Catching a Big Grouper

Catching a Giant Grouper

Late summer heat is brutal in Florida, even while fishing in the Gulf Stream offshore of Florida’s east coast. When warm water drives migratory fish northward, summer fishing options are limited to trolling over shallow reefs for resident kingfish and barracuda or else bottom fish for snapper, grouper, and other fish on deep reefs where the water stays cold.
One August Saturday in 2003, I took Paul MacDonald, my long time first mate, and heavyset, perpetually smiling Ed Norris, on a long trip to deep water out of Cape Canaveral. We left on Boat Tales, my 21-foot Aquasport cuddy cabin. I planned to bottom fish in depths of 200 to 300 feet at the Cones, about 30 miles offshore. This 50-mile line of 60-foot-tall humps on the western edge of the Gulf Stream shelters many bottom fish that few anglers have the endurance and patience necessary for successful deep-water fishing. Accurately dropping baits on a small reef at extreme depths is difficult when the current takes a bait at five to six miles an hour in one direction while the wind blows the boat in another direction.
After a two-hour run eastward into a golden sunrise promising treasure, I slowed to watch my bottom finder and GPS unit. A few minutes later, I noticed a hump at 220 feet deep on my depth finder and marked the spot with my GPS. Paul readied two heavy rods with Penn International reels spooled with 60-pound line tied to stainless-steel circle hooks. I normally used these four-pound reels for trolling, but any smaller reel would not be strong enough to bring in large bottom fish. At 220 feet deep, line stretch combined with large line bulges from fast current rendered a traditional hook setting jerk ineffective. I set a circle hook by winding my line tight so that the hook’s unusual angle snags the fish’s jaw.
"Here we are, boys," I said. "First Cone of the day. Put your baits on."
I maneuvered back over the Cone and baits were dropped. Come on. Please get a hit. Drat. No bite on this drift. I floated over another Cone, again to no avail.
After a couple of hours of fishing with no bites, I said, “Let’s take a time out for a sandwich.”
“Good idea,” Paul said. “Reeling this two-pound weight in from 200 feet is getting old.”
We drifted for a while, drinking icy water to cool off as we munched lunch while discussing our options.
“They’re not biting on the Cones today. We gotta do something different,” I said. “I have an idea,”
“Go back early?” Ed asked with a laugh.
“No. We have plenty of time to fish. Have you heard of the Oculina Bank?”
“No. Where’s that?” Paul asked.
“It’s a 105-mile-long protected reef east of here. It runs south to north well into the Gulf Stream, about 35 to 40 miles from shore. With no fishing allowed, I hear there are giant grouper all over that reef.”
“What good does that do us if we can’t fish there?” asked Ed.
“We can’t fish on the reef, but we can fish right next to it,” I said with a grin. “The only thing is, we have to go six more miles out into the Gulf Stream where we’ll be fishing about 300 feet deep.”
“Three hundred feet," Paul grimaced. “That’s a lot of reeling.”
“Are you guys up for a chance, maybe your only chance, at the biggest fish of your life?”
“Well, when you put it that way,” Ed said. “What’s another hundred feet?”
“Let’s go for it,” Paul agreed.
We drank more ice water, then packed our gear away. I entered the Oculina Bank coordinate into my GPS, then turned east for a quick run across smooth, navy-blue water. Grouper grew to several hundred pounds, but that was bigger than we could bring up. I would settle for 100 pounds. That would be my biggest fish. Extreme bottom fishing was a pain when fish weren’t caught, but a whole lot of fun when they were. When we arrived at the Bank, I noticed another boat moving around inside the protected area.
“What’s that boat doing?” Ed asked.
"It looks suspicious to me," I said. "It's not fishing, and it's not a Coast Guard boat. Maybe the Marine Fisheries are doing research or watching for violators. I'm staying clear of that protected area shown on my GPS.”
I patrolled the edge of the reef below, with my depth finder showing considerable clutter along the bottom. Most depth finders don’t show a bottom at this depth. A few weeks ago, I had made a wise decision to upgrade to a more powerful depth finder for deeper water. Boys and their toys. I saw a few schools of small black dashes near the bottom, which often attracted larger fish.
“It's a rough reef with schools of small fish down there," I said. "Whoops. A couple of big ones too," I noted when thick black dashes showed up. "Here's the plan, guys. I have the protected area plotted on the GPS. This current runs parallel to the reef, so we’ll drift next to the reef to stay in the safe zone. I'll push southward, watching for big fish. When I see several big ones, I‘ll drive past them and circle back. Ya’ll drop your lines, and we'll drift along the reef’s edge until we catch something.”
“Sounds good to me,” Paul said.
“Ed, you keep an eye on that other boat and tell me if he heads our way.”
“Aye, aye, Captain.”
It didn’t take long before more large black slashes showed on my depth finder.
“I saw big ones that did not bite. Reel in, and we'll make another drift to see if I can get closer,” I said.
After five minutes of fast reeling two-pound weights, they pull in their baits.
“We’re in,” Paul said. “I hope you’re closer this time. Reeling in 300 feet with an empty bait gets old.”
“I told you this is hard fishing. I’ll nail the reef this time.”
I calculated drift and current, then said, “Drop your baits.”
Four minutes later, their two-pound weights hit bottom. They reeled in a few feet, waiting in anticipation.
“I see a big one,” I announced while looking at the screen. What was it? How big was it? Would it go for the bait?
Ed grunted when his rod jerked down, slamming him against the transom and creating a surprised curse.
"Paul, get on the other side of the boat and reel in your line," I said. "Hang on, Ed. He'll try to hide under a reef."
“Reel in Ed, to set the hook.”
He futilely tried to reel, then gave up, saying, “Don’t worry, it’s hooked.”
I bumped the engine into gear, steering westward, hoping to pull the fish away from the reef. Ed braced his legs against the transom. Even at full drag, line spun off his reel as he desperately held onto his severely bent rod pointing downward.
“I think I caught the reef,” Ed gasped.
“I’ve never seen that rod bent so far,” Paul said.
“Let me pull away a little more,” I said. “Paul, what’s that other boat doing?”
"It stopped to watch us. I don't think you have to worry about it."
I shifted into neutral, then said, “Ed, it’s you and that fish. Start reeling.”
“It’s pulling too hard. I can’t reel.”
"Lift up and reel down," Paul said.
After a few tries, Ed figured it out. He said, “I’m not hung on a reef. I can feel the line shaking.”
“That’s a big one,” Paul replied.
He and I smiled, knowing a long, hard battle lay in front of Ed.
Braced into the corner with knees against transom cushions, Ed lifted and reeled a few inches at a time, straining his out of shape arms. Again, and again. Rather than swim away from the boat, his fish stayed in place, solid as a rock. After ten minutes, Ed slowed down.
“My back is hurting me, man,” he said.
“Don’t quit on me,” I said. “It's your fish. I'm not helping you catch it. Paul, Ed's looking a little red. Pour water over his head."
Paul took Ed’s hat off and splashed water over him. Then he helped Ed drink from a bottle. Ed perked up, reeling with renewed vigor, still gaining only inches at a time. I kept an eye on the GPS to keep us clear of the protected zone.
Ten minutes later, Ed lost his juice.
“One of you has to take this rod,” Ed begged. “I can’t hold on anymore. My back is killing me, and I'm hot as hell.”
“Paul, you’re up,” I said. “I’m just an old man. You youngsters have to catch this fish.”
He grinned and adjusted his fish belt.
“Hand it over, Ed.”
Ed struggled to pass the rod to Paul, then promptly staggered into the cabin to flop on the bed, moaning and shaking his hands cramped into claws.
“You’re looking pretty red, Ed,” I said. “We wouldn’t want you to blow up. Drink more water.”
He sat up, gratefully drinking a whole bottle, then collapsing back onto the bed.
Meanwhile, Paul struggled to slip his rod butt into the cup on his belt. He cursed as the rod tip stayed near the water, bouncing the butt against his chest.
“Need some help, Paul?”
“Naw, I’ll take care of it.”
“I hope so. It’s your fish now.”
Paul wrangled his rod butt into the belt cup and began a brutal tug of war. His muscular shoulders lifted his rod, then reeled it down. His face turned red as he mildly cursed. Lift and reel down. Over and over.
“This fish feels like a dead weight,” he said. “It’s not fighting at all, just hanging there. Think it’s a shark?”
"No, sharks and wahoo run away from a boat. It's too big to be a snapper. Big groupers stay still. You will have to lift it like a dead weight all the way. Maybe you have a big goliath grouper."
He thought about that through several turns of his reel, then said, “Those can be several hundred pounds.”
“I have faith in you, Paul.”
Ed crawled out from below, looking like a hurt dog.
“Ed, take the wheel. Keep the line on the port side and pull it slowly. It comes up easier if it planes forward rather than just a straight up lift. Can you handle that?”
“Sure, as long as I don’t have to touch that pole again.”
“You wimp,” I teased.
Paul reeled while I poured ice water over his head and on his reel. After twenty minutes of extreme lifting, he gave up and said, “I can’t do this anymore. My back is wrecked.”
“I knew he would give out,” Ed said as he crept out of the cabin.
“Do you mean this old man is going to show you boys how to catch a great big ole fish?”
Silence.
“Okay, I’ll take care of it. Ed, keep pulling the fish west.”
I tightened my fish belt and gloves, taking a big breath. Paul pulled the butt out of his cup and handed me the rod. I immediately felt overpowering strength and weight on the rod. Wow. I tightened the drag and wiggled the butt into my cup as the rod tip pulled toward the center of the earth. I reeled using my own method. Instead of lifting my rod with my arms like curling weights, I kept my arms and back straight, bent my knees, and leaned back to raise the rod tip. Then quickly wound my reel as I leaned forward. This transferred the fight into my legs, the largest muscles in my body. I hoped this fish would tire soon. My world shrank to my rod, reel, my strength, and the fish’s strength. Nothing else mattered. I leaned back and reeled forward repeatedly. The fish remained a dead weight. Could it be a piece of debris?
My hands and fingers took the brunt of the fight, holding on like talons. My shoulders cramped after ten minutes. Lean back, reel down. My lower back protested at fifteen minutes. Lean back, reel forward. God, I was hot. Paul poured refreshing water on my face and between my lips. Lean back, reel forward. I would prefer to be strapped into a fighting chair where all I had to do was turn the reel. Chair fishing didn't compare in difficulty to stand up fishing. Lean back, reel forward. A fighting chair would not fit in my boat. Now I was into 25 of the hardest minutes of my life. Lean back, reel forward. My hands cramped, arms locked straight, knife in my back. I couldn't fight anymore. This immovable fish had outlasted all three of us.
“I give up. It’s your turn again, Ed.”
“I can’t,” he replied.
“You wimp,” I snarled. “Then take the wheel and steer west. We can’t let our fish win after all this time. There are three of us and one of him. Paul, come here.”
He grumbled, but manned up and took the rod. I collapsed onto a chair and drank a whole bottle of water.
“Stop bending your arms. Keep them straight and bend your knees,” I said. “That’s easier, right?”
He leaned back, reeled forward.
“Yeah. Why didn’t you tell me this before?”
“You’re a big boy.”
Five minutes later, Paul yelled, “I see color.”
I grabbed a gaff and stared at flickering sparkles through clear water beneath the boat.
“A few more feet,” I said.
When he lifted his rod one last time, the tough, giant fish gave up and rolled over, floating to the surface. Its red stomach popped out of its mouth.
“Look at the size of that grouper,” I yelled.
“Oh my God,” Paul said, stunned.
“How are we going to get that in the boat?” Ed asked.
“It’s too big for one gaff. I can’t lift it by myself. Shift the motor into neutral and look in the cabin for another gaff. It's smaller than this one, but it’ll work.”
He returned with a 36-inch aluminum gaff I used for small fish and asked, “Now what?”
“Do you know how to use it?”
“Well.”
“You guys quit gabbing and hurry up,” Paul said. “My arms are killing me.”
“Okay. We gotta get our act together, Ed. Most big fish are lost while gaffing,” I said. “Paul will move to the back corner, giving us room to maneuver. He will pull the fish from the stern toward the bow where we can get at it. I’ll swing my gaff first to control its head. Ed, next will swing your gaff hard and downward. Don’t try to hook it from underneath. Hit the fish with your shaft a foot above the hook. Hit him a little in front of the tail, then jerk upwards hard. We’ll lift together to bring it across the gunnel and let it fall onto the deck. Step back because he’ll be flopping around, mad as hell. Paul. As soon as we have a gaff in it, release your bail to let your line run free. Otherwise, your line will tangle around us and pull you down. Okay. Ya’ll ready?"
“Yes,” Ed said.
“It’s about time,” Paul grumbled.
“Here we go,” I said.
I waited for Paul to pull the fish close to me, then slammed my gaff down, hitting our massive grouper behind the head. I jerked hard to pull the hook all the way through its body. The fish exploded, thrashing in desperation as I wrestled to hold onto my gaff. No way I could lift this beast by myself.
“Move back, Paul,” I said. “Hook him, Ed.”
He swung at the thrashing tail. His hook missed. I held on with determination as the metal stick threw me around the deck.
“Again, Ed,” I yelled. “Don’t miss this time.”
Down went his gaff. Up came the tail.
“Good hit,” I said. “On three. One, two, three.”
With the last of our fading strength, we lifted the monster fish over the gunnel and dropped it onto the deck. It flailed in anger as we struggled to remove our gaffs. We stood back to admire our enormous catch, the biggest fish I ever had in my boat. When I covered the fish's eyes with a towel, it stopped fighting.
“What kind is it?” Paul asked.
A pertinent question because several types of grouper could not be kept. I looked in my handy fish book.
"Good news. It's a Warsaw grouper. We can keep this one."
We cheered, high fiving each other for catching the biggest fish of our lives. So big it had taken all three of us to land it.
The boat that had been watching drove by us. Its Captain spread his hands, wanting to know how big our fish was. Paul and I struggled to raise our slippery grouper high enough for them to see. They shook their fists, yelling in approval.
“That beast took 70 minutes to land,” I said. “Unbelievable. I don’t know about ya’ll, but I’ve had enough fun for one day. Let’s go home and weigh it.”
They nodded in agreement. We put our trophy into the fish box and covered it with ice. I took the wheel and pushed the throttle forward, turning west. A flat ocean gave us a smooth, high speed run back to Port Canaveral.
Back at the docks, a crowd gathered when we carried our grouper to a fish scale next to Grills Restaurant. It took two of us to lift our fish to the scale’s hook.
I waited for the needle to steady, then yelled, “92 pounds.”
Ed, Paul, and I thumped each other as the crowd broke into cheers, slapping our hands. What a terrific way to end a memorable offshore day.