Some days on the water feel like work. Others remind you why you fell in love with fishing in the first place. This was one of the good ones — a full day offshore, chasing whatever the ocean threw our way, from sunrise until the last light faded. No cell service, no deadlines, just blue water and the thrill of the unknown.
Here’s how it went down — the fish we found, the mistakes we made, and why I’ll never forget this day.
4:30 AM – Harbor Lights and Pre-Trip Rituals
We pulled into the marina just as the sky was starting to bleed from black to purple. A light breeze stirred the air, and the docks creaked quietly. It was one of those mornings where the coffee tastes better, the gear feels lighter, and your gut says, “This is going to be a good one.”
We were fishing aboard a friend’s 29-foot center console, rigged for offshore work. Rods were pre-rigged the night before — trolling setups with 50-wides, spinning rods with poppers and jigs, and bottom rigs just in case. Coolers were packed, sandwiches wrapped, and the bait — fresh mackerel and a few ballyhoo — was iced and ready.
By 5:15, we were throttling out of the harbor into the gray dawn.
6:30 AM – The Steam Out and the First Sign of Life
It took a little over an hour to run 30 miles out, past the nearshore reefs and into deeper bluewater. Water temp read 68°F. We kept our eyes peeled for signs: birds, slicks, flying fish. Just as we hit the edge of a drop-off, we saw it — birds diving, bait scattering, and something big slashing beneath the surface.
Lines went in fast. Two trolling lures, one rigged ballyhoo, and a cedar plug. Within ten minutes, the port reel started screaming. We were on.
7:00 AM – Chaos and the First Catch
It wasn’t a giant, but it fought like it wanted to be — a chunky 20-pound bonito, built like a torpedo and mad as hell. After a quick photo and high-fives, it went on ice. Energy was high. You could feel it: we were in the zone.
We had two more hookups in the next hour — another bonito and a small yellowfin that hit the cedar plug hard. Both came to the boat cleanly. No tangles, no gear failures. It was one of those rare hours where everything just worked.
10:00 AM – The Slow Stretch
As the sun rose higher, the bite slowed. The birds disappeared. The radio chatter said what we already knew: the morning bite was over.
We switched it up. Out came the jigs, and we started prospecting deeper water near a known wreck. It was slower, more methodical. We dropped metal jigs down to 180 feet, worked them hard, and picked off a few solid amberjack — not massive, but respectable and fun on spinning gear.
Lunch came early. Peanut butter sandwiches, a bag of chips, and cold Gatorade. Not gourmet, but sitting out there, surrounded by endless blue, it tasted like gold.
1:30 PM – Surprise at the Surface
We almost called it early. The sun was beating down, and morale dipped a little. But just as we started cleaning up the jig rods, we spotted something odd — a small patch of floating debris. A makeshift raft of seaweed and junk. And under it? A flash of silver.
We slid in close and tossed a bucktail jig. Immediate hookup. A school of mahi (mahi-mahi, or dolphinfish) had taken up residence below the debris. For the next 40 minutes, it was mayhem — doubles, tangles, yelling, laughing. We landed six, kept three. Bright, electric colors and furious fights on light tackle.
That stop saved the day.
4:00 PM – The Ride Home and a Boat Full of Stories
With coolers looking healthy and the sun dropping, we pointed the bow back toward the harbor. The ride home was quiet — just the thrum of the engines and the occasional gull cutting across the sky.
Everyone was worn out in the best way. We cleaned gear, filleted fish, and salted stories for future retellings. Someone always says, “Next time, we should…” and someone else always nods.
Lessons From the Deep
Every offshore trip teaches you something. This one reminded me that:
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Be adaptable. When the troll dies, drop jigs. When the jigs fail, look for weed lines. Offshore fishing rewards creativity.
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Fish the signs. Birds, bait, floating debris — trust them more than GPS numbers.
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Never pack it in too early. Our best action came when we were ready to call it quits.