yet and the only means of communicating was via a VHS radio. Luckily, after many hours of trying, the Coast Guard finally answered our radio call and relayed our predicament to a friend of mine who brought us enough fuel to get to the dock.
To say he was not at all pleased to be rousted out of bed in the middle of the night to bring us fuel is understatement. Let’s just say that upon reaching us, his comments were in no way suitable for print.
But in hindsight, that was one funny adventure, one of many aboard the infamous Gulf Screamer.
I wish I had more room for additional mishaps on the water because there are quite a few.
But hopefully I have solicited a chuckle or two during this weird, stressful time. Stay safe and God bless.